[From the Plaza] The Christmas Incident

I spent a lot of time driving when I worked at the mall. Once they'd gotten me trained I wormed my way into the cushiest spot on any shift - parking lot patrol. Sitting in an air conditioned pickup truck listening to the radio and tooling around the parking lots. Meant I got to see a lot of the action too - TJ loved putting in the call for backup and having our official looking truck pull up. 

Heard Idioteque for the first time day before Christmas eve. Eight PM and I'm parked out at the edge of the lot smoking and wasting time, discovering new music by a band I'd thought I'd worn out in high school. Right around the beginning of the song TJ comes in on the radio with "tailing three WMJ mall regulars, food court. Possible altercation." He loved using that work, altercation. Sounded official.

I'd heard half a dozen calls like that through the night so I took another drag and bobbed my head to the music. Minute later and TJ's back on the horn. "All units all units, food court. 11-99 food court."

11-99 is police code for officer in trouble. Like deep shit kind of trouble. Somebody just drew a weapon kind of trouble.

Takes me a second to process that. Drop my cigarette and throw myself into the truck. Brief skip in the music as I start it, before the sound is drowned out by the engine roaring. I slam the truck into gear and haul ass. The radio is going nuts. Boss is on the horn demanding details. Earls cutting him off, turning the channel into chirps and squeals as the two signals mix. My hands are shaking and the truck is roaring around the corner. Slam the brakes on in front of the food court and I'm out like a shot. Hauling ass inside and skidding on freshly waxed floors. Nearly faceplant and catch myself on the rail, then I catch sight of it.

"Mall regular" was a euphemistic term we used to describe the hardcore mallrats. The homeless kids that lived in the drainage ditch out back. The ones that ran in pathetic little gangs and had pathetic little arguments about pathetic little amounts of money. Two groups of them had had words in the food court, and it had turned into a brawl. So Carnell and TJ had tried to break it up (all on their lonesome, two on six) and one of the homeless kids had drawn a pathetic little knife. 

Carnell had, in return, shot him in the face with a can of mace. The stuff was hanging in the air, thin mist of burning pepper. TJ was hollering into his radio, telling Earl to shut the fuck up. A few of the mallrats were still going at it. The maced one was on the ground, making an awful racket. Carnell was in the middle of it all, eyes red as he tried to pull the kids apart.

So, of course, I dived in. 

Grabbed some skinny tweaker around the waist and pulled him back. Screeching like a banshee, his elbow flies back and crack, smacks me right on my eye. Hit the whole socket. Swells up almost immediately. I place him on the floor (not as gently as I could have, the screeching went up a few octaves) and then Earl and Dave are there, and it's all over but the crying.

Ascertain pretty quick that my eye is about as fine as it can be, considering. Me and Dave end up holding the maced kids arms as we march him, cuffed, toward the security office. He doesn't say a word til we hit the back hall. On the mall muzak station, a childrens choir is singing Silent Night.

"Why'm I crying?" He asks. He sounds young, confused.

"Been maced." I drawl.

"Why you crying?" He asks.

I look at him. My swollen eye is leaking tears. The other is dry. "Got hit in the face."

"That hurt as much as getting maced?"

"Nah."