Ever since grade school, when people asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up, she answered with a cheerful expression: “Policeman.”
To which, bending towards her, they corrected her with a benign smile: “You mean, policewoman, little girl.”
Odile was puzzled; she didn’t want to be a policewoman (she had never heard that term), she wanted to be a policeman. But you can’t reason with adults, as children know.
People compared her to a little angel, as she had blonde curly hair and periwinkle eyes. She definitely had an orderly mind. She tried to be the teacher’s little helper, making sure everyone was in rank, two by two, holding hands, thumbs in their mouths, pushing their front teeth forward at risk of uprooting them.
Once, when the teacher was a little late getting the kids in, Odile stood in front of them and said, “I only want to see the two front heads!”
The teacher told her to stop being “a little dictator,” and sent her back to her place in line, where her partner stood alone.
Perhaps she would have excelled in the military as a Sergeant Major, but eighteen years later, she is indeed a “policewoman” in the City by the Bay.
She graduated from the Police Academy with high honors. The training included the handling of firearms, investigative procedures, report writing, and emerging technologies.
She is still what people call a beauty, with her Venetian hair (which at work she keeps in a severe bun), her Titian complexion, and her elongated and curved body. Not only does the severe navy blue police uniform fit her figure, it enhances her complexion. She owns a Smith & Wesson which she keeps in a holster on her left hip (she is left-handed).
At first her colleagues, who were mostly men, made loud, sexist remarks about her figure, although she still had an angel’s face, about which they didn’t comment. Odile, although distressed, retained a dignified attitude.
She takes her job very seriously: she is intractable about what could be seen as peccadilloes, such as smoking a joint on the bus, or using a dog deterrent spray without a permit. She simply says: “Citizen, you’re under arrest!” and the perpetrator, struck by her beauty, follows her to the nearest police station, is put in jail for five minutes, and, still dazed, released by an exasperated inspector.
Her colleagues jokingly nicknamed her “Calamity Odile.”
But she also handles much tougher cases, such as shootouts during bank robberies, gang wars, hostage situations, or knife fights in bars. She regally walks into the place of iniquity, her left hand on her holster, surveys the situation, and says in a calm voice: “Citizens, you are under arrest.” Captivated by her beauty, the bad guys swarm around her; thus, she is in the habit of bringing hardened criminals—now softened by her loveliness—to the police station, as Orpheus charmed wild animals with the sounds of his lyre. And this without firing a shot! This amazed her colleagues, who quickly re-nicknamed her “Arresting Beauty,” but now without an ounce of condescension, but rather, with a hint of affection.
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