No One Wins On Third Shift

I’m working 2 AM on a Saturday night at the gas station. Two guys start brawling by the pumps, so I call the police, who arrive pretty darn quick (it’s that type of neighborhood). The police officers do their thing and discover that one of the brawlers is also wanted for some violent crimes and happens to be driving a stolen car, which complicates things, apparently, with more officers arriving to do whatever they need to do.

After things have calmed down, one of the officers takes a personal call inside the store. He sounds like he’s arguing with a spouse.

Officer: “No, I had to deal with a fight at a gas station.”

Arguing sound from the other end.

Officer: “You don’t get it. This guy’s a big deal. We gotta process him and—”

Louder arguing from the other end.

Officer: “—I’ll try, but I can’t promise when I’ll be home. Think of the overtime though and… hello… hello?”

He puts his phone away; the other end having hung up. He looks at me with a pained look.

Me: “Trouble at home?”

Officer: “The girlfriend is mad that I’m working late on a Saturday. Never be a police officer, dude. They make you work nights, weekends, and you never see your family.”

I slowly look around at my place of work.

Officer: “Oh… yeah. Right. Sorry.”