(25 April 87) When we have patrol duty in the central zone, or downtown area, one task is to drive around during our last hour (2100-2200) and check for the bodies of Marshallese who had a lot more than they could handle. They can usually be found in some trees next to the automotive shops north of Lagoon Road.
Sometimes they can be roused enough so that they’ll climb into the truck for a ride back to DSC where we make sure they process through and climb on board the midnight boat to Ebeye. And other times we’ll have to pick them up, place them in the bed of our truck and carry them into the ferry boat. I once found a Marshallese on 6th Street, a block from DSC, curled around a garbage can. His clothes were dirty and falling apart. I don’t think he had taken a bath in recent memory and he reeked of foul odors. Very sad when you wake up every day and discover there is nothing left to believe in. Still, once you see through the clutter, your life will have meaning. It’s a big task but when you are receptive, you can break through and embrace life, both the good and the bad, with a calm confidence because you are no longer separated from it.
One night Constable Jay and I were on mobile patrol when we received a call that a Marshallese woman had passed out in a room at the Coral BQ after having quaffed a few too many. The American worker she was visiting requested that we take her down to the pier and put her on the boat. That was the first time I had to respond to a Marshallese woman under the influence of alcohol.
Jay is one of the constables training to be a police officer so I let him handle the call while I observed. We arrived at the room about halfway down the hall on the second floor and Jay knocked on the door. An older, rather sickly looking man opened the door and stepped back.
‘There she is.”
On the far side of the room a short, rotund woman in a black dress lay face down on the floor. A broken wine glass and its contents were near her head.
“Hey. That’s my aunt.” Jay exclaimed.
“Man. She’s messed up.”
He went over and knelt beside her.
“Oh boy. She wet her pants.”
“You need some help, Jay?”
“No. I’ll take care of her.”
I got the door as he helped the woman to her feet and, despite a few false starts, they managed to stagger into the hallway.
Jay said that Marshallese don’t want strangers in physical contact with their females, especially relatives. But what about the American worker. Couldn’t he have been in physical contact with her, maybe just a bit, before we were called?
Filed under: Almost Paradise Volume 2
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