April 23: Beth and Melanie return to the Sheriff’s Office and sit on the opposite side of the room
As we came into the building I realized (now that we were already three weeks in) that I was supposed to put my name on the sign-in sheet. I am certain that Kasey mentioned this repeatedly before our first class. I think I must have missed it because I was so excited about being in the Sheriff’s Office that I forgot to listen to the people working for the Sheriff. In my defense, I haven’t brought weapons, worn clothing depicting drugs or drug paraphenalia, or consumed alcohol before class, and my shoes are consistently closed-toe.
As we were on our way into the classroom, I asked the all-important question: Where should we sit this week, in order to escape Tangentia? Beth opted for the tables on the left side of the room. I was totally on board with this, although I noticed, as people walked in, that they were irritated to find that the seating arrangement was disrupted. Nobody said anything, but I could feel it. I mentioned this to Beth.
“It’s a sociology experiment,” Beth said. “Next week, I want to sit at the front of the class.”
I’m down with it. Although I suspect that until now, the cops have ignored the fact that I am transcribing everything they tell me into a Chromebook. It will be harder for them to ignore that if I’m sitting at the front of the room transcribing everything they tell me into a Chromebook. So actually, I might not be down with it.
It was while I was wondering how to look harmless and uninquisitive while typing furiously that Beth gasped, “There are no cookies! This is upsetting my whole equilibrium!”
Someone quipped, “they’re all gone, sorry.”
Kasey stepped in to meet the challenge. Out came two containers of unexpectedly pastel cookies. And then, in her role as a Charlie’s Angel, Kasey handed out waiver forms for our upcoming trips to the County Jail and the Camp Bonneville firing range.
That’s right. This Saturday is Range Day. Angels and ministers of grace defend us.
“We will take care of lunch while you’re at the range,” Kasey assured us. “This year it’s chili dogs. Commander Barsness has been asking for chili dogs for years, so this year, we’re doing chili dogs.” Kasey appeared slightly embarassed about Commander Barsness’ preference for chili dogs, which seemed odd at the time. I would later learn that Commander Barsness has a deep and devoted passion for chili dogs that cannot be denied. Picture a Harlequin romance cover. . . No, actually, don’t.
Beth set the information about the Camp Bonneville visit aside long enough to scan through the document about the County Jail. “. . .Hm. No two-martini dinner beforehand, then.”
(I scanned the document carefully. I’m still not sure what prompted this announcement.)
In addition to the forms, Kasey handed us some instructions, as well as directions to the firing range. The directions included a map that had, over long years, been progressivly photocopied into oblivion. It featured a short length of I-205, a big blank space, and a red star. The map worried me. Beth, on the other hand, had more immediate concerns:
“There are no holes!”
I watched her tap the edge of the direction sheet against the clips in her Sheriff’s Office Binder. “There are pockets,” I pointed out.
“No, it needs to be hole-punched. The pocket isn’t good enough. There is a way these things should be organized.”
“There are perfectly good pockets,” I said. “You get two.”
“Do they not have hole punches at the Sheriff’s Office?” Beth demanded. “I’m glad I own a three-hole punch. I can put holes in these when I get home.”
Meanwhile, Animal Control Girl had apparently had a difficult day, because she wanted to throw her work computer out the window. Having seen her shoulders, I can only admire her self-restraint. Old Army Guy was also downcast, because nobody was asking him if someone was sitting in the seat next to him. Possibly he’d been waiting all day to say “You are!!”
“I like your thermos,” Beth said, to the woman sitting next to her. The thermos had a picture on it of the chicken from the animated movie Moana. The chicken is one of Beth’s all-time favorite characters since the day of her birth.
“Have you ever been to Kawaii?” The woman asked. She went on to explain that years before, there had been two hurricanes in rapid succession that spread chicken coops all over Kawaii. The chickens who survived went feral.
Feral chickens. That, alone, was worth the trip out.
Since the class hadn’t started, and Beth and I refuse to submit to the constraints of linear thinking, Beth told me about the dream she’d had last week. In it, one of Beth’s coworkers had been attempting to convince her to eat a bug. When Beth protested that the bug was still alive, the coworker told her that “it only takes one big crunch.”
Beth followed this story with, “I think I have to have a cookie.”
Angel Kasey went to the front of the class, welcomed us and gave us the sad news: Sergeant Handsome would not be our MC, because it was his birthday and he was off celebrating. I suspect my expression must have mirrored Old Army Guy’s in that moment. Happily, Kasey then introduced our first speaker: Commander Todd Barsness himself, Master of the Chili Dog.
Commander Barsness is a patriarch. He can project his voice like a stage actor, and the fact that he resembles Rodney Dangerfield just a smidge does not detract one whit from his air of absolute authority. You get the feeling that he long ago stopped wearing bullet-proof vests and now stops bullets by sheer force of will.
“I’m Commander Todd Barsness, and I’m the Administrative Commander, which puts me as far away from real police work as humanly possible,” he said.
We shall leave that lie alone.
Commander Barsness was there to tell us a bit about what to expect this Saturday. He held up the directions to Camp Bonneville in disgust. “This is the worst map,” he said. “It has no roads, no streets. . . You turn right at 205-and-something and keep going until you see the big red star in the sky.”
He added, “When you think Google is lost, drive a little further and you’ll be there.”
A bit about Camp Bonneville:
It’s a former Army training site that was left to deteriorate for a number of years, until Clark County, in partnership with the Department of Defense and Clark County Parks & Rec, worked to make Camp Bonneville a usable site again. The FBI has used it as a shooting range ever since, and for the last twenty years, the Sheriff’s Office has been allowed to use it as well.
At this point, Commander Barsness narrowed his eyes at us and said, “Okay, who here is a gun nut?”
Half the people in the room raised their hands, including Animal Control Girl.
“I’m going to say this again and again, folks, because we’ve had trouble with this in the past,” Commander Barsness said. “Please don’t bring your own guns to the range. Repeat that for me. Please don’t bring your own guns to the range.” (He made us repeat it, too.)
People also needed to be aware that Camp Bonneville is a secure site, so if they didn’t arrive between 8:30 and 9:00 on Saturday, they wouldn’t get in. The Sheriff’s Office has a key card for the gate, but there is no cell service, so there’s no way for anyone to call after 9:00 and ask to come inside.
Once inside, it’s another three-mile drive to the actual gun range. Please don’t bring your own guns.
At that point, a few people in the class asked if they could skip Range Day, as they had been in the miliary/law enforcement and already knew how guns worked. Angel Kasey assured them that people generally say that Range Day is their favorite class.
Commander Barsness told us that really, it shouldn’t be called Range Day, because it isn’t about guns. It’s for learning about use of force. Deputies are given scenarios to train them to make calm decisions in the midst of (to quote Sheriff Horch) the fog of war. In fact, the State of Washington has laws that govern the use of force. This Saturday, first and foremost, we are going to learn about how deputies are trained not to shoot.
Commander Barsness also reminded us that it was Spring in Washington, and we should dress accordingly. Hats, coats, whatever we need so we will be comfortable all day.
“Can we bring our own food?” Someone asked.
“As long as it’s not a gun,” Commander Barsness said. “You can bring snacks, drinks, whatever. But you don’t have to bring lunch. We will be providing lunch.” He beamed at us like we were a roomful of jackpot winners. “It will be chili dogs.”
Just to make sure we understood the gravity of the announcement, he added, “If you don’t like chili dogs, we can’t be friends.”
He asked if there were questions.
Beth raised her hand. “Are we allowed to bring our own guns?”
Commander Barsness pointed at her like his finger was a loaded Glock. “We will be watching you.”
