My recent days have been spent excavating the ancestral home as I prepare to shuffle off to Cincinnati (next Saturday, which is soon). This is of little to no relevance to you, I’m sure, except for this one small treasure I dug up whilst pilfering the ancestral computer desk.

It’s a piece of literature I crafted in third or fourth grade. Hardback, of course — this is a classy piece of literature, and it’s meant for classy people. On the cover, a crudely drawn picture of a police badge — Atlanta Georgia Police Department, to be precise. Tucked behind the badge is a gun, I think. It’s the worst drawn gun in the history of gun photos, hence my confusion. Written above this illustration, in large, colorful block lettering:

GRANT ANDREWS – KID COP.

Inside the jacket — yes, a jacket (classy!) — is a brief synopsis. If I may:

“Grant Andrews is a ten-year-old boy who has a bad attitude and a REAL short temper. He has a twenty-one year old friend who works for the police. His girlfriend, Jessica Roddins, is the police chief’s daughter. Grant’s mom and dad are divorced and live far away from each other. His teacher, Mrs. Krupti, is extremely mean.”

Ed. Note: Have you ever read such a thorough character synopsis? No, no sir. I did not think so. Continuing on:

“Grant Andrews – Kid Cop is the story of a boy who one day becomes a hero because he diffuses a bomb. The police force even hire him to be a cop. But to do so he must overcome many obstacles, including his worst fear. If you’re a person who likes wild gun fights, high speed chases, and a little bit of drama, this book is for you.”

Ed. Note: Holy shit, you guys. If you’re not pumped to the extreme yet, you should probably go see a doctor, because you’re dead.

I think I have to post this entire thing online, in case some sort of flood, fire or termite infestation destroys the brittle parchment it’s been scrawled upon. Not all at once, mind you. I’ll break this thing down into a serialized adventure. I invite everyone to come on this journey with me. You’ll learn a bit about why I had no “friends” until I reached my senior year of high school. You’ll learn a bit about the trials and tribulations facing our nation’s pre-teen police officers. Most importantly, I think you’ll learn a little something about yourself.

Here she is, grammatical errors, typos and all.

Chapter One: Origins

Ed. Note: There are no actual chapter names in the document. I’m retrofitting the document with chapter names as I see fit to add to the enjoyment of the work, and to bolster the aforementioned suspense.

“Yes it’s 7:58 on Wednesday, October 15. It’s a beautiful day here in sunny Atlanta, Georgia. This is Darrel Spinner your fav…”

Grant Andrews slammed the snooze bar and then sat up in his bed. “7:58!!” he shouted as he looked out the window just in time to see the bus zoom by. He knew if he didn’t get to his fifth grad classroom soon he’d get detention. He jumped into torn denim jeans a shirt he had worn yesterday. He raced outside with his windbreaker half-on. His friend Eddie was just about to pull out when Grant stopped him.

“Hey Ed, could you give me a ride to school?”

“Man! It’s 8:10!” Eddie was 21 and had a New York accent.

“Come on Ed.”

“Okay. Jump in.”

By the time Eddie dropped him off at school, it was 8:20. When he got to his fifth grade room, he tried to slide quietly into his seat. But Mrs. Kruptik caught him and gave him detention.

“Next time you’ll get a week of it!”

“Yes Mrs. Crudtick!” Grant muttered. (Ed. Note: Do you see what I did there? I hope you saw.)

“Why you little!” Mrs. Kruptik angrily answered.

“Tell the Mr. I feel sorry for him!”

“That’s it! You’re suspended!”

When his mom, Abigail Andrews, showed up, she was very upset. The ride home seemed like hours.

“Mom,” Grant asked “Why did you divorce Dad?”

“Because he wasn’t right for me and he wasn’t responsible.”

Ed. Note: I want everyone to appreciate what a jarring transition the book makes at this point. The page ends with those two lines of dialogue — the ONLY two lines of dialogue in that conversation, apparently. That seems like a conversation that two people build up to for a while. The mother dances around the explanations she’ll feed to her too-young spawn, ultimately deciding in the least damaging answer. The son questions the mother’s genuineness, and questions his own role in the divorce. Not in my book, sir! This is an open, honest — and apparently short-winded family.

When he got home, he went up to his room and switched on the TV. He turned to the news and saw this…an Atlanta bank was robbed by three goons with bombs. One climbed up to disable the alarm but instead he triggered it.

“Lets get out of here!” the speakers picked up. They were out in two seconds flat.

Grant felt like a bike ride. (Ed. Note: Of course he did.) So he shot past the streets on his 16 speed bike. “1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th…” Grant counted. Finally he got through Jackson’s Forest to a hill about 30 feet above Piedmont Park. The sky was a purple red. The trees were more green than ever. It was a beautiful sight. He felt like a break so he went to bank to use the restroom.

Five minutes later the cops arrived. One was dusting for finger-prints when he noticed something falling from a green plant. It looked like a handle for a motorcycle with a digital screen on it. It was a timer. The screen said 6:25 and was going down. At the exact moment Grant walked out of the bathroom door someone screamed “a bomb!”

Grant panicked. He recalled watching COPS on TV when they difused a bomb But he was no cop. He grabbed the bomb from the officer’s hand (Ed. Note: WHAT THE HELL, KID!) and tried to diffuse it. There were too many wires.

He biked down to the hill with 1:00 remaining and threw the bomb in the park’s lake. Unfortunately, it landed on the playground near the lake. Grant was never a great runner but he ran as fast as he could anyway. When he got to the bomb, the digital screen said 0:05. As he was throwing the bomb, he saw it — the label.

BOOM!!! The bomb exploded just as it hit the water. The label on the bomb said in small blurry letters “talon inc.”

“Talon inc.?” Grant said, almost as if he were questioning himself. “That’s where Dad and Mrs. Kruptik work part-time!” Grant cried the whole way home. He told his mom the whole story.

“Son,” she said “I wish you would just sometimes keep your imagination under control.”

Grant burst in screaming that it wasn’t his imagination and that she should watch the news. He’d be on it. (Ed. Note: Getting arrested for stealing a live bomb from a police officer, I should hope.)

Grant went up to his room and punched his bean-bag chair, nearly popping it. His smooth, tan skin changed to cherry red. He decided to run away for a while until his mom appreciated him more. He made himself some food and left a note. It said,

“Dear Mom,

I’ve run away. If you want to see me again, you will need to do a couple of things:

1. Appreciate me more

2. Put trust in me nd believe me

and last but not least,

3. Get back together with dad

But for now, goodbye.”

TO BE CONTINUED

I should take this time to note that the particulars of Mr. Andrews’ story don’t reflect the particulars of my youth in the least. My parents weren’t divorced. They appreciated me too much, I believe. I was well behaved in all my classes, and owned no windbreakers. Most importantly, I am now, and always have been an excellent runner, which directly contradicts one of the passages presented earlier.

Until next time!