The French are snobs. At least that’s what many Americans say. But if you ever get a chance to visit France, especially Paris, watch how many American tourists walk right up to random strangers and blather on in English. Or, without so much as a greeting, ask, “Hey, do you speak English?”

No wonder the French are snobs to us. We must seem like a bunch of rude, unmannered motherfuckers.

So after being asked, for the fifth time today, “¿Habla Español?” I know exactly how the French feel.

I don’t care how many of you Spanish speakers live in Area 22–this is still America. If I can learn how to say “Bojour,” and “Parlez-vous anglais?” before visiting Paris, you fuckers can learn how to say “Hello,” and “Do you speak Spanish?” before migrating your asses to Gomorrah City.

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A man sees a parked car in front of his apartment and notices the engine is still running. It’s been there for over an hour. He becomes concerned and calls the police.

My partner, Rick Quintero, advises dispatch that we are en route. Halfway there Detective Sergeant James Thomas radios that he is at scene with the abandoned vehicle. Rick and I look at each other in disbelief. “Why the hell is the night watch detective jumping our call?” Rick wonders.

Upon our arrival, we notice that the night watch detective is in full uniform and driving a marked police vehicle. He tells us that he’s located the registered owner of the abandoned vehicle. Mission accomplished.

“Hey sir, what’s with the uniform?” I ask.

“Patrol is short on supervisors,” Thomas says. “I volunteered to fill in for a while.”

Some guys wind down their careers as night watch detectives, dispensing arrest and booking advice without the pressure of working cases. Not Det. Sgt. Thomas. He loves the uniform. And he’s ready to play. I’ve never seen him happier. “Did you hear about my use of force last night?”

No, we haven’t.

Thomas beams as he tells us how he backed a patrol unit in apprehending a robbery suspect. The suspect didn’t want to go easy. Thomas emptied his entire can of pepper spray on the guy. The suspect blocked most of the spray with his hands and kept fighting. He finally gave up after one of the patrol cops hit him with the Taser.

The 22-year veteran sounds happier than a first year rookie.

Rick and I laugh. I can’t speak for Rick, but I’m glad I wasn’t there. Pepper spray always seems to work better on cops than on suspects.

The radio crackles. Dispatch assigns Officers Danny Platt and Dean Benson a mundane radio call. Thomas gets on the air and announces that he’s also en route.

The uniformed detective hops in his cruiser, and sticks his head out the window. “Hey guys, how do you work this thing?” He’s referring to the onboard computer. The hardware and software have changed five times since he worked patrol.

Rick shows Det. Sgt. Thomas what he needs to do. And then we watch him rush away to the next call. Welcome back, sir. Welcome back.

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Less than an hour to go until end of watch. Time to bring it in. But we can’t just yet–there’s a busty Korean woman up ahead jumping up and down and flailing her arms. She’s wearing a tight, low-cut blouse. A damsel in distress, maybe?

Not quite. It’s Ms. Lee, the proprietor of Purgatory Liquor. My partner, Rick Quintero, is a fan of her cleavage. Rick stops the car. We unass and look around. No evidence of trouble. “How can we help you?” I ask.

Her English isn’t so good. I don’t understand what she’s saying. I whip out my iPhone, confident that Ms. Lee, unlike the Indian from a few weeks ago, is literate in her native tongue. I install the Korean keyboard and fire up the Google Translate. Ms. Lee looks quizically at my iPhone and adjusts her blouse.

“Type your question,” I tell her, pointing at the Korean keyboard. Ms. Lee takes my iPhone from me, stares at it for a moment, and starts jabbing the screen. She’s having trouble tapping the right letters because of her super long nails. They’re painted pink and dotted with shiny little crystals. She stomps a couple of times out of frustration, causing her boobs to bounce. Rick grins from ear to ear.

Eventually, Ms. Lee finishes her message and hands me the iPhone. The translation is a little goofy, but I get the gist: she needs to defend her honor. Some other Korean ladies are spreading vicious rumors about her and she wants to make a report.

Thanks to Google Translate, I’m able to tell Ms. Lee that there’s no report for that. Ms. Lee pouts and sighs. She thanks us in English and insists that we grab a soda out of the cooler. No thank you, ma’am. But thank you for cheering up my partner, and making him go end of watch with a smile.

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Once upon a time, I was my own boss with a small operation and a handful of employees, among which was a cute little redhead named Jackie. One night, at closing time, some fool tried to slip her a roofie. I chased him down the street with a cattle prod and beat his ass down. Jackie called me a hero for preserving her dignity.

These days, I’m no longer a hero.

My partner and I are dispatched to a liquor store where a homeless sex offender is loitering outside and causing a disturbance. I tell him, politely and professionally, to hit the road. He spits on my face and ends up on the ground with raspberries on his forehead.

A teenage hood rat watches and screams police brutality. She’s not much older than the girl who was raped by my spitter. Her gangster boyfriend tries to drag her away. She won’t budge and demands a supervisor.

I think about how twisted it all is. And spend another moment wondering about Jackie. She was a good kid.

The liquor store owner lets me use the john. I remind myself that I didn’t become police to be a hero, wash my face, and go back to work.

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The 9-1-1 caller is a woman with hairy arms and a mustache. She’s from a remote Indian tribe somewhere in South America, speaks some Spanish, no English. She lives in an 8-room building with one shared bathroom. I’m trying to figure out why she thinks she needs the police.

The Indian directs me to the manager’s apartment. I knock. No answer. Then she shows me to the bathroom door. It’s locked. In my very limited Spanish, I deduce that the Indian needs to pee.

Aggravating? Yes. But is this a police matter? Hardly. Nonetheless, I can’t make any assumptions. I need s Spanish- speaking officer. There are none available.

A genius idea: I have Google Translate on my iPhone. I whip out my shiny piece of 21st century technology and type, “Tell me what you need.” I show the Indian the translation, hand her my iPhone, and wait for her to type a response. She stares blankly at the screen.

Did something get lost in translation? I type my message a couple of different ways. More blank stares. The Indian says something in Spanish. I think she’s telling me she doesn’t know how to read. So much for my genius idea.

I come up with a better plan: stand outside and wait for the first Spanish speaker that comes my way and ask for help. Within 30 seconds, I have a translator.

Sure enough, my translator confirms my hunch–the Indian needs to use the toilet. She wants me to kick in the bathroom door for her.

Sorry ma’am. Your need to urinate does not qualify as an exigent circumstance. Therefore, I cannot kick in that door for you. You need a locksmith, not the police. My translator translates. I thank him, clear the scene, and continue patrol.

On to the next call, where the guy asks, “What took you so long?”

Chalk it up to 9-1-1 abuse, sir.

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