A few moments ago, I saw two Dallas police vehicles pull up. It’s nice to know I don’t need to panic anymore when this happens, so I didn’t. I know what they’re here for. They’re here for HIM.

There’s a schizophrenic dude (not speculating; clinically diagnosed) who lives across the way who likes to mix his meds with alcohol. This isn’t speculation; he posts about it on his social media accounts. He likes to freak out a couple of times per week and blame it on the neighbors. They don’t call it the urban jungle for nothing.

As with several times before, Dallas PD was thwarted by a simple three-digit code. I’ve personally given it to them several times before, and they even wrote it down, but that stuff ends up as forgotten lint in the dryer. After a few moments of inner turmoil – can you believe we now live in a world when it takes longer than ninety seconds to decide whether or not you should help the police – I got up from my desk to allow entrance.

I gave them the code once more as I turned the knob. We’ll see what they do with that information.

“Are you the person who called?”

“No, ” I replied. “I just saw you struggling.”

I turned and walked back into the condo without saying another word.

The officer appeared gob-smacked. Is it really all that rare in his line of work when the average citizen lends a helping hand for them to accomplish their job? It’s not like they pulled up in an ICE van or anything. Statistically, I knew they were here to see the poor gentlemen who resides in the alternate dimension upstairs. He could use any help they’d be willing to offer.

Regardless, as expected; again, they depart empty-handed; their hands tied by convoluted laws and political rhetoric. They’ll be back tomorrow, because gasoline doesn’t come out of their paychecks. But…

What if it did? They have quotas; they can lie about it all they want. I worked for the Hunt County Sheriff’s Department for over a decade and was bold-faced told by a Texas Department of Public Safety Officer that they were instructed to “count cars”, ride your butt until you barely cross over the line, then pull you over for swerving. Automatic probably cause.

I’d bet a lot of those bad or barely making it cops would get their stuff straight if the quota went public and it reflected their pay scale. I think they call this version of monetization “Little Sister”. It’s the polar opposite of “Big Brother”.

Those cops stood there and talked to one another for thirty minutes outside my gate with both of their vehicles running. I could’ve been nosey, but I left my window closed for plausible deniability. Still, how much is the half-hour rate of two Dallas PD officer’s salary plus fuel consumption for two idling vehicles? They’re obviously not experts in the field of schizophrenics, or at least that’s what they’ll claim when you attempt to interject personal wisdom into their uniformed conundrums; so what were they discussing? Is this kind of thing happening on every call? Our tax-dollars at work.

Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon. It’s funny, really. An Amazon delivery driver walked around them and entered the gate code as though she lived here. These are the police, folks. Unlimited funding, unlimited technology, lapped by a fifty-cent notepad.

America. I would’ve spoken to them more, but my sunglasses were in the truck. It’s not illegal to be multi-dimensional, you’ve just got to keep it to yourself.

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