Iexamined the cookie that all other cookies aspired to. Oversized. Chunks of chocolate. Still warm. I broke a piece off. Gooey. Moist. I popped it into my mouth, chewed slowly, and savored. The cookie compelled me to halt in front of our substation exit. I didn’t think a cookie had ever made me stop in my tracks before. This was that good.

Our family budget only allowed for around $20 cash for me to eat out each month. Dollar menu items mainly. Sure, I could make a PB&J, but it sometimes got old. Many don’t know this sad truth, but when we started as police officers in Salt Lake City, most of us qualified for food stamps under the pay we received. Other agencies in the state paid even less. I didn’t know how they made ends meet.

On Rio Grande Street where the homeless shelter was, there were days when I would watch people bring the homeless food. Lots of food. Sometimes salivating over it. Hot meals. Hamburgers, hotdogs, Kentucky Fried Chicken, you name it. Three times a day, every day. There were days I wanted to put on shaggy clothes and dress up like a homeless person, just to go eat a great meal.

Leaving the substation, I crossed the parking lot to my police car, wishing I’d gotten a second cookie. I turned my key, then cranked the A/C, mentally commanding the cold air to hurry up and save me from this sweltering summer afternoon. Wearing a bulletproof vest never helped the scorching desert heat in Utah. I headed out on patrol.

Some twenty minutes later, I was parked near the homeless shelter when a man with a graying beard and tinted glasses waved, trying to get my attention. I rolled down my passenger-side window. “Hi, officer,” the man said. “I work near the homeless shelter. I thought you should know there’s a group of men selling drugs. They’re the ones near the kids’ playground. About eight of them.” I thanked the man and promised to investigate.

I drove around the corner, parked, and exited my car. I found a group of men near the playground, as described. The group of men appeared to be in their forties, all huddled in a semi-circle, fixated on what a man in the middle was holding.

One of the men spotted me approaching. He stiffened and his eyes widened. His buddies noticed his reaction, then noticed me. They inched away from the man in the middle, everyone trying to look casual. Somebody near the shelter entrance yelled, “Busted!” then barked a laugh. The man in the middle stood. He leaned against the fence and did an impressive job at looking bored and unconcerned.

I approached the man, believing that they had to be doing something illicit.They certainly weren’t trading baseball cards. I glanced at the children scampering around the playground on the other side of the metal fence, then scowled at the man. “Sir, sit on the curb. Don’t move. Don’t talk to anyone.” I turned, intending to interview one of the men who’d been in the semi-circle, when the man in the middle spoke. “Why I gotta sit here?”

I rounded on the guy, my voice a bit harsher than I’d intended, but drug deals near children don’t make me happy. I jabbed a finger in his direction. “Just sit there and don’t talk until I come back.” He paused, peering at me with his head cocked to one side, then busted up with laughter. My cheeks heated. I narrowed my eyes. My lips tightened. I said, “Do not mess with me right now.”  To my bewilderment, he laughed harder. He gestured at me and a few of his nearby companions grinned or joined in the laughter. They must be high, I thought. I planted my fists on my hips and hurled my best you-morons-are-messing-with-the-wrong-guy expression.

I separated and interviewed each man who’d been in the semi-circle. Their independent stories matched. I couldn’t find any law that was broken. I felt cheated. I’d wanted so badly to pin them with something, especially for their disrespectful laughter. I returned to my car, shook my head one final time in disgust, then pulled into the street and drove past them.

The men slapped each other on the shoulders and sputtered with laughter. They had to be high, I thought, and glared at them in my rearview mirror. Then I noticed something odd, something on the tip of my nose. A big brown blob. “What?” I said. My eyes widened. The cookie. I had what looked like an entire chocolate chip glued to my nose.

I replayed my entire exchange with the men by the homeless shelter, this time from their perspective. I snorted and found myself chuckling with the men shrinking in my rearview mirror. I considered going back and apologizing for snapping at them when they’d laughed, but I was too embarrassed. Instead, I returned to the substation and told my partners what had happened.

“Moutsos,” one officer said, “those dudes owned you.” “No,” another officer said, “that cookie owned you.” Later, during a quiet moment near the end of my shift, I reflected on the chocolate chip nose incident. Wasn’t that how we all were, judging people based not on what they saw, but only from our own narrow perspective? Moral lesson learned or not, I didn’t show myself on that corner for at least a week.