Indecisive Dithering

It is a small town.

The kind of town with a rich founding history of hard work and togetherness. The core values displayed at town hall proclaim unity and community.

It is a small-town. A drive-by town. A town not surrounded by any big cities in any direction.

No close approximation to the metropolitan to assist in crowd control or deploy riot guards to.

It is a town with maybe six police officers. Six of which will be men, unless it is a town that uniquely prides itself on diversity, then add one token female.

And how are these small-town police departments currently engaged?

Inside the headquarters of the small-town police department, the chief pinches his nose.

What is going on in the mind of this small-town police chief?

Does he immediately get on the phone with the police union, does he sit down and schedule mediation and de-escalation classes? Should he pen a letter to be published in the local paper and post solidarity on social media?

The chief shuts the laptop and takes a moment to decide his next actions.

One eight-minute drive from the police station, members of the United Church of Xavier Church of Exaltation Reformation are sorting canned goods for the food pantry.  

Dorothy, church secretary and the police department’s civilian desk clerk, puts down the news on her phone.

Dorothy knows her community boys in blue. She’s lived in the small-town for 30 years, and before that just 18 miles away and she has never heard of anything like this before, thank you very much. She knows the officers she works with. Good, wholesome, all-American boys. Most of whom never wanted to do anything other than protect their communities. With so much passion, without any thought of doing anything else, often jumping in right after high school.

As chatter about protests and looting grows, and the food pantry work is replaced with uncertainty, Dorothy picks her phone back up and scrolls though the news. She remembers her college years. Being away from home for the first time.

She shakes her head at the memory of anxiety during these unprecedented times and having to listen to her mother call her every week asking if she would come home.

Dorothy never participated in those marches herself because she didn’t want prospective employers to get the wrong idea, and wasn’t it hard enough to be a being a woman in that day and age? But of course, she never cared for the idea of separate water fountains.

But hadn’t she had the most wonderful discussion last week, about a recent film that was based off a book that Dorothy read in high school with the new grocery checkout girl, Camilla, or something.

Nice girl, but a little flaky, Dorothy had told her church group, as their work sat forgotten.

Skin the color of chocolate, Dorothy added, because it was important they know what the cashier looks like.

Imagery is very important in storytelling, according to Dorothy.

And who doesn’t love chocolate? She adds to agreeable nods.

We should start a book club, Dorothy tells the women, as phones are put away and conversation becomes more pleasant and causal.

 But who has time to read these days? Dorothy adds and giggles erupt as predicted.

The half-sorted canned goods remain abandoned and conversation quickly morphs to scheduling a weekly chicken dinner for their boys in blue during these unprecedented times.

At home, Shelby comes into the kitchen from the garage where his wife Dorothy is watching the countertop news. He holds out a grease stained hand for an ice-cold award-winning mass-produced American lager, so he didn’t muck up the refrigerator handle, again, thank you very much.

Cracking it open, he gestures toward the crowds and banners and fury on the T.V.

Footage of folks fleeing with surrounded by screen smashed windows broken windows, gas tanks spraying.

He has no problem with civil rights, he says to his wife as if she were not there, but he sure could just do without the property damage. Those companies will lose money and then jack up the prices, then who is losing, huh?

They are making it sound like riots and violence are the only way to accomplish anything, he says, taking a sip.

They’re all setting a bad example is what they’re doing, justifying the need to resort to such measures to contain the dangers, he says. Everyone needs to stop being so sensitive and just do what they’re told.

Droves of people rampage through the fog, their faces contorted with anger and disobedience.

It didn’t look anything like any image of the America he knew.

“Turn it off,” he says turning away, “It’s too ridiculous.”

Picking up the police department’s dinner is Vivian and Doug.

As president and vice president, respectfully, of their local college’s business club, it was a good way to show future business owner students the importance of establishing good relations with those that protect and serve. 

Right on cue, their classmate Hannah topples out of the mom-and-pop pizzeria, simultaneously steering two wheelie carts laden with pizza boxes and Italian food. Her frizzy red hair blinding her.

Hannah is a vegetarian and has a girlfriend, and Vivian holds suspicions that Hannah does things on the sole basis it was not what people expected from her.

“Did you guys check out the peaceful protest in the square last night?” Hannah asks after greeting, as she and the carts grind to a halt. Her girlfriend had organized it at the last minute.

“No, sorry,” Vivian says. They had gone to bed, like, super early for this morning’s yoga live stream before jogging, showering, and then coming here.

“How did it go?” Doug asks Hannah, preening and puffing out his chest. Maybe he’ll drive slowly through the square tonight, make sure no one’s even thinking about looting?

“Oh no, it was fine,” Hannah says, bobbing her head, “a lot of positive support.”

As Doug makes himself busy piling the dinner boxes into the trunk, Hannah turns to Vivian and asks, “Viv, doesn’t your channel get like, 200 subscribers?”

“226,” Vivian said shrugging and checking her nails.

“So, couldn’t you, I don’t know, what if you had a session focusing on, like meditation? Like an eight-minute mindfulness to be in the moment and meditation to draw awareness to like, I don’t know, breathing?” Hannah stumbles and fumbles with her apron and is herself, breathless.

“Yeah, like I don’t know,” Vivian shrugs, “I feel like yoga and politics don’t really mix. Right now, I really want to focus everything I do on making an impactful change on what will make a difference, you know?” she says and adjusts a box of tiramisu.

“Now, let me give you their orders for next week,” Vivian says.

The air in the police department is stale with forgotten memories of marijuana and cough drops as the chief walks past the holding cells.

Empty now because it’s a good town, he reminds himself. Not just a good town, but good people. The town is safe because they are a blessed town, and they are a blessed town to have respectful citizens, and a top-notch police force, the chief thinks proudly, and not at all biased.

The police, after all are the backbone of the community, name one type of call your neighborhood police do not show up for.

The overwhelming majority, if there is a problem, happens in the big cities. This is a big city problem. It doesn’t happen here, he tells himself.

Not in a town where everyone knows each other, no one would let you get away with anything! The chief laughs a bit to himself and wonders if he can use that at the next board of commissioners meeting.

No, he won’t use it, because he knows the men at the council meetings. They won’t bring it up.

There have never been any issues here, and if there were issues, there aren’t enough to justify the taxpayer dollars.

Mediation classes, de-escalation training, just a waste of taxpayer money. His officers already knew how to walk old ladies across the street and be respectful at traffic stops.

“'Polite is just one letter away from police,’” he reminds himself what he repeats to elementary students, some of whom will no doubt join the department soon after finishing high school.

His squad. 

He knows these men (and woman). They pull red wagons in community parades and escort veterans home. His police department has shown time and time again they didn’t have a history of violence. The comradery does not stop when the shift is over. They all drop everything when there was a PCP call.  They watch each other’s backs. They know baseball games, and each other’s kids and wives. Officers stay in the department until mandated retirement, because wasn’t the job difficult and demanding, but didn’t they perform their duties with honor and resilience for the good of the people?

Can't say that about many jobs, he shakes his head.

As he approaches the meeting room, new smells of garlic and oregano tell him at least there would be full bellies for tonight’s patrol.

The idle chatter dies down and half a dozen pairs of eyes focus expectantly on their chief.

And he speaks; reminding them he need not remind them of the unprecedented times.

No comment, he recaps to them. If questioned about current state of affairs, direct residents to educating themselves and focusing on helping others during these unprecedented times.  You all know the deal; you are all professionals. You guys don’t have anything to worry about, the residents don’t have anything to worry about here. This isn't one of those big cities. The citizens look to you for guidance and authority. Just keep your heads down, things will go back to normal before you know it and we’ll all get through this.

“Alright,” he claps his hands, “I’ve talked your ear off long enough. Let’s dig in!” he says.

It was a room of armed, authoritative snow white and pink faces.

But to him, it was just a room.