70
SWING SHIFT
by Don Redondo
He took his hat off as he entered the
restaurant and headed straight for the
counter, sitting one seat away from Old
Ray. It was eleven thirty p.m.
"Evenin' Rick," the waitress said as
she guided her large body between the
busboy and the counter." Coffee?"
"Yeah," he said. His nameplate read
"R. Noll" and the "R" stood for
Richard. He liked Rick for short-
something about "Dick" that went way
back to before the second grade. He
sighed. It hadn't been a terribly hard
day, in fact, nothing really went bad
except maybe the crazy Colombian,
and even that wasn't that bad with all
of the backup units. He sighed again-
longer this time.
Earlier in the day, when he got the
call about the Colombian, Officer R.
Noll was busting trespassers, a bunch
of kids with skateboards in a drainage
ditch. When he first pulled up on his
motorcycle, one of the bigger kids (Well,
hell, the guy wasn't under 18 by any
means, so why did he always assume
they were kids? Maybe because they
ride skateboards.) must have heard or
seen him because he had rolled into the
ditch and carved down the line so fast
he literally flew out of the end, flipping
his board into his hand, and in one con-
tinuous motion guided the airborne,
riderless board over the cyclone fence
so it flew into the alley and landed,
wheels on the ground, rolling. The
escaped skater vaulted the fence and
skated off into a nearby maze of apart-
ments. Officer Noll was mesmerized for
a few seconds by this fluid action before
he angrily snapped out of it. He had the
rest of them "cold." Getting off his bike,
he knocked his shades to the ground
but didn't seem to notice. Before him
were four young skaters and one, like
the other who escaped, was older.
"What do you boys think you're
doing?" The younger skaters looked up
Rebel without a pause. Skate outlaw Steve Olson
uses extra body english to follow his longboard
through a gnarly frontside re-direction.
at him in absolute terror.
"Looking for my dog, Barky," the
older skater replied. He didn't look up
at the officer. He had been getting a
rock out of his shoe; if he hadn't been
he probably would have escaped too.
"You're all trespassing," Officer Rick
said sternly. "You're under arrest."
"There's no sign!"
"There's a fence."
"It's open over there."
"That constitutes breaking and
entering and destruction of property."
"Hey, that hole was there. What do
you suppose we cut it with, our teeth?"
Officer Rick was angry now. He
opened his mouth wider and his voice
became louder when he barked,
"Come out of there right now and sit
on the curb," and then to the older
skater, "Do you see this?" He tapped
his badge, making it gleam in the
sunlight.
"Yeah," The older skater could see
that past the moustache (you have to:
have one to be a motorcycle cop) this
one had braces.
"Do you know what they call me?"
the cop asked gruffly, figuring he could
intimidate and make an example of the
older skater.
"109?" the older skater sarcastically
asked with a grin.
The younger skaters laughed. The
tension and the fear were broken and
they all knew it. Just then, a flurry of
conversation crackled on the police.
radio. Something about a crazy
Colombian barricaded in a house and
a request for backup units. Officer Rick
knew he was close enough to the
scene, so he headed for his bike.
"Yeah, why don't you go after REAL
criminals?" one of the younger skaters
said to his back. The older skater fin-
ished removing the rock from his shoe.
Officer Rick looked back and shrunk
the young skater with a cold, steely
glare. As he got on his bike, he stepped
on the corner of his fallen shades,
twisting them, their arms stretched
skyward. With a roar, officer Rick was
gone, crunching the shades with the full
weight of his motorcycle. The younger
skaters fled, leaving their newly found
courage behind. The older skater saw
a friend emerge from the apartments
and kept skating. They skated the ditch
together with the confidence of two
soldiers that dive into the crater of a
freshly exploded artillery round, know-
ing that the odds are with them, assum-
ing that it won't happen in the same
spot again...at least for a while.
"More coffee, Rick?" a different
waitress asked, waking him from his
daze.
"No...no thanks. I'll just finish this,"
he said. He glanced across the empty
seat at Old Roy. Roy had been a cop
for many years in the inner city, where
crime and violence ruled the streets.
Rick handed out bike and traffic tickets
in the suburbs. "Those damn skaters,"
he thought. He'd nailed them in the
streets and sidewalks where bikes and
rollerskates are legal, in drainage
ditches while people walked their dogs
past, in the backyard pools of burnt
down and abandoned houses, in
closed skate parks while others played
basketball. Oh well, it was just a long
day. He didn't particularly like second
shift, but the pay differential was a
boost, and he could use it for a new pair
of shades (somehow he'd lost his today)
and a push scooter for his son's birth-
day. Funny, how all his kid cared about
concerning the scooter was the color
and the tassels on the bandlebars.
Unbeknown to Rick, an Asian look-
ing busboy was mulling over how to ask
the officer if he was done with his cof-
fee; he couldn't quite remember the
words. The busboy looked at Rick,
noticed that he was brooding about
something, caught a glimpse of his
braces and took the almost empty cup
without saying anything. This rattled.
Rick. Just then, Old Roy, without look-
ing at him, asked, "Bust any bike riders
or skateboarders today?"