Chapter 3: The Smell of Roseville

I followed Val down the row of parked cars. She was exaggerating, of course, but not as much as I expected.

“What is this?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute. You have to get in first and reach over to open my door. The outside handle is broken. Yeah, thanks.”

She settled behind the steering wheel. I don’t remember ever being inside such an enormous sedan before. Another adult could easily sit between us on the wide bench seat. I started to ask again, but Val held up her hand, then cranked the engine. I winced at the loud and slow grinding noise until the engine finally rumbled to life on the third attempt. Only then did she visibly relax a bit.

“Welcome to my 1994 Buick Roadmaster, the car with its own zip code. You’re hearing a huge V8 engine that achieves a whole 8 miles per gallon of premium. It was my father’s car, then it was mine when he passed away.”

“I’m sorry, Val.”

“No, it was a blessing; he suffered with cancer, and my mother was already gone. You might think this is dilapidated, but you haven’t seen my apartment yet.”

Roseville in recent years has ballooned as a residential suburb of Sacramento, but parts of the city are much older, going back before World War II. With discomfort, I took in the shabby surroundings as Val parked opposite her building and pointed.

“There are eight apartments; mine is the one up there on the left end... Fucking shit!”

I looked, but didn’t see the issue, then, “The door is ajar! A burglar?”

“If I’m lucky. Eh, I don’t have much to steal. I guess I need to explain.”

“Please.”

“If I’m not lucky, it’s because my ex is in there waiting for me. He’s a drunk, and he’s violent. He may or may not be inside. I changed the locks, but he probably forced his way in. Let’s wait for a minute to see if he’s inside and has noticed me out here. Even so, he might be waiting for me to come to him.”

I noticed she left the engine running—for a quick getaway?

“What is the address here?”

“1855 Birch Circle; I’m in #4. Why?”

“In case I need to call the cops on his ass. Val, I want you to quietly go up near your door. Rap on it loudly and use a gruff voice to announce, ‘POLICE!’ Then back up as far as you can. If he comes out, rush down the stairs and jump in the car, and I’ll drive us out of here. Wait, before that, do you recognize his car?”

“Yeah, it’s that blue pickup.”

“OK, take my keys. Do you know how to let the air out of his tire? Great. Sneak over to the side of his truck he can’t see, and use my key to push in the valve. It will take a little while for the air to leak out. Then, he can’t chase us, and hopefully he will hang around long enough for the police to catch him.”

My plan worked the way I hoped. The low sun was directly in his face when he came out of the dark apartment, and he didn’t even notice Val at the far end of the second floor walkway. He also missed seeing her car (and me) parked nearby. He simply scowled and went back inside.

I couldn’t be sure, but the guy showed signs of being drunk. Val came back to the Buick, and I suggested what she should say to the 9-1-1 dispatcher. I was a little worried when only two officers from the Roseville PD showed up; they were both women less than 5-1/2 feet tall.

When he followed them out on the narrow walkway but refused to comply, one officer thrust her face forward slightly, as if to challenge him. As she expected, he took a swing at her, which she easily evaded. Meanwhile, the other officer standing behind him kicked the back of his knee, bringing him abruptly and painfully to the concrete.

While he moaned, the first officer threatened him with her loudly sparking taser weapon.

After giving her statement and retrieving her clothes and important belongings from the apartment, Val left her keys inside and pulled the door shut.

“C’mon, Barry, let’s go get your car so I can go find a motel room.”