Nice Hooters...

 

Nice Hooters

By

Scott Casteel

 

Who knew? Owls love Kenny G. Or do they hate him? I am still uncertain. It was one of those rare quiet nights on patrol, so I took off towards the river. There is a love/hate relationship with quiet nights. Everyone’s world is round, at least for the moment, so what do you do when no one needs you and nothing is moving? I sit by the river as my reward for the bad nights.

 

As I pulled up to my favorite spot, an owl was hooting overhead. The stars were out, the roar of the river helps drown the dialogue in my head. I turned on the stereo and listened to some Grover Washington. Smooth jazz soothes the savage beast.  The owl continued hooting aggressively as I absorbed all the night was bringing. As Grover faded, Kenny G began to fill the night with audio opiates. I noticed the owl quit hooting almost immediately. I sat motionless listening to the saxophone serenade the river. Like good medicine, I could feel my blood pressure begin to mellow. Nearly on cue, as Kenny faded into the night, the owl started hooting again. I was in a good place.

 

As if a shot rang out, the screaming pitch of a hot tone pierced the peace of the night. A traffic accident just outside of my beat. I did not have to go, but who knows what might unfold. It took several minutes of running code 3. The lights and siren erased all the good the river brought me. The other responding units had arrived, and it was a minor accident. When I rolled up, I offered to take care of towing the vehicles. This can be time consuming, and it was a great help for the other deputies.

 

When working nights, you get to know your drunks, your Circle K clerks and your tow truck drivers. Sometimes, they are all the same person. Jerry was driving tonight. An educated transplant from Chicago, who liked to talk. On his off time, he could be found at the local bars, tilting one or two back.  He was a good source for local gossip. Cops gossip among themselves but rarely around the public. We know everyone’s secrets and if we are going to maintain trust, we need to keep those secrets, well secret. Jerry filled me in on the local scuttlebutt. I only listened and asked about those who had not been on my radar.

 

At some point, the conversation turned towards the Town. The rumor was Walmart wanted to put in a store near State Route 87 and Shea. The Town Council was dead sent against it. They did not want “all that riffraff from Mesa” flooding into town all hours of the night. There had also been some talk about Fort McDowell opening a strip club in the same area. We both knew it would never happen. As we chatted, I asked Jerry if he wanted to participate in, for lack of better terms, a social psychology experiment? He stopped talking, for a moment anyway, and listened.

 

Let’s start our own rumor. Each of us will spread the same story in our circles of influence and see how long it takes to get back to us. The rumor went something like this: An unknown member of the Town Council is wanting to open a strip club in town. The location would be over in the industrial park where it was out of sight from the good people of Fountain Hills yet close enough to frequent their indiscretion.  They were quietly pushing it through due to the owner being on the Town Council. We laughed, bumped fists and parted ways.

 

For the next several months, as we met under similar circumstances, we would rehash our plot but found it to be without any merit. A bit discouraged, we put it behind us and once again we would disappear into the night.

 

Small towns have a funny way of doing business as do their newspapers. While thumbing through the Fountain Hills Times looking for my obituary, I found a headline that went something like this: Town Council Set New Restrictions on Adult Entertainment.

With a silent grin, I walked out of the station and headed to the river. I wonder if that owl likes Hootie and the Blowfish? Just sayin'...