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6) PUSHERS

AS LOUELLA DEBRA POULE REVOLVES SLOWLY in the dark blue leather of her
dead Momma’s swivel recliner and finds it difficult to come to terms
with what she doesn’t know about her own mother’s life, Constable
Dusty Yorke of the North Vancouver RCMP struggles with her own
mini-dilemma of what she doesn’t know about certain aspects of her own
life, the professional part, not the personal.

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 “And so what’s all this,” she’s asking the desk Sergeant, a finger
flicking a piece of paper she holds in her hand, “Parking violations on
Keith Road. ‘Questionable persons’ seen hanging around the Sea Bus
terminal -- is there ever anyone hanging around the Sea Bus terminal
who isn’t ‘questionable’?”
“So, your point?” says the desk Sergeant.
“My point is,” says Dusty Yorke, “Would we not be of more use
to the general public if we were getting out and fighting a little real crime
now and then, like raiding the odd crack house – we know where they
are – or patting down some pushers . . .”
“Pushers?” says the desk Sergeant, “You mean dealers, don’t
you? This ain’t the eighties, Constable.”
Oh, but it is the eighties, so to speak, at least for rookie Constable
Dusty Yorke, Constable Dusty Yorke of a face reflecting the ‘generic’
good looks compatible with society’s accepted norms -- straight nose,
dark evenly aligned eyes, lips not too thin not too full, a face twenty-four
years old and protected for the most part from the harsher elements of
growth and experience by enthusiastic young parents of the eighties,
well, until she turned eleven, when, of course, it all turned to ‘the
nineties’. But it’s the influence of the eighties that has seemed to stick, or
get stuck, in rookie Constable Dusty Yorke’s impressionable psyche. In
fact, it was well known in her immediate family circle that she had been
named after Dusty Springfield, a popular British pop star of the eighties
and her mother’s favourite. And Constable Yorke still liked much of the
cultural detritus left over from the eighties -- disco tunes, infantile family
sitcoms and be-bopping to the obscure pop sounds of bands like
Fairground Attraction and The Bangles. She is often the victim of her
own somewhat outdated jargon, saying things like, “Let’s get it on,” or,

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“Let’s do our thing,” when getting out of the car to serve a traffic
citation. Her partner and reluctant mentor, Marv Klep, tolerates the
younger Yorke’s idiosyncrasies drawing on his own experience glombed
from years of serving the great schizoid beast called the public as a law
enforcement officer and having as a result raised (from necessity) his
general acceptance level of human behaviour in almost every category
barring that which would be considered intrinsically dangerous or
exploitive to women and children. No, if anything, Marv Klep would
describe his younger partner’s temperament as “evolving” albeit a bit of
the “hair-trigger type” if anything, a term more akin to the eighteen-
eighties than the eighties. Easily excitable and leaning more toward the
masculine than feminine in some areas, that would be Officer Kleb’s
temporary assessment of said subject, having often witnessed a stern by-
the-book reprimand by young Constable Yorke when writing out a
simple speeding ticket, one watching as the victimized driver’s eyes
begin to glaze over, head nodding absently and who is no doubt thinking
silent thoughts like: “Please, God, give me the strength to not say
something inappropriate to this dickhead female officer so I can just be
on my way.”
Marv Klep is also aware that one might easily enough jump to the
conclusion that his youthful partner’s tendency to excitability could be a
liability in certain high-risk law enforcement situations but he has
managed (after much serious consideration) to reconcile himself to the
belief that it is simply a stab at self-esteem, however superficial, that
may even be conducive to helping keep his younger partner on an even,
if not somewhat militaristic, keel. It was with a gung-ho Constable Dusty
Yorke fresh from the academy and just newly assigned that this belief
was (in Officer Klep’s mind at any rate) corroborated when they had

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been on routine patrol and found themselves in a situation where they
were forced to draw their weapons and issue a warning to a couple of
B&E suspects, an eager Dusty Yorke springing into action and hollering,
simply, “Freeze scumbags or I’ll blow your fucking blaines out!” The
scumbags did indeed “freeze” and were taken into custody without
incident.
It was only later, while debriefing over coffee, that Marv pointed
out the only telltale sign that Dusty Yorke had been highly excited
during the incident, mentioning to his partner her reference to “blaines”
in the heat of the moment.
“I didn’t say that,” Dusty Yorke had replied.
“Yes, you did,” said Marv Klep, “It’s not a big thing.”
“It’s not a big thing because I didn’t say it,” says Dusty Yorke.
“Well, you did.”
“Did not.”
And, as Marv Klep soon learns, this is to become a familiar
closing exchange that signals the end of many of their conversations. He
is also aware that he can accept the chronic verbal denial of the young
Constable as long as suggestions are attended to and mistakes are
corrected, however grudgingly. He also feels that the fact that Constable
Yorke is female explains a lot as it’s been his experience (twenty years
married) that women in general aspire, in most situations, to have the last
word, and, as if needing any proof of the pudding, in the North
Vancouver RCMP station that morning Constable Dusty Yorke taps a
painted fingernail on the missive advising assignments pertaining to
parking violations and questionable persons hanging about at the Sea
Bus terminal as Marv Klep gulps the rest of his coffee and heads for the
door,

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 “Let’s go, Dusty. And don’t forget to gear up like happened
yesterday.”
“I did gear up,” says Dusty Yorke.
“Well, you forgot a couple of things,” says Marv Klep.
“No, I didn’t,” says Dusty Yorke.
“Well, you did.”
“Nope.”
“Yup.“
“Didn’t,” says Dusty Yorke.