I liked the police until I was eight years old. But then one of them screwed me, and that all changed. When cops screw up they do it big time.
But when I was eight, my buddy Stevie and I found out what they are really like.
Stevie was a Roman Catholic and had to go to confession every Saturday. I, an Anglican, would walk with him to the church because there was a littel creek and some scrub woods in the ravine next to the church.
After confession, we'd ramble around in the ravine looking for crayfish in the creek, chasing minnows, floating leaf boats - boy stuff.
On the way to church there was pay telephone booth where we religiously checked the coin return compartment. Sometimes we'd find a nickle or a dime someone had forgotten. This one Saturday, on the way to Stevie's confessional, we found a white cotton bag full of coins on the shelf right in front of the pay phone.
Our best guess was, the guy who collected the money out of the coin box had emptied it, but forgot to take the bag and put it in his truck when he left.
We decided to keep the money; I was to bury it down in the ravine while Stevie was in confession, then we'd come back for it later. It was lot of money to an eight year old, about fifty dollars.
I had almost finished digging the hole with a stick. I sensed a movement, looked up to see Stevie and the priest walking down the path toward me. Stevie had confessed the finding to the priest, who told us to take the money back home and call the police. Being a good little Catholic, and I an honest Anglican, that's what Stevie and I did.
Stevie's dad called the cops for us. When the officer arrived he drove right in Stevie's driveway, where we were waiting with money bag on the front steps.
The cop took the money, and told us what good little boys we were. I remember feeling a sense of pride in being praised by this big burly cop. He told us if no one claimed the dough after three months, we could come to the police station and claim it. We marked our calendars.
The waiting was awful. It seemd like eons. To pass the time, we'd plan and fantasize about what we would do with all that money. Stevie was going to buy a bow and arrows, I was going to buy a pup tent. We'd go camping and hunting.
On the appointed day, having not heard a peep from the police, Stevie's dad drove us down to the Cop Shop. The three of us went, and Stevie's dad explained the situation to the desk sergeant.
Smiling, like a cat that's learned to fry mice in butter, the sergeant said, "Where's your property receipt?"
"What's a property receipt?", said Stevie's dad.
"Whenever one of our officers collects anything from anyone, he gives them a property receipt. You'll have to show me the property receipt.", he said.
Stevie and I asked the nice man if he still had our bag money. "It was a white cotton bag full of coins." we stammered in unison.
"I don't know," smiled the nice man. "Where's your property receipt. It has a number on it, and I can't find anything here without that number."
Our dreams shattered, Stevie and I started to cry. Stevie's dad grabbed him by the arm, told me to follow him, as he dragged his son back out to the car.
Through clenched teeth, "Let this a lesson to you boys!", said Stevie's dad, as he viciously let out the clutch and wheeled us around to head back home. It was the first time I'd heard Stevie's dad burn rubber with the tires.
And it was a lesson.
