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Lift Me Up

I climbed into the passenger side of the Dodge Charger driven by my new partner, Officer Lenny Jacobs. His oversized laptop screen seemed to occupy half the front seats. As I settled in, the smell of the coffee and donuts he'd brought along enveloped me, filling me with a fresh morning vibe.

"Everything set, Tom?" he asked.

"Yep, I'm ready!" I responded. "My first day on the job is going to be great!"

"It'll probably be really quiet. Not a lot of calls here in Greenwood."

"That's a good thing, though. That means we're doing something right, right?"

Jacobs laughed as he swung out of the station parking lot. He was a bulked-up man with dark brown hair and tattoos spilling out from under his sleeves.

"It means most of what goes on remains unreported. You don't realize the level of corruption here."

I blinked, staring out the window at the neat lines of old brick buildings lining the downtown. We passed the marble courthouse and the old-fashioned wrought iron clock with four faces in the square.

"What kind of corruption?"

"You'll see. Small Southern towns have a lot to hide."

"Your cynicism is alarming."

He glanced across at me with a raised eyebrow.

"Your forthrightness is different."

"My neurodivergence causes me to be painfully honest at times."

"Neuro… what?" His tone became slightly scornful. "Isn't that a fancy word for autism? Are you sure you're qualified for a position in law enforcement?"

I took a deep breath and began the enumeration of qualifying traits I'd gone over a hundred times during the hiring process.

"I'm on the high-functioning side of the spectrum. I'm quick-witted, precise and detail-oriented, with a photographic memory. I can size up situations based on past experiences and body language, because my memory and high level of intelligence helps me understand emotional cues. I will always play by the rules, in part because I've memorized all the training manuals. And I've passed all the psychological screenings."

"Huh." Jacobs drove in silence for a while. "My nephew's autistic, and he can't say a word."

"We aren't all nonverbal. That's why it's a spectrum."

"You can hold up under stress? You're not gonna have a meltdown when you're surrounded by sirens and flashing lights and yelling cops?"

"I thrive under pressure, because I have a determination to see things through and get them done right. I can cut to the chase and avoid becoming blinded by emotions."

"Hey, good for you. We need all the rational guys we can find. Things get pretty crazy sometimes on the force. But you picked a quiet enough town to apply to."

"This is my hometown. I wouldn't go anywhere else."

Jacobs drove me around his beat, which would now be mine as well. It was the poorer part of town. Ageing red brick projects and little rusty old Nissans and Toyotas lined narrow streets; pocket yards were littered with plastic lawn chairs, kiddy toys, bikes, and cars in various stages of deconstruction; and the occasional vagrant loafing by a bus stop with a bundle.

"Poverty doesn't discriminate," he remarked. "This section's about equal amounts white, black and Hispanic."

The first thing we did together was a welfare check on a woman's mother, who wasn't answering her phone. We found her bedridden with a sprained back and inquired if she needed an ambulance. She assured us she would be alright again soon, but expressed concern about her food supply.

Officer Jacobs wrote up the report as we sat in her driveway in our car.

"Let's send her an order of groceries," I said. "That way no one will have to worry about her."

"Good thinking," he said simply.

My first day progressed quietly enough, as my partner had predicted. We spent most of our time driving and attending to routine matters. I got to know Lenny Jacobs quite well; a man of few words, with a nature as cynical as I had at first guessed.

We pulled up behind a lady with a flat tire on the side of the road, and with the protection of our police lights forcing traffic to move over, I changed her tire.

"Are you bored yet?" he joked, late in the afternoon, as we circled our neighborhood for the hundredth time.

"Is this really how simple it is?"

"They're not calling us for backup. I think they tried to go easy on you."

"Hardly fair…"

"Hey, no one wants to get shot on their first day."

A message crackled over the radio: a sighting of a red Ford Five Hundred with plates matching one which had been reported during a kidnapping in another town two days before.

"Vehicle in question headed south on Delaney Road towards the 200 block," one officer reported.

"That's our beat!" My heart rate picked up.

Officer Jacobs made a left on 5th Street and pulled into a gas station on the corner of 5th and Delaney. If the Ford was headed our way, we'd see it.

"There it is!" He turned on the lights and sirens and set off after it.

The driver refused to pull over, speeding up instead and spitting through a red light. Jacobs blared the horn and followed right after, coming within an inch of a gasoline tanker which barely had time to avoid us.

"Looks like you're in for some fun after all, Tom."

"Are you sure this is the right way?"

"Yes." He gripped the steering wheel firmly. "If we get close enough I'll do a PIT maneuver."

"What if the driver crashes?"

"That's his fault, not ours."

Word came over the radio: other officers were joining us in the chase. Jacobs reported our location. They planned to intercept where the city street became the highway. But the red Ford spun on two wheels down a side road. We followed.

After literally crashing through a fence and running cross country for a couple miles, we hit a back road, still hot on the Ford's trail. Orange signs warned: BRIDGE OUT! The little red Ford, going now at least 120 MPH, blasted through the barriers and shot right across the creek like a scene from an action movie.

"Did I just see—?"

"We'll do it too," Jacobs announced dryly.

And we did.

Ultimately we drew up alongside them, using the car-pusher on the front of our Charger to nudge their bumper, which sent it spinning sideways into the ditch. The driver's door burst open.

Jacobs leaped out, gun drawn, shouting to surrender. I saw the driver climbing out, shaking, hands in the air. But from my vantage point in our car I also saw the passenger. He had a rifle.

"Get down!" I yelled. Shots rang out. Jacobs fell to the ground. I had no idea if he was shot or taking cover. I pulled my own weapon. The gunman held his ground and kept firing.

I dodged behind our car as cover, talking breathlessly into my radio.

"Officer down! Send backup—active shooter!"

I shot sniper-style over the roof of our car. The gunman fell. A second patrol car swung in beside us. The crisis was over.

***

"Good work, Tom," Jacobs said as he dropped me off at my house that evening. "We'll make a great team."

He was right. We paired well together: his sharp, impatient and aggressive attitude contrasted with my calm precision and attention to detail. I often recognized patterns he missed. Once we were able to take in a notorious drug dealer because I noticed two cars alternating days in the same parking space at a gas station at the same time every evening.

I don't know how many times we saved each other's lives over the years. It was a quiet town generally, but crises occur even in the most peaceful of towns: a domestic violence call, an armed robbery, a home invasion, a drunken brawl at the pub, someone running around high with a knife.

One morning on our route, I sensed something was off about Jacobs as I got in the passenger side.

"You ok, man?" I asked.

"Yes."

I noticed he was driving erratically: swerving and breaking the speed limit.

"Hey, drive safely."

"I'm driving just fine!" He barked.

I shook my head as he strayed over the line.

"I'm sorry… we've pulled over too many intoxicated drivers for me to ignore the warning signs."

"I am not intoxicated," he intoned exaggeratedly.

But the more he denied it, the worse it became. I reached for the radio.

"Officer Jacobs demonstrating signs of driving under the influence. Send backup."

He lost his temper and swore at me as another officer pulled us over.

***

I called Lenny up a month later.

"Hey man. How's rehab going?"

"Is that really you, Tom?"

"Of course it is."

"Why? We didn't exactly part on good terms…"

"I had your back my whole career, and you had mine. Least I can do is check in now that you're on administrative leave."

"I'm fine. I don't need you to show up and solve my problems."

"I'm not trying to solve anything. I just want to know if you need me."

A long pause on the line. I was afraid he'd hung up. Perhaps I shouldn't have called…

"Y'know what, I do need to talk to you, bro. I didn't want to call because I figured you'd be upset after what happened."

"Stuff happens. No one's judging if you have to deal with your issues."

"Oh, they're judging alright. I might have to face DUI charges."

"Consequences."

"Yeah, yeah."

We spent a long time talking. At the end, Lenny's voice was gruff.

"Thanks, Tom. I really appreciate it. I'll get sober. You'll see. I was down and you lifted me up by calling."

"Glad to hear it. I'll be your strength, buddy. Just like in the force."

Word Count: 1641.

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