Interview, Here for It, #361

Hi! It's R. Eric Thomas. From the internet?
Hi!

I want to be the person who thinks of Helpful Interviewee jobs on Law and Order. Do you know what I am talking about? On Law and Order, there's the random people they interview who help them get to the suspect and they're always busy doing something. I want to be employed thinking of their jobs.

Everyone's always otherwise engaged in the criminal justice system of New York City, which famously has two separate but equally important groups. No one's just like sitting at their desk, scrolling on TikTok like a normal employee. They're always sorting recycling or directing a symphony or something and the detectives have to go following them through a bustling opera hall asking "so, when's the last time you saw the suspect?" Hilarious to me.

I think I have an interesting enough job to be a Helpful Interviewee. I'd be "Advice Columnist" and I'd be wearing a cardigan and I'd have a pencil in my mouth for some reason and I'd always be peering over my glasses at the detectives.

Alas, when the cops showed up to my apartment for real this week, I was not prepared.

I was sitting in my bed, scrolling on Instagram, when the app for my apartment building's front door rang. I was expecting my weekly delivery from my farm share. The image comes up and a guy's face is there and he says "hello?" and I say "it's open, thank you!" and hit the buzzer.

It's important to note that this is not unusual for deliveries. There's security in the lobby and I don't buzz people in when I'm not expecting them but I'm also not trying to waste a delivery person's time waiting for me to come down from the 11th floor.

A couple minutes went by and then I heard a knock on my door. No one drops a delivery off at my apartment door. This was unusual. I looked through the peephole to find two police officers standing there.

I was like, first of all, where's my rutabaga? And second of all, is my day/life about to change drastically? (And yes? While I’m about to write about it with some lightness and flippancy, I took it very seriously in the moment and of course have been second guessing it ever since.)

They had a lot of questions about my car: what kind of car it is? What color? Is it a hatchback? Is it a sedan? Do I know where it is? I was like, "honestly, babes, my car is none of my business but I do believe it's red and recently I had to spend a lot of money on it because the battery died but also maybe 'the electric system' and who knows what that means? It's between my mechanic and Benjamin Franklin, I say. Is this helpful?"

They were like, "Not at all. Also, we think your plate has been stolen put on a different car and that car is involved in a case."

Okay, well, again, I don't know what that chica be getting up to, so...

They kept questioning me about when I parked and where. They asked this three times! And I was starting to get the impression that I was not a Helpful Interviewee because I didn't have a very detailed timeline. I was like "maybe two hours ago? I don't know. I've been on Instagram. You know how it is. A whole day may have passed. I got really involved in this one guy's fitness journey. I can't help myself!!!! "

This was all happening in the doorway. I wondered if they needed to come in. Which is an insane thing to wonder. Did I think they thought my car was in my living room?

I'd just been watching a Law and Order episode where a woman is interviewed in a sun-dappled kitchen while she pours two cups of tea. And so, I started imagining myself trying to make this elaborate tea service for these two cops in my sun-dappled living room. Like stirring matcha in a bowl. "Give me twenty minutes, gentlemen. It's ceremonial grade."

Anyway, they said they didn't need to come in. I was like, "Okay, but it's actually really cute in here. It smells nice and I have great art and cute mugs from Anthropologie, just saying."

They asked me to take them to my car. I love a field trip. We get into the elevator and I'm babbling about how I just renewed my registration. At this point, I'm very clear that I am not in trouble but my anxiety is absolutely unaware of that and, alas, never will be.

They asked if I have the new style of license plate. I have no idea what this means. I'm not really reading up on the license plate trend blogs, you know what I'm saying, girlina?

I pull a picture of my license plate up on my phone. The one police office looks perturbed and then pulls up a blurry picture the crime car in question on his phone. My license plate starts with an M. This license plate starts with an N. I was like, "I don't want to cast aspersions here, but ain't that a different letter? Respectfully."

Well, it turns out, the police officer discovered he'd typed the license plate into his computer wrong. And that one mistyped letter had led them to me and my car, which was actually fine.

Live footage of my car:

The cops were like, "Ah well. Foiled again. Have a good one!" And I was like, "Hold up, so you're saying you don't have my farm share?"

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well, again, I don't know what that chica be getting up to,
Eric