Close Encounters

Close Encounters

Seen on the street today:

A young guy with swirling tattoos all over his face and a prominent nose ring, walking a large bulldog. The bulldog was by far the better looking of the two.

Down at the Station

I visited a city police station today, for the first time in my life, to report my stolen bicycle. I was slightly nervous about it, expecting a grim, film-noir environment full of no-nonsense officers. Instead, it seemed more like a run-down car rental agency, complete with a long wooden counter, tacky Xmas decorations and a TV on the wall tuned to the Food Channel. (The perky woman on screen was demonstrating how to make a holiday pizza. "A party is never more than a half hour away," she said.)

Behind the counter and milling around the office were several jovial cops who kept cracking jokes. I felt like I had walked onto the set of a 1980s sitcom. After I explained that the bike was stolen from my basement, the officer who took down my information asked me if I was the owner of the building. I said that I live in a condo and that I own just one of the units. "But who's the building's owner?" he wanted to know. The female officer sitting next to him chimed in to explain the condominium concept.

After I listed the details about the bicycle and the theft, they had me sit in a separate room, where I shared a bench with a young woman who appeared to have been in an accident, or possibly beaten up, though not too badly. She was chatting amiably on a cell phone. After about five minutes, I was summoned back to the front counter, where I was given a form I would need to obtain the official police report to give to my insurance company.

In sum, an utterly banal experience. I've heard that Alfred Hitchcock had a life-long fear of policemen. Maybe a visit to the local station would have cured him of it.