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Like any of the three-dimensional characters in a classic Bogart movie, or from a persona in a stage play once fleshed out in a darkened theatre, some of the people you meet working as a big city foot-beat cop stay with you wherever you cache’ memories.
They are with you long after that last door closes on your End of Watch Report.
It doesn’t matter if the encounter is a one-time episode, or a near daily “Oh there goes old what’s-his-name, drunk as always and it’s not even 8am on a foggy San Francisco Tuesday morning” kind of thing.
You get to know the “Frequent Flyers” that make up a majority of your workload by repetition, or sometimes more spectacularly from a one-time incident that you get to describe over your third beer-and-a shot at the local cop bar.
My 2pm to 12AM midnight assignment was a collection of these kind of encounters from being 3David 42 on Mission Street from 1981-1986.
Mr Stinky, the Health Hazard who wore multiple layers of pants, but never removed them but once a week, no matter how many times he’d defecate while wearing them, was usually found wrapped around the circular brick planter of weeds that passed for an urban landscaping attempt in front of the Walgreens pharmacy at 23rd.
Blocking that same doorway overnight was Luis the Looser who used very frayed kite string to hold up pants that were at least 5 sizes too large for his emaciated hips and wobbly wino legs.
My partner Marc and I tried to be visible at this corner before the 9 am opening of the store because the Jr Manager trainee that did the perimeter check at 0905 had an unfortunate habit of using a high-pressure cold-water hose to “flush out” both of these regular wine devotees. If Stinky and Luis were difficult to deal with before then, they were many levels worse for being in an ice bath while semi-conscious.
Marc braced Mr Walgreens about this almost every morning situation, trying to be diplomatic about the whole thing, while doing a decent Fog Horn Leg Horn cartoon chicken voice.
I almost ate my fist trying not to react to this 6’1’ bear of a man doing the “ Yaseee Here ,I say yessss, I do seeeee here, your point of view my dear boy, Y’alll do have me weak kneed with envy at your logical chain of thoughts Maaa Man”.
Insert my stifled giggle sound effect.
When the Trainee proved to be thicker of head than anticipated (which explained why he was still a JUNIOR trainee after 5 years of working at this impoverished chain store) Marc fell back on our usual Plan B routine:
Quote some VERY made up, non-existent, and imaginary California Penal Code sections (such as here where Assault with non-filtered domestic water was allegedly a class Six-point five Misdemeanor). and then lie quickly, convincingly, and rapidly about everything else possible.
I added my part of this practiced beat cop scam-a-thon by providing pre-arranged visual clues, such as here, where I noisily fingered my chrome plated handcuffs, while shaking my head sympathetically in the direction of the now confused and almost frightened looking hose wielder.
By now both inebriates had awoken, and in a true camaraderie of the streets moment, we saw both of them shambling southward towards the Little Sisters of Mercy storefront Mission, while supporting each other like puppies in search of a meat bone.
Mumbles was tragically different.
One dark afternoon, he decided to get out of a surprise California spot rain event by crawling underneath a jacked up plumbing work truck in an alley near to his favorite doorway up in the 15th-16th street area.
The innocent Hispanic Plumber finished his usual 2 Kilo Hog Belly burrito at Las Trampas Burrito Heaven Café and didn’t see Mumbles underneath his far side set of Dual mounted tires until they had passed over both of the wino’s legs.
Our favorite non-doughnut shop coffee hideout was close to this location, so when the code three ambulance call went out, we actually beat the SFFD rescue rig to the scene on foot.
One of my back pocket largeish leather “Beat Books” had biographical information on the two hundred Flyers we’d be arresting weekly, so even with Mumbles being semi-conscious from injuries, the White shirted ambulance guys had what they needed to transport their comatose (now identified) patient.
What was unexpected was what they found when they were doing a Field Intubation (sticking a curved plastic tube down the hardly breathing victims throat).
Green plastic gloved hands expertly forced open the locked-in-pain mouth of their patient and then a virtual torrent of silver and copper brown coins spewed out.
Oh yes, that’s how Jose’ Luis Vargas earned his street name. He stored his meager beggers proceeds in his mouth so that he’d not be robbed of his take before trading it in for $.40 bottles of Tawny Port or even cheaper adulterated Thunderbird Rose’.
His Mumbled talk around several dollars worth of begged coins, enhanced by a nearly continuous rambling (alcohol enhanced) mixture of Street Spanish and repetitive “American” English was the basis for his appropriate moniker.
It was the unfortunate nature of this neighborhood, that if you fell asleep or such in any public space, while wearing decent footwear, you’d wake up basically barefoot from being picked over by other street people.
Pants or coat pockets were equally fair game, so Mumbles creatively put valuables in his mouth like a Hamster with sunflower seeds.
Prior to taking up residence in the Mission District, Dr. J. L. Vargas, PHD had been a respected collegiate level lecturer before he succumbed to the alure of too many liquid moments at the Faculty Club.
First on the Scene, first to report, was the way even straight up accidents were handled in my Police Department, so while I was looking for witnesses, and getting all of my report details down, Marc and I went into our Ambulance Security Dance.
14 seconds after the bright red ambulance pulled to a noisy stop close to where Mumbles lay writhing on the ground, there was a motley crew of local addict types waiting like stoned out vultures around the open rear door of the life-saving truck.
In our plan, Marc would stand within arm’s reach of the Paramedics triage bags, to prevent their pilferage (or outright grand theft), while I stood cross armed and doing my best to display a fierce no-nonsense glare by the open ambulance door.
Sad experience had shown previously that an unguarded door would mean the theft of medical supplies (such as anything that could be swallowed, injected, smoked, or abused) within seconds by a mad rush of drug addicts and opportunistic thieves.
It mattered not that just about every person in the melee had their life saved by these medics and the gear that they needed.
“I’m gonna get me some first “was the unspoken mantra here.
I have a vivid, (and weirdly humorous), mental image of some Streetee, running away with his suddenly snatched ambulance loot, laughing with glee, waving his trophy overhead, with nearly suicidal abandon into fast paced multi lane traffic to escape when no one was chasing him.
Yeah Bro, enjoy your 2-liter transparent bag of IV saline (salt water) and I hope the vein needle apparatus that you are dragging down the fecal matter encrusted gutter doesn’t infect you too much tonight.
The next time we booked Mumbles into the drunk tank, and I took a portrait photo of him for my Beat Book, he had an expensive city-funded 4 wheeled red metal walking assist device, which not surprisingly was stolen not more than 20 minutes within eye-shot of the Station, when his meds and too temporary sobriety kicked in.
And onward into next week on Mission Street.
10-7
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