Potatoes on Police cars.

Remember how I told you once about the Next-Door-Neighbour who gave his wife all those knuckle sandwiches and how he kicked his dog until it died?

Well, I wrote a letter about it and gave it to my teacher. I didn’t tell her about the ice cream twirl on the Landy, and I didn’t put my name on the letter. But I think it worked, because the very next day after school, some police came by the Next-Door-Neighbour’s house.

One of them got out the bakkie, which smelt like chicken, and the other one just stayed inside and hooted the hooter.

I told them it was fine to go in, not to worry about the sign that said vicious, deadly dog, because the dog was dead now and they didn’t even have a cat. I saw the front door opening and tried to help by saying they’d be safe, but the police officer just looked up at me and told me to get down out of the tree and go inside. He was not strict or nasty but I could tell from the tone it was not an invitation for further communication.

So I got down out the tree and went inside, but I didn’t stay inside. I snuck out the back, ran along the hedge, and hid where I could watch and still listen.

I couldn’t hear what they were saying, not really, but I did hear them laughing. And then they left. The two police officers just got back in their bakkie and drove off. And the Next-Door-Neighbour went back inside. And that was that. They never came back.

That was the day I started putting potatoes on police cars.

Not in a mean way. Not to hurt or damage. Just quietly. Like a little reminder.

Because police are supposed to be the good guys—the helpers. I just thought that maybe, if they ever got back into their bakkie after lunch at Kentucky, and they saw the potatoe on the police car, they’d say,
“Oh look, a potatoe! What a strange place to put a potatoe!”

And maybe, just maybe, something would click in their old noggins. And they’d remember watching CHiPs—you know, the show where Baker and Poncherello actually made justice happen.

Maybe the potatoe would help them remember their roots, remember who they were supposed to be.

I’m 51 now. I’ve been putting potatoes on police cars ever since. One a month, at the very least. I’ve never gone more than 30 days without doing it.

Because I believe you don’t give up when you’re trying to bring out the best in someone.

But also—well, there’s only so much a potatoe can do.
So I started doing other things too.