The first time a police car pulled up to my place of business, a popular roller skate drive-in, I was enchanted. The flashing lights, the “crunch” of seven teenagers simultaneously stomping on cigarettes, and the roar of every Jeep on the premise speeding away seemed to be perfectly orchestrated. Mona, our general manager, had called the cops to remove the doped up man hanging out in the windowless van at station eleven. He was bad for business, she informed us minimum-wage employees, and could possibly hurt someone.
Michael, a fellow carhop, eloquently expressed his understanding of the situation. “This is fucking wack,” he complained to me. “Earl's been here longer than Mona has.” Mona was out talking to the police, so I awkwardly bobbed my head in a way that would hopefully be construed as an agreement that could be denied later if he picked an argument with the boss. Michael and his buddies had strewn a heap of trash throughout the parking lot the night before, leaving me the task of sweeping up what seemed to be enough beer cans and plastic cups to throw a Super Bowl party in Wisconsin. I felt no qualms about selling him out if the situation called for it.
Earl the high flyer was nowhere to be found. Mona informed one of the police officers that he was probably loitering at the 7/11 down the street. Disappointed, I surveyed the parking lot. I had hoped to witness a chase, or at least a dramatic arrest. There would be nothing to record for Youtube unless they caught some sort of criminal. I eyed the few remaining teenagers huddled in the far corner of the lot, silently willing them to light up or start a fight. Oblivious of my telepathic intentions, the tallest pulled out a Hacky Sack. Damn. I had been so close to internet fame. In the end, the cops left empty handed.
The police show up at the restaurant surprisingly frequently. The first few times, I activated the camera on my cellphone and eagerly checked to see if Earl was manning his usual station, hoping for any reprieve from the monotony of the fast-food industry. I saw a few soccer moms receive tickets for speeding, and I gleefully watched as the cops instructed the local middle schoolers to quiet down, but I witnessed no arrests on drive-in property. Often the officers parked directly outside the building for no apparent reason. Sometimes I wondered if they were waiting to bust one of the employees. I wondered if they knew that Robert the assistant manager buys cigarettes for seventeen-year-old Michael. I wondered if they knew Garrett and Trent both had booze hidden away in the trunks of their cars. I wondered if they knew that the eggs on the breakfast sandwiches arrive at our store as disgusting, freeze-dried patties. In my mind, freeze-drying eggs merits some form of state sanctioned punishment.
However, usually just as my worry was entering overdrive, the police would ring in and order massive amounts of cholesterol and coffee. “Really?” I asked once, unbelieving. “You want an extra egg patty? Are you sure you wouldn't rather head over to Krispy Kreme?” I was disappointed to find that rather than scouring the seedy underworld of fast-food on the quest for evildoers, the government's executive branch was simply representing the American populace. Gradually, I have reached the point where I, like all of my co-workers, barely notice when a squad car is in the parking lot.
Although I have long given up on the police doing anything interesting at the drive-in, I still carry high hopes for an interesting story to be born in the future. Michael turned eighteen a few months ago, and since has developed the ability to smoke multiple cigarettes simultaneously. I figure it's only a matter of time until the fire department shows up, and I fully intend to upload photographs to Facebook.
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