GOOD EVENING MADAM.

                                         WHERE DO YOU RESIDE?

                                          By Stephen L.D. Smith

                         LOS ANGELES COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT

                                          FIRESTONE STATION

                                            Circa 1969-1970

I was working the north end one evening with a new trainee who had two Baccalaureate Degrees in Music Education from UCLA and I kinda, sorta, nicknamed him, “The Student Prince”. We got a call next to the liquor store located on the south side of Firestone Blvd., a few blocks east of Compton Ave. As I recall, between my senior moments, the nature of the dispatch was a possible person down. We arrived at the location, which was a dirt parking lot right next to the liquor store. 

All of the local sages were sitting around on milk crates and the hoods of various vehicles imbibing in either the grape or the grain with joyful glee. There was a great deal of bantering going on between them. We saw an old 1959 Plymouth hardtop parked there with both front windows wide open. We observed a woman lying across the front seat with her head on the passenger side arm rest and her feet tucked under her toward the driver’s side of the car. She appeared to be unconscious. From the odor of an alcoholic beverage emitting from her breath and person, there was more than a good chance she might even be 647f. Her sweater had been pulled up and her bra was now crumpled up beneath the shoulder line of the garment. He pants were unzipped, with her belly exposed, and had obviously been pulled down before an attempt was made to restore them to their rightful position on her body. 

I had a nagging suspicion that perhaps this lady had been the unfortunate victim of a forcible rape. I asked my trainee to go over and see where she lived. He walked up to the passenger side of the car and looked into the window with disdain. He then gingerly reached into the car and gently shook this sleeping beauty. He then quietly said in his clearest voice, “Good evening, Madam. Where do you reside?” The sages tried to muffle their laughter so as not to embarrass my trainee. I then asked him to attempt once more to find out where she lived with just a little bit more gusto. He once more reached into the car and shook the lady with a little more force this time. He then stated rather loudly, “Good evening, Madam. Where do you reside?” One more time. There was still no response from the woman in the car, but the locals busted up, laughing loudly. 

I then told my trainee to watch me and said to him, “In order to find information in the Ghetto, you have to relate to the folks up front.” I then opened the driver’s side door and reached inside the vehicle with my open right hand. Simultaneously I swung my open right hand down toward her bare belly and stated, “Say, mama, where you stays?” as I slapped the bare skin of her exposed belly. She sat straight up in the seat with her eyes wide open and said, “1234 East 88th Street.” I then asked her name, which she gave me, after which I asked her if she needed any help getting home. She refused any assistance from us, saying that she would take care of it by herself. And so it was the very first in a long chain of rescues performed by the student prince for a damsel in distress. 

“There are easier ways to get a name and address!”