Authors: Len Norman
The Smoker and Alien Influence
1975
C
alvin Rolan was the smallest of the class of 1975. What he lacked in size he made up for in other ways. He was one vicious and brutally efficient cop and Riverside toublemakers soon sat up and took notice. The older officers would stand back and watch him for entertainment during bar fights and various other trouble calls. There were times when even Ivan called Calvin a cold-blooded little prick. Pound for pound and inch for inch, Calvin was trouble of the highest magnitude. The other cops loved him because he took no shit and brought in plenty of prisoners.
Arrests were soon up and crime was down and the City Commissioners loved it and so did the good people of Riverside. The Chief and his minions hated Calvin’s guts almost as much as they hated Ivan.
Calvin was a local product. He grew up in Riverside and went to its schools. After graduation, he went in the Army and was off to see the world. He never really saw anything other than boot camp and then an infantry assignment in Vietnam. Calvin learned a trick or two in his Nam assignment. His platoon sergeant assured him the Viet Cong were nothing more than a bunch of thoughtless commie bastards; at best, a bagful of dirty assholes was all they’d ever be. That was all Calvin needed to know. He enjoyed going solo for weeks on end. There were plenty of Viet Cong hiding in the bush. All of them vile douchebags that were hell-bent on shattering the American way of life, and Calvin gleefully hunted them.
When he applied for the police department they were happy to bring him on board after learning about his military experience. The Police Academy was a breeze for someone like him. The other cops soon sat up and took notice after Calvin and Quentin were working the bar district in the south end of Riverside. Last call was over and there were drunks galore. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
They were conducting a field interview, which for Calvin and Quentin was simply a chance to start trouble. They heard a noise and looked up to see that a drunk driver had just bounced off a trash can on the sidewalk. Calvin ran to the squad car and yelled at Quentin, “Hop in, the sonofabitch is probably drunk. Let’s get him.”
They pulled the driver over and couldn’t believe who was behind the wheel. Silas Jansen was clearly shitfaced and driving. Calvin immediately put on his sap gloves and said to him, “Get the fuck out of the car right now you dickhead. I think you’ve been drinking.”
Silas got out of the car, all six feet and four inches, two hundred and sixty pounds of solid football-playing muscle. Silas Jansen was the biggest thing that ever embraced the Riverside Athletic Arena. He was All-American in his last three years of high school. He received a full ride to Illinois and led their football team to a national championship his junior year. He was selected in the first round of the draft at the number-three pick with the Washington Redskins. He didn’t deal well with fame and was a problem child from day one. The Redskins gave up on him and he was picked up by the Miami Dolphins. A year later he was earning $30,000 a year playing football in Italy. All of that was three years ago.
And here they were. By the time Calvin told Silas to get out of his car, he’d managed to piss away everything; he was broke with no prospects in sight. He was able to freeload drinks and whatnot at Riverside’s Sports Bars, but that was the extent of his current portfolio. He believed he was only one more tryout from a Super Bowl ring. It would be fair to say he really was optimistic.
Silas didn’t realize the cigarette he was smoking would soon lead to trouble. Quentin giggled when the tip of the cigarette was knocked off when Silas waved at a passerby. He figured it had to be one of his many fans when he heard the horn honking. As Silas was waving, the lit end sailed into the cuff of his trousers. He had no clue what was going on but Quentin nudged Calvin and looked down. Calvin immediately saw what had just occurred; he was very interested in how this might play out, thinking good times would soon commence.
Calvin was holding a driver’s license that depicted a picture of Silas in better times. The information was radioed into the police station and the desk officer ran Silas on the teletype. While they were waiting, he started smoking. Not another cigarette—Silas actually began to smoke. Wispy plumes of smolder soon appeared from his fashion-conscious polyester trousers. Silas was one to dress for any occasion when cadging free drinks and telling stories of greater days when he was one of the NFL’s chosen.
Calvin and Quentin let the scenario play out awhile longer until Quentin actually saw what appeared to be… flames. “Hey, Silas,” Quentin said. “Check it out. You look like a flaming asshole!”
Silas screamed his fool head off and began to run.
Calvin yelled after him, “Stop, drop, and roll, numbnuts. Just like the hose monkeys taught you to do in the fifth grade on career day.”
Silas fell to the ground, and it wasn’t because he had learned anything from the firemen. He was just too goshdarn drunk to stand on his feet much longer. He rolled back and forth in the dirt and then tried to get back up. He looked down and actually vomited all over the ground, his shoes, and the flaming pant cuff.
Calvin looked at Quentin and said, “Lucky for him he drank a lot of beer tonight. Right?”
“Looks like it to me.”
“You think we should run his sorry ass in for something?”
Quentin said, “I don’t see why, I think he learned his lesson, plus he puked all over himself. I don’t want him in the car. Can’t we just give him a break?”
“I guess.”
Calvin nudged Silas with his foot, and he stirred a bit and looked around. At first he thought he had been gang-tackled near the end zone, but when he looked up at Calvin he knew it had to be something else. League rules would never allow sap gloves on the playing field. Silas thought it was still summer. Was it supposed to snow tonight? Why was some guy wearing gloves? He was confused and he rolled over again and decided to take a dirt nap.
Quentin went back to the car that Silas had borrowed and took the keys out of the ignition, he locked the car up and left the headlights on for fun. The rightful owner would probably need a wrecker driver to help him move the car in the morning. Would it really hurt if the car needed the battery jump-started? Quentin didn’t think so. He liked wrecker drivers and knew they could always use the extra money.
Quentin dropped the keys in the biggest pool of vomit near Silas. He bent down and whispered, “Sleep well and dream of all the things you’ll never have again, you dumbass.”
Before leaving they put a couple of parking tickets on the windshield. When they got back in their car they couldn’t wait to meet up with some of the others who were working so they could tell them how they had met a celebrity and it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
A few days later the road sergeant was pleased to find Calvin out of his police vehicle and he appeared to be checking doors in the main business district. When the sergeant got closer he did a double take. Calvin had two streetwise punks on the ground and was yelling at them. He was wearing his sap gloves and had his nightstick in one hand and a can of pepper spray in the other. The sergeant parked behind a truck and decided to listen.
Calvin shouted at the both of them, “The next time a police officer tells you to stop running, you WILL stop running. You both look like a couple of idiots to me. What’s your story?”
“We were just walking around. Everybody has to be someplace.”
“You two look like you were planning on stealing. I might maybe run both of your asses into the station and charge you with being dumb and ugly. Both of you start doing pushups, I want fifty of them out of each of you.”
“The fuck we will,” the other one said. “You can’t make us do shit like that. We gots rights.”
Calvin hit him in the back of the head with his nightstick. “You have a problem with grammar and respecting authority is what I think is going on.”
They both began to do the pushups but couldn’t get past twenty. Calvin bent down and said, “You chickenshits make me sick. No wonder the Viet Cong commie bastards thought they could win, and they would have if you two would’ve been there. Although I highly doubt that would’ve been possible, because you’re both pansies.” He pepper sprayed them and told them to get lost.
Calvin looked up and saw the Sergeant. He walked over and said, “Hey Sarge, did you get a look at those two losers?”
“I want to know what in the blue fuck was just going on!”
“They disrespected me. They ran. I was only teaching them manners.”
“Why would you make them do pushups? Who does that?”
Calvin replied, “They were a couple of commie bastards. Hippies, too, I think. Did you see how long their hair was? I made the streets safer is all.”
“If they were hippies did they have drugs?”
“No, but they probably got rid of it when they saw me. You saw them. Hell Sarge, they couldn’t even do pushups. A couple of assholes are all they were. I think guys like that are ruining our country. Don’t you see?”
The next night Calvin was working the desk under the watchful eye of Captain Eberhart. The Captain said, “I was told you picked on a couple of men last night for no good reason. Apparently you need to work on your people skills.”
Calvin blurted, “Golly Cap...they were practically breaking the law and looked like criminals to me, for sure they were commies...” and then Calvin stopped. He already knew that some of the others had been operating under the premise that Herr Eberhart was a former Gestapo and would torture each and every one of them at the drop of the hat.
“Mind your manners, officer, this is my house.”
“Yes sir.”
Within the hour Calvin took a phone call from Donovan Sardo, one of Riverside’s resident nuts. It was the seventh time Donovan called that day. He wanted to report burglaries that had occurred at the Carmichel House Apartments, which were renovated in the old Lincoln Hospital location.
Donovan Sardo was well-known for a history of unique complaints in reference to burglaries at his apartment. He lived on the fourth floor, so this would indicate the perpetrators were clever. Whenever responding officers actually investigated the scene they couldn’t find the point of entry, but things were certainly missing according to Donovan. The man was surely a goof and had even mentioned “aliens” to the investigators. All of this was well-known to the Riverside police officers.
Thirty seconds into the phone call Calvin informed Donovan that he was in charge of his current complaint and all previous cases had been turned over to him. He told Donovan that he should only speak to him from now on; he gave him a brief description of his work schedule and the number for the unrecorded line to the police desk.
He told Donovan that his complaint was not uncommon and this was clearly something aliens did from time to time. He explained how sneaky they were and that he had to be vigilant at all times. He also told him that he’d received extraterrestrial training and was the department’s leading expert on such things. Donovan was quite pleased and they were both enjoying their newly formed investigator and victim relationship.
“Are the labels on some of your canned goods arranged other than how you left them?”
“They sure are!”
“Missing food and papers left out of place?”
“You bet!”
“Some phone calls to the police station are routinely intercepted by aliens and if they could do that, wouldn’t they send someone into your apartment disguised as a police officer?”
Donovan replied, “I never thought of that. I’m so glad you received special training.”
Donovan was clinging to every word. Things like what cable channels he should be watching, and battery-operated devices versus electrical and the impact they’d have on his day-to-day existence. Calvin told him he should lock his door at all times when he was home; he was further advised to fortify his position and protect his food supply.
Calvin said, “You must call me back at the number I just gave you. If another officer answers you should speak only to me, just leave a message and I’ll call you back. You must call me once every thirty days, but just once. The important thing is to secure your position and protect your food supply. Just hunker down and only leave your apartment when you absolutely must do so, are we clear, sir?”
“Yes, officer. I feel safer already.”
“As you should, Donovan, as you should. You do realize this is a systemic problem, don’t you?”
“It affects plants and trees?”
Calvin sighed, “No, Mr. Sardo, what I meant was others have experienced the same things all over the country. Possibly a global event.”
“Is that so?”
“Sure. Many think this is because of communist influence. Are you a communist, sir?”
“Golly no, I love my country.”
“I love mine even more. I fought those dirty sons of bitches in the jungles of Vietnam and now I’m continuing the good fight. Hippies and drug pushers, right here in Riverside. All part of further alien influence, in my unbiased opinion. Do you understand my meaning? Will you help me?”
“I surely will officer.”
“Good. Call back every thirty days, no more and no less. Keep a log of their activities. You should also change all of your light bulbs on a weekly basis, things like that often turn out to be life-and-death matters. Something else I learned in extraterrestrial training.”
“I understand; thank you for everything. I’ll do exactly as you instructed. I appreciate your valuable time officer,” Donavan said.
“You are the important one, Mr. Sardo. I look forward to speaking with you in thirty days, good night.”
As soon as Calvin ended the call, the captain cleared his throat. “Officer, what was all of that about?”
“That guy’s crazy, Cap; he calls the station at least fifty times a week. A lot of officers spend time at his house. He thinks aliens are after him.”
“And you think it wise to feed the fantasy?”
“Sure. I think of it as a great plan. Instead of Mr. Sardo calling a few thousand times a year, I have whittled it down to a dozen.”