The Piping Hot Incident on El Cerro

“We got piping hot coffee, a dozen maple doughnuts with those little ridges on the sides. I’ll tell you, Bill, this is the life. Am I right?”

“Not especially.”

Bill sighed, wishing suddenly and forcefully that police uniforms were more comfortable. Bill tried to slouch but found that his well pressed uniform refused to allow him to. He sighed again and looked down at his cup of coffee sitting in the cup holder.

“You haven’t touched your coffee, Bill. Feeling alright?”

“It’s this night watch, it’s depressing, Earl.”

Earl frowned a bit, creasing the spot between his graying eyebrows. “Well, El Cerro bitch duty is just a part of the glamorous job of the police force.”

“Well I hate bitch detail.”

El Cerro was a long stretch of straight, empty road linking the 680 freeway with the extravagantly wealthy gated community of Blackhawk. While the road was full to bursting with law abiding working class commuters during the day, the only drivers inhabiting El Cerro at nighttime were the occasional high school students who would be speeding without fail nine out of ten times. “Bitch duty” as it was eloquently called by the precinct, ranged drastically between boring and busy. The shift had few to no perks. It was disliked at best.

Bill and Earl had been lucky enough to avoid the shift for a while, but it caught up with them soon enough and they were placed on strict El Cerro detail on Saturday night. Saturday night was every high schooler’s favorite time to streak down El Cerro in a hurry to go to wherever it is kids go that isn’t school.

The two police officers were quiet for awhile, watching the empty road and the clock as it wound through the minutes.

Bill suddenly raised a question, one which had plagued the philosophers of mankind since no earlier than the 1800s: “What the hell is ‘piping hot’ anyhow?”

Earl glanced over at Bill; he opened his mouth and then closed it again. Finally he said: “It means that the coffee’s hot, Bill.”

“But how hot is it?” Bill was genuinely curious now, staring at Earl intently. “What temperature is piping?”

“Piping,” said Earl wisely. “Like a pipe which is also very hot.”

“I see,” Bill said, stroking his chin. “Hot pipes, right.”

“Actually the term was coined by a man of the days of old named Mr. Billifred Piper who was said to have a resting temperature of…wait hold up a minute.”

Bill had spotted it, as well. Highlighted in the center of the rearview mirror was a telltale pair of headlights shining through the distance. They could tell before it even came within distance that it was exceeding the modest limit.

Earl sighed heavily. “Alright, Bill, the usual.”

Bill and Earl held up their fists and wordlessly began the age-old tradition of Rock, Paper, Scissors. Bill lost, as he always did, to Earl’s mighty scissors, which were sure to cut the paper as a sign of victory. Bill was not very good at the game.

As the profession dictated Earl used their radar to check the speed of the passing Jetta, which clocked in at just about 25 miles per hour over the posted limit. Earl clicked on the lights and sirens and pulled out from the curb, which was all he had to do. The silver car pulled over right away.

“Now that’s what I like to see,” Bill said.

“That’s a swell car. Hey, ask where they got it.”

“Oh come on, Earl.”

“Aw please, for me?”

“Oh whatever,” Bill opened the door and stepped out.

“Make it quick, kid,” Earl said, taking a bite of his brownish donut. “So your coffee’ll still be piping hot.”

“God,” Bill said, walking away. “What does that even mean, anyways?” Bill kept mumbling until he reached the driver’s side window of the sporty little Jetta. The window was up and he shined his flashlight into the window, trying lazily to look menacing.

The driver was, not surprisingly, a high school age boy with a shaved head and eyes that were nothing short of terrified. Bill knocked on the window and the boy rolled it down, staring straight forward like a zombie who peed himself.

“Howdy, son,” Bill said, starting to regret having to stand up. His legs were stiff. “Any idea how fast you were just going?”

The boy looked around hurriedly, spotting a speed limit sign. “Thirty five, sir.” The boy sounded like he was being interrogated in a POW camp, Bill didn’t mind, it was fun.

“I clocked you in at an impressive sixty em pee aych,” Bill said, letting out a low whistle. “Quite a quick automobile, where’d you get it?”

Before any answer came and before Bill even registered that there was a problem, the terrified youngster had slammed on the gas and sped forward into a telephone pole with a crunch of bending metal. Before the telephone pole stopped shaking back and forth the driver piled clumsily out of the window and took three running steps before tripping over his own feet and planting his face into the pavement.

Bill was not sure what to make of the whole thing and he was close to positive he heard Earl whooping with laughter in the squad car. Bill shook his head and walked over to the dazed blitzer, taking out his handcuffs and applying them where necessary.

“Now what the hell was that?” Bill asked the bloody faced high schooler. “Are you completely insane? Oh whatever, this is ridiculous.”

He told him his rights between sighs and led him over to the car, Earl was still laughing. The boy now seemed too stupefied by the whole situation to do anything but duck into the back seat. Bill shook his head again. “What in the bloody hell?”

Bill sat down in the front, straightening his hat. Earl composed himself. “Well,” Earl said. “That was fantastic.”

“Meh,” Bill picked up his coffee and took a sip, it was still hot.

Earl swiveled around and looked at the would-be runner. “Well that was really something to watch. What’s your name, kid?”

“Nick,” the boy said, looking down at his knees. “Nick Piper.”

“No kidding? Any relation to Billifred Piper?”

Bill sighed and shook his head. “I hate bitch duty.”