Best and Brightest #13 - Best Guesses

“Officer Miyamoto told me the high score was 77.8, but a 45 passes,” said Jim Brightest as he walked through the morning fog toward the BART station.

“Did she give you any frame of reference for that, whatsoever?” asked his friend, Devonte Best. They were on their way to the police station again, this time to take a written examination.

“No. She told me if I couldn’t pass I didn’t deserve to be a police officer, which seems kind of self-evident.”

“Not the most enthusiastic to lend a hand, that Officer Miyamoto. I guess desk duty does that to you.”

“Maybe it’s just that she only has one hand.”

“Really?”

“Ya, she told me she lost it breaking up a brawl at a Raiders game, some lunatic’s spiked shoulder pads stabbed her and gave her sepsis, they had to amputate. But because there were so many idiots wearing spiked shoulder pads, they never could find out exactly who did it. Goddamn, there are so many idiots at Raider games.”

“Says the man who’s never stopped rooting for the Lions, not even when they managed to not win literally every single game they played.”

Jim stepped through the BART barrier in silence, and didn’t speak to Devonte again until the train came up on the other side. Even then, he was quiet. “You know, I can barely think of the number 16 without crying.”

“Dude, I’m sorry. Like, actually. I made you feel bad right before this really important test.”

“Naw, I’m just fucking with you. Gets me ready for tests.”

“You’re actually the worst person.”

They walked into the lobby of Oakland Police Headquarters together, got sent upstairs together, sat outside the examiner’s door together. The building was indistinguishable from any other office, except for the fact that there was a massive, transparent gun safe right next to the door marked “Test Room.”

A mountain lion of a woman, surprisingly small and startlingly powerful, with a military buzzcut that she kept despite (or perhaps to spite) the fact that it was a beacon for unwanted attention from lesbians whenever she went to a bar with her colleagues, Captain Elisa Miyamoto had worked for the Oakland Police for nearly 20 years. She and her husband Shaun O’Nora owned RolledOak, the hipster rebranding of his family’s bowling alley and roller rink. (“The First Integrated Roller Alley in Oakland, Since 1932”) And since she had received a debilitating hand injury in the line of duty, she had insisted on continuing to work as a police officer, a job which she had sacrificed so much to get. She was assigned to head up recruitment and evaluation, a long way from the tenacious beat work and crime-reducing relationships that had seen her promoted all the way to being the first Asian-American Captain in the Oakland Police.

Since there were so many officers in the field, and since she could do her job mostly from behind a desk, she had assigned herself test proctoring duties. Today, only two candidates had showed up on time to the morning session to take the Police Officer Standards and Training test.

“Today, gentlemen, I have the distinct pleasure of offering you this POST test. I hope that you will show your aptitude for the potential for police officer training. There are multiple choice questions, in Spelling, Reading Comprehension, Vocabulary, Clarity, and CLOZE.”

Devonte raised his hand.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Clothes?

“Ah, no. C-L-O-Z-E. Context evaluation. Anyway, as I was saying, you’ll have two and a half hours. The test begins when you sit down at your station over here.” She gestured to a bank of computers. “The first section should take you thirty minutes. Find your name. Good luck.” She gestured over to a bank of about ten computers. Four of them were labeled with names.

Devonte and Jim walked over, sat down, and began to read the test. It reminded Jim immediately of the MME, the state standardized test he had taken back in seventh grade at Amelia Earhart Elementary-Middle in Southwest Detroit.

Best and Brightest #12 - Brightest Morning in a While

Devonte Best had not worn shorts since tenth grade PE class. His ninth grade PE teacher had allowed sweatpants even into hot and humid late May, but Coach Vestibule (“My double-great-granddaddy didn’t want no slave name like Hall, which was his master's name, when he ran North to join the First Arkansas, and he once heard the master’s wife call the hall the vestibule, so he mustered in to the Union Army as Private Zachary Taylor Vestibule, that’s why my name is Vestibule. One mile for an impertinent question like that, and don’t ask again.”) had different ideas. One of these was that shorts should be worn, even for running outdoors in the suburban Chicago winters. The sign in the office that he pointed angry parents to originally said “We value your comments and respect your concerns” but Mr. Vestibule had placed “don’t” on a post-it in front of “value” and “respect.” Outraged parents rarely noticed that he had placed a picture of his own face over that of the horse on the poster for the movie Young Black Stallion right next to the other sign.

For exercise these days, Devonte did bicycle tricks. He wore skinny jeans and a bicycle hat, and hoped that would endear him to bike girls. It had not failed yet.

Devonte realized, at about eight in the morning, that he had no shorts. The only shorts that Jim Brightest had that would fit Devonte were a pair of turquoise marathon shorts he had purchased for a halloween costume. They were almost impossibly short, having been chosen for their comedic value more than their comfort or practicality.

Nonetheless, Devonte Best stood in front of the physical fitness test in a bright orange t-shirt (the only one he owned without a design that might offend a police officer, he reasoned) and half of Jim Brightest’s halloween costume from their first year of college.

“Are you mocking this test, Mr. … um” the officer scanned the list of candidates, there were five left out of seven, but he looked it up and down as if it was a telephone directory before settling on “Mr. Best? You take this lightly?”

“No sir. Not sure what you mean.”

“That outfit. It’s p-p-p-per-p-p-p-posterous!”

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s a complicated story. Can I just take the test?”

Jim Brightest looked on, amused. He had breezed through the timed portion, had had no problem with the handcuff simulator, had even been complemented by an observing officer on the high quality of his fence climbing. Jim assumed the best fence climbers all had a history of petty crime, and he hoped he hadn’t accidentally given himself away.

“Line up at the gorram cones, son. And don’t so much as breathe a mistake. On your mark, set, GO”

Devonte was off. Through the cone maze, though he tripped and had to put a cone back. Up the cyclone fence, and back down the other side, ripping the shirt on the barbed top. Over the ditch jump on the second attempt, up the stairs, through the window easily (He flew through like a fish, he was so thin. The previous candidate had almost gotten his bulging triceps wedged completely in the frame.) and down the other side. He grabbed the fat CPR dummy at the black line, pulled it up around the cone, and dropped it, panting like a Labrador.

“Two Minutes, Thirty-Three seconds. Passed by the margin of error.”

He picked up the handcuff bar, and bent it easily now, the hard part of the test over. It was only when he finished that he contemplated the fact that he was halfway to being a police officer. And when had he ever done poorly on a standardized test?

Best and Brightest #11 - Brightest News, Best Possibilities

“How the everloving fuck did you do that?” asked Jim Brightest as he and Devonte walked out of Schatzi and towards the waterfront.

Devonte had bounded down from the office, past Mr. Chorny and the obvious gun protruding from his coat pocket, looked Jim in the eye, said “We’re both hired, we start tomorrow,” feigned a mic drop, and walked toward the door, leaving Jim in his wake as stunned as Gavrilo Princip at lunch on June 28, 1914. 

Fortunatley, Jim’s reaction was not as catastrophic as Princip’s. He turned, caught up to Devonte, and opened the door, beckoning out like a footman escorting a king. 

“I’ll tell you how I did it, but like everything else that’s happening right now, it’s between you and me and anyone we happen to want to sleep with. In fact, it’s more secret than that. This one’s just for you and me. I think this place is some kind of Russian Mob front.”

“Dude, I figured that out from the big dude outside while you were getting interviewed. He was so clearly a businessmeyn,” (Jim said it in a Russian accent, to remind Devonte that the one word of Russian he knew was the charming slang for mafioso) “that it wasn’t even funny. He was PISSED too.”

“But why was he fucking with a German restaurant?”

“You know how when you go to the German Christmas Market in Chicago, they’ve got all the flags of all the states hanging up?”

“I guess? I was more interested in the spaetzle, or its nonexistence. And currywurst.” Devonte’s eyes glazed over as visions of delicious wurst sprung up in front of them. Tomorrow, tomorrow he would have currywurst after he served fancy tech people fancy beers.

“Did you look at the flag over the bar today? It was just Saxony, no others.”

“So maybe he’s from there. I was busy with the interview, in which I got both of us hired. There was a German flag in there, too. Looked pretty normal, except there was a freemason symbol in the middle.”

“HAH. I’m right.”

“What? The Chef was upset about William of Normandy’s defeat of Harold the Saxon a thousand years ago, and he decided to be a Russian?”

“No. He’s from Saxony. When I googled him, I couldn’t get any further into his past than that he got started in the restaurant business here in 1990. His name doesn’t exist before that. But there’s a picture of him, at age 25 or so, playing in a gay softball league with Glenn Burke, in 1985. I was reading an article about Burke, and the German dude in the article has got to be the Chef. Different name, but totally the same dude. He looks like the same guy in the picture now, but older. Even has the same beard.”

“So what are you saying? He’s gay? That was obvious. I’m interested in the Russian Mob thing.”

Now they were looking out from the peninsula, taking in the view of the East Bay, still beautiful to newcomers.

“Tell me, D. You ever heard of the German Dem...”

Jim’s phone rang. “You gonna take that and keep me in suspense?” asked Devonte.

“Ya, I don’t have the number in the phone, but maybe it’s the landlord’s home number or something.”

Jim picked up the phone. “Hello?” 

“May I speak to Jim Brightest?”

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Brightest, this is Officer Ramirez, badge 6623 Oakland Police”

“How can I help you, Officer?”

“It’s about your application. We’d like to process you to step two.”

“Cool! What’s that mean?”

“Can you show up at our headquarters at Nine AM tomorrow to take a physical fitness test?”

“I mean, I guess.”

“See you then. Don’t be late.”

Jim put the phone in his pocket, smiling for real for the first time in two weeks. He looked at Devonte. “I guess I’ll just have to fill you in on the Chef later. The Oakland popo wants me.”

Devonte’s phone rang.

Best and Brightest #10 - Best Interview with the Brightest of Chefs

“You realize,” Devonte Best said, “that you’ve been speaking to me in Russian, right?”

They were in the office upstairs from Schatzi, the German restaurant. It was closed in and spartan, but incredibly organized. The wall had only three pieces of decoration: a small, highly discolored portrait of Chancellor Helmut Kohl, who had shepherded German Reunification; a large portrait of Sigmund Jähn, the first German Cosmonaut; and a German flag with what Devonte thought was a Freemason symbol in the middle, hanging on the wall beside the only window.

“What?” asked the chef, who had introduced himself as Hermann by email, and who had just finished a twenty-minute point-by-point evaluation of the financial health of the restaurant and its prospects for continued operation, neglecting to mention even one sentence about the food.

“I speak Russian. You were speaking Russian. You gave me the whole introduction to this restaurant in Russian. You gave me detailed financial information about this restaurant. I’m still interested in the job, very interested, but I’d love to hear about two things. First, the food, and second, why you chose Russian instead of German. You’re lucky I speak Russian, honestly.”

‘You’re Lucky’ was the code, so Hermann Krenz continued.

Launching again into German-accented Russian, Chef Krenz described how he had built the restaurant into a respected establishment, and how the plan was working. “This year, I can do two million. If the hipniks keep coming, maybe next year three or four!”

Devonte interrupted him. “But the job. Will you hire me to be a server? I speak German too, you know.”

“Ok, fine. You’re hired. I hire you. But you need to tell me, am I still in? You still can use me, true?”

Devonte’s befuddlement did not last long. The maitre d’ came in and addressed Chef Krenz. “There is a very large man outside. He says his name is Mr. Chorny, and he wishes to apply for a position. I told him he needed an appointment, he showed me a pistol. I advise you not to hire him. I will send him to you in two minutes.”

Chef Krenz delivered a string of invective, in German this time, musing angrily about how a Black man could be named Black and not actually be Black. “I should have known” he said over and over again, “Chorny, Chorny. I should have known.” 

Composing himself, he said to Devonte, “I will see you at work here tomorrow. You will receive three times minimum wage, in exchange for forgetting the contents of this conversation. If after a month I hear you have told a soul of this, you will sleep with George Moscone, that dirty Italian.”

“If I’m in a bargaining position, which I suppose I am, you’ll promote me to beer sommelier, pay me four times minimum, give me 40 hours a week, and hire my friend Jim as a server.” Devonte’s father had taught him negotiation at an early age. The lessons were paying off again.

“I have been in need of a cicerone for weeks now. This is an acceptable arrangement. But remember my words.” Chef Krenz drew from his kitchen jacket a butcher’s cleaver. He held it over his head and turned. There was a flash, and a timpani thump, and the clatter of splinters on the floor. The cleaver was in the wall, now the only thing holding up the formerly framed portrait of Helmut Kohl.

"I see you tomorrow," Chef Krenz was glowering now, "and now I see Mr. Chorny."

Best and Brightest #9 - Best Opportunities, Brightest Answers

The application to be an Oakland Police Officer took about an hour to complete. It was no different than a standard civil service job application. As they were both finishing, Jim looked up. “Damn, D. I bet this takes a long time to process.”

“Ya, probably. Which is why I’m still banking on the German restaurant. I figure they’ve got to be kind of desperate if the only qualification other than a general knowledge of beer is ‘ability to speak German.’ I mean, my German isn’t that good.”

“Dude, your German is way better than mine.” Jim had taken German with Devonte in their fourth year at the University of Chicago, as a way to fill out their schedules. Jim had also taken four years of German from Frau Martinez at Southwestern, but Frau Martinez only spoke German as well as the American soccer star Jermaine Jones spoke English, so those four years were more about eating schnitzel and spaetzle and wearing lebenstraum, or was it lederhosen? He didn’t know until he accidentally suggested that Bavarians commonly wore the Nazi political ideal during UChicago Oktoberfest and got straightened out by Herr Doctor Müller.

“Fine, maybe you’re right,” said Devonte. “Shit. It’s almost two fifteen. I gots to be at the place for the interview by three.”

“We can walk it in that time. Let’s go. Maybe they’ve got an extra position for a server. I could serve for a week or two, right?”

In three minutes flat, Devonte had changed into his best suit, with black tie. Jim was wearing a Hawaiian shirt over jeans and flip flops. “Really, man? You’re gonna wear that to an interview at a German restaurant?” Devonte had the same tone and inflection as Herbert Morrison watching the Hindenburg pull into Lakehurst in May of 1937.

Jim countered with an Arnold Schwarzenegger impression. “Eh, this is California. Even the governator would wear this to a restaurant.”

When they walked up to Schatzi, the only car parked on the street out front was stamped with the logo of the San Francisco Health Department. “Fucking shit. Not again. Not today.” Jim was furious.

Wanda Washington had worked for the City since she was ten. She convinced he summer camp counselor at Hamilton Rec Center in the Fillmore to let her keep score for the Adult Basketball league on Friday Nights. Bill McGill had nothing better to do than start his Friday drinking four hours earlier, (At the time, Glenn Burke, the inventor of the high five, was with the Oakland A’s and also Bill’s paramour) so Wanda’s help was a blessing to him. When the boss realized several months later that he was doing that, Bill was reassigned, and WW Basketball Services, likely the recipient of the only business license ever granted to an eleven-year-old in the history of the City, became a scorekeeping contractor for the City of San Francisco.

She saved the scorekeeping and later refereeing money to go to college, started at Cal in Pre-Law, switched to Biology, and got hired back in the City after graduation as a health inspector. She convinced her pastor to invest in farmland north of Gilroy in 1992, based on some tips she’d heard from classmates. When he sold out at the top of the market twenty years later (Instagram needed a campus) he set aside five percent for her as a thanks. When he surprised her with it, she decided she’d take retirement after twenty-five years of city service and finally travel across Africa with her wife, Cleo.

Wanda Washington had exactly five days until retirement when she walked into Schatzi that day. She had asked to go out in the field until the end so that she could avoid the drudgery of the desk. When she heard Jim Brightest complain, she shot him a confused look. “Ain’t nothin wrong with today, Google boy. Whatcha on ten for?”

“I’ve had a bad week, I’m sorry. Lost my job on Monday.”

As she hung the A in the window, for a 91 percent inspection rating, she said, “Oh hon. I’m sorry. I hope you find something. I bet these folks are hiring, they look like they could use some help. The Chef is screaming something awful, sounded like Russian, but it could have been Ukrainian...”

“Not German?” Devonte interrupted.

“Hon, I studied German. Thought in High School that I was gonna do the Peace Corps saving Namibians from drought. Turned out they didn’t want a big black girl from Cal to go teach the white people how to take care of themselves in a desert. Or anywhere, really. It hurts a lot to miss that first job, ya know? A Berkley girl, rejected from the Peace Corps.” Wanda looked out toward the wharf, wondering whether the Namib desert would seem as empty and wide as the ocean. “But I’m finally gonna get to visit Namibia in a week, so I’m golden. Y’all have a beautiful day, now.”

“Ok, you too, ma’am.” said Devonte, and walked inside.

Best and Brightest #8 - The Brightest Idea isn't the Best One

“Jim, I can’t do it. I can’t be a police officer.”

“What are you talking about, Devonte? Spielberg and Rigo were your drinking buddies at home, right?”

The only laws Devonte Best had ever purposefully broken in his whole life were related to drinking. At age 17, his Hebrew School friends Leah and Caitlin went on a trip to California. While walking the boardwalk on Venice Beach, they got fake ID’s, in order to get medical marijuana cards. It was only on their return to Oak River that they both realized they could go to bars. They encouraged Devonte to get one too. On a community service visit to Little Village, he stopped by a Palestinian live animal butcher who ran a sideline producing incredibly high quality fakes for undocumented immigrants. Two weeks later, he had his first drink in a bar.

There was only one independent bar in Oak River. Devonte, Leah, and Caitlin went to T.J. Eckleburg’s (with an appropriate giant sign outside) every Thursday evening after Hebrew School and discussed the lesson over a pitcher of whatever craft wheat beer the tap of the week was. Once, a guy named Rigo was at the bar, heard them, and came over to discuss the Talmud. He declared himself a connoisseur of great religious texts, who wanted to be more informed in his discussions at work. He became a regular in their discussions.

It was only when he was at a college party broken up by the University Police that Devonte learned that Rigo’s job was University of Chicago Policeman.

It was awkward explaining to a policeman that he had, in fact, been drinking with three underage people for a year and a half at that point. It was more awkward when Rigo took out his ticket book to cite Devonte. Rigo broke the tension “Ooo, I had you going there! But now you owe me a pitcher at Jimmy’s, son.” And so it was that at 1:30 on Sunday afternoons, after the Morning shift was over, Rigo and his partner Spielberg (a moniker earned from a childhood of selling pirated VHS tapes in the Ida B. Wells Homes) would sit down in the famous campus bar Jimmy’s and eat bad cheeseburgers and discuss Chicago politics with a kid they knew was underage.

“Jim, I can’t be a police officer in Oakland,” said Devonte, back from his reverie.

“Dude, you were basically a police officer in Chicago.”

“Man, you know the police are used to oppress my people, though. I can’t do that. I’m not urban, or hip, or hop, but I’m not Clarence Thomas or Ben Carson either.”

“Hah. Ben Carson. There was a school for crazy people.” Jim gazed out the window, conjuring the Brewsters and the Renaissance Center and the Riverwalk in a pastel memory of the most idyllic swaths of his childhood. “I grew up in Detroit. I know what you’re talking about. But let me tell you something about something I saw in Chicago. I was working at a community center at 76th and South Shore, you couldn’t possibly get more ghetto except in the Dirty Hundreds. There were two safe places in the neighborhood for kids. One was the community center, and the other was the house next door.”

“Ya? Did the police come to the community center and say something nice to the kids before they pumped them through the school-to-prison pipeline which I avoided by accident of birth into a higher social class out away from the urban core?”

“No. The police never came to the center. The house next door, though, there was a policeman there every day. You wanna know why?”

“CPD racism?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be surprising if that was true, he did have the Pan-African flag out with the American flag out front. But no. It was because that house belonged to a Chicago policeman, who had dug out his backyard and turned it into a basketball court and skatepark. If we’re gonna just get random jobs, we could probably find some crap at restaurants that would maybe barely add up to rent and food. Or we could get stacks on stacks while being like that guy.”

“I’ll fill out the paperwork. I’ll go to the interview. But I make no promises. I’ve got an interview lined up at a profoundly fancy German restaurant later. They might make me beer sommelier.”

“Das is gut. But while you’re making that happen, I’ll be putting einigkeit und recht und freiheit on the streets of Oakland.”

“Pass me the motherfucking computer.” And it was with that that Devonte Best and Jim Brightest got down to work answering the questions required for an applicant to the position of Police Officer Trainee in the city of Oakland.

Best and Brightest #7 - Brightest Prospects?

Jim Brightest woke up the next morning at seven, and went for a walk. He didn’t buy tea or a scone or that yerba mate deliciousness he had discovered at Philz Coffee. Every red cent was precious, but the smell of the air was still a morning necessity. Fortunately, it didn’t cost him anything to walk around the city. 

Back at home, he fried two eggs for sandwiches. He put two strips of bacon in a pan to wake up Devonte, and began to clear the table of plates and papers. On top of one was a business card. He lifted it up, to see if Devonte would want it, and saw a tiny police officer’s badge. The text read OFFICER S REGINALD PIERCE. BADGE 5514. OAKLAND POLICE DEPARTMENT. He put the card down on the table.

Devonte clattered into the room, massaging sleep out of his face like a boxing cornerman. He poured himself a glass of tap ("Delicious Hetch Hetchy Water: Too Good To Waste") water and sat down at the table. “Good morning, sunshine. What’s for breakfast?”

Jim didn’t answer. He was looking at Officer Pierce’s business card. He picked it up again. “Well, I never thought I’d say this.”

“What, Jim? You made veggie bacon?”

“Maybe I should become a police officer.”

“Surely you can’t be serious.”

“I am. And don’t call me Shirley.”

“You’re actually fucking with me.”

“Remember that sign when we rolled into the city? Oakland Police now hiring, Good salary and benefits?”

“No, actually. And how well could they pay? It’s still Oakland.”

“I dunno, but I don’t have anything else to look for at this point. I need a check to pay the bills, and I need it fast. Honestly, WE need a check to pay the bills.”

“No. No. No. I couldn’t do it. You can’t do it.”

“How much would it take? What if they pay training? Get a couple of checks, look for another job, wash out on purpose, get hired somewhere else. You know never to tell me I can’t.”

“They can’t pay more than 35 thousand. That’s where the Oak River Police start, and Oak River is much wealthier than Oakland.”

“Let’s call. If they pay 65 and pay during training, you’ll do it with me?”

“You’re taking unfair advantage of my desperation. I’m not gonna argue this with you.”

“We have a twelve month lease. I’m calling.”

“Be my guest. Tell you what. If they pay 75, with full vision and dental, and they pay full salary during training, I’ll do it. There’s no fucking way.”

Jim Brightest picked up his phone. He googled the Oakland police. He called the number. He pushed zero for an operator. He got put on hold. The music was “Bad Boys.” He put it on speakerphone and was singing along by the time the operator picked up. “Officer Ko, 5523, Oakland Police.”

Jim quickly took his phone off speaker and said, “Hello, Officer Ko. My name is Jim Brightest. I’m interested in your new hiring drive. Can I ask you some questions about that?”

Jim smiled, and asked, “So I have a buddy who might be interested in joining with me. Is that ok?”

“Ah, it is? Wonderful. And could you tell me, before I apply, do you offer dental and vision insurance?”

“You do? Fantastic! Is the training period paid? I’d have a hard time leaving my current job,” and here his smile at Devonte was as broad as the Pacific and as genuine as a Penguin in Reykjavik. “The training is paid? Great!”

“Now I have one more question before I ask you where to get the application. What’s the starting salary?”

“Yes, I do have a college degree. Yes, a Bachelor’s. I’m sorry, my friend is here, I’m going to put you on speakerphone. Could you tell me that again?”

Officer Ko, bored or annoyed, said “With a Bachelor’s degree from an accredited institution of higher learning, the starting salary for a police officer is $75,413 before taxes, shift bonuses, and other adjustments.”

Jim said, “Thank you Officer Ko. I’ll be filling out the online application today. I hope to join up with you as soon as possible.”

Devonte sat in silence, eating his sandwich and contemplating a future in Law Enforcement.