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Officer Ultraviolet A line of red, white, and blue flags flapped in the air outside the model apartment and sales office. It reminded me of a foreign consulate, and I was a dignitary with a police escort named Jerry. He had a muscular build and short brown hair, a real cookie cutter of a cop: clean cut and all-American. I followed him to his apartment located directly above the model apartment. In the living room was a burnt-orange couch, and next to it was a bookcase where the books on each shelf were organized by size, not by subject or author. Size mattered to Jerry. That made sense for a cop. “The waterbed goes in here,” Jerry said. He pointed to a cleared out area in the bedroom. No problem, except in my haste to leave the store, I forgot the essential: the water hose. It was coiled up in the back of the store. I couldn’t believe I had done that. When I tell him, he’s gonna really think I’m a stoner. He might even check the van for weed. “Do you have a water hose?” “Sure don’t,” Jerry replied. “Does anyone around here have a hose?” “Not much use for one in a single bedroom apartment. Especially on the second floor,” he said. I could tell by the look in his crisp blue eyes he had already figured out, if I was a book I’d go with the smallest books on his bookshelf. “Why don’t you set up the bed,” he said. “I’ll go to your store and get the hose. By the time I get back, you’ll be ready to put the water in. Right?” “If you don’t mind.” “No problem. I’ve got a date.” “Where you going?” I asked, curious about police life and all. “Right there,” he said, pointing to where he wanted the waterbed set up. “Before my shift starts. The chick in 2C is coming over. I can’t wait.” A few minutes later he tore off in his police car like the guys in that old television show, Adam-12. Good. I was glad he was gone so I could do some investigative work of my own. He was a real cop, not like Kenny, the rhinestone-studded security guard at the shopping plaza. I was curious how a real cop lived, so instead of setting up the waterbed right away, I opened the closet where Jerry’s police uniforms hung. The stiff, white shirts had blue stripes on the shoulders. The dark slacks were marked with slick, black lines down the outside seams. Why not? I took off my blue work shirt and removed my sneakers so the blue jeans wouldn’t get gummed up like Turkish taffy when I pulled them off. How about some cross-dressing to get a feel for life in the streets? I slid Jerry’s white shirt off the hanger and put it on. It was a nice fit, too. The slacks were a different story. They came several inches above flood stage. Jerry’s revolver and his official police cap lay on the bureau next to some loose change and several bottles of cologne: Jade East and English Leather. He had a bumper sticker on the wall next to the mirror. It said, Police Officers Do It In The Street. A poster on the other side of the mirror offered more police philosophy: When you got them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow. That wasn’t from Upanishads, I laughed. I didn’t think I’d find the Bhagavad Gita on his bookshelf either. I put on Jerry’s hat and looked at myself in the mirror. “Reporting for duty, sir,” I said, then saluted the pony-tailed image of myself working undercover. About face. The other walls were covered with posters. Each one an illustrated tutorial on a black background. It looked like Jerry had taken up the study of astrology but limited himself to one aspect: ultraviolet fucking. The tutorials showed a couple in the zodiac positions from Aries to Pisces, each sign dedicated to a Kama Sutra position. I shuttered the window and turned on the ultraviolet light plugged into an outlet. The instructors, an Elvis look-a-like and a blonde in skimpy leopard skin, leapt out from the walls. The couple see-sawed on a trapeze, interlocked like two puzzle pieces; in another, the blonde was upside down with her breasts dangling, her legs wrapped around his head as he nuzzled her thighs. I looked at all of them through Pisces, then I turned off the black light and opened the shades. Jerry hadn’t returned, and I hadn’t set up his waterbed either. I put on my sneakers and hustled downstairs, still in uniform, to get the dismantled waterbed and bring it upstairs, pronto. I was still thinking about the posters and ultraviolet intercourse when I glanced up and saw something at the convenience store across from the apartment complex. The clerk’s hands were raised high in the air like he was playing a game of Simon Says except it was a robbery. An old Nash Rambler jumped the sidewalk and blocked my view of what happened next. A few seconds later the robbers flung open the door and climbed into the Nash Rambler. It sped away. I dropped the toolbox on the sidewalk and hopped into the delivery van. It was broad daylight, but I turned on the van’s spotlight outside the driver’s side window. One-Adam-12 in pursuit. I screeched the tires out of the parking lot and pulled to the stoplight that the Nash Rambler ran. I waited for cars to pass then fishtailed the van into a left turn, narrowly missing a car traveling in the far lane. They headed south past a cement company. The Rambler with lopsided springs wove in and out of traffic. I followed suit, stomping on the gas pedal. Gained on them too as they sped toward an intersection. I figured they had spotted me by then, and they’d try taking a right at the intersection then disappearing into the prostitute-and-one-hour-motel neighborhood on the other side of the railroad overpass. A top heavy cement truck with its bright orange load twirling pulled into both lanes of southbound traffic. It turned gradually in the right direction but not fast enough for the speed I was going. I had two choices. Pass it on the left by driving on the overgrown median strip or pass it on the right shoulder covered with crushed, white shell. I took the latter course, swerved to the right and sped around the cement truck. The Nash Rambler closed in on the next light. I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw bubble-gum lights flashing. I pointed to the Nash Rambler in the distance. The police siren chirped several times. The cruiser’s lights flashed on and off. “You in the van, pull over,” came on the police car’s loudspeaker. I heard the order several times so I slowed down and pulled off to the side. The cement truck wobbled by. I watched the Nash Rambler make a right turn and ascend the overpass. A raised arm gave me the finger at the top, and then I lost sight of it. One-Adam-Nothing. “They got away,” I said to the footsteps by the side of the van. “Why aren’t you setting up my waterbed? I’m going to be needing it in about,” he glanced at his watch, “about twenty minutes. The chick in 2C, remember?” Jerry stood next to me. “Uh… uh.” “And what the fuck are you doing in my uniform?” “Uh… uh.” The hose was on the front seat of his cruiser. “I oughta bust you for impersonating an officer.” “You want that waterbed set up or not?” He looked at his watch again. The poster was right. When you got ’em by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow. Just like his did. When we got back to his apartment I changed into my blue work shirt. I slid off his slacks and put on my jeans. I was myself again, undercover nobody. That’s when I noticed: on Jerry’s bookshelf, size did matter. The biggest book was “The Joy of Sex” by Dr. Alex Comfort. The smallest was “The Onion Field” by Joseph Wambaugh. The chick from 2C showed up. Jerry turned on his ultraviolet light. Officer Ultraviolet was early for work that day. I hurried back to the store to tell Kenny, the security guard who wanted to be on the force, how things really went down in the street. One-Adam-12, over and out.
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