The year was 1987.
Your intrepid columnist had just managed the impossible. Someway, somehow, he had convinced the State of Illinois that he was responsible enough to control a motor vehicle, and he had the shiny new driver's license to prove it. But that was only the first basecamp needed to climb the larger mountain: somehow convincing his notoriously over-protective parents that he was mature enough to take the car out on a Saturday night.
You see, kids, once upon a time, in a world devoid of smart phones, Pokemon Go, and all-night raves, the youth of America had but one ritualistic pasttime on a Saturday night: unnecessary repetitive driving. We called it "cruising the strip." In my hometown of Galesburg, it was a simple course of driving from the McDonalds on Main St. to the other McDonalds on Henderson St. And then back again. And then back again. Over and over and over until we depleted our gas tanks, our curfews, and our fragile ecosystem. And if you were sixteen years old and couldn't hit the strip on a Saturday night? You would just die. It was, like, SO important.
I don't know how I managed to convince my parents, but somehow I pulled it off. That night, I peeled out of my driveway a champion, a triumphant rebel behind the wheel of my 1978 Plymouth Horizon, wood grain paneling against the wind, looking for adventure or whatever came my way. After picking up the requisite carload of friends, it wasn't long before we found ourselves caught in the love embrace between the two McDonalds, yelling at friends and giving others the silent look that said in a glance, "Hey, you're cruising the strip. I am cruising the strip as well. We are super cool and shall live forever."
It was about this time I happened to pull alongside my friend Aaron, a fellow freshly-minted driver. He revved his engine, as you do when you're a teenage idiot. I revved mine, since I was also a teenage idiot. The light turned green. Suffice to say I won. My prize? A speeding ticket from a kindly Galesburg officer, on my very first night behind the wheel. As it turns out, I wasn't born to be wild. That night, I was born to be grounded.
As I dropped my friends off and headed home, I tried to figure out the best way to break the news to my parents. Should I go with calm and mature? Or should I opt for weeping and mercy? Turns out it didn't matter. My parents were already waiting by the door, arms crossed and judgemental as you'd expect. I should've known better. There was no need to break the news to my parents. The minute that officer called my name over the police radio, he was breaking the news to my grandfather. My folks knew before the ink on the ticket had dried.
Whenever we visited my grandparents' house, us kids had the run of the place. Except, that is, for one desk we couldn't touch. On it sat my grandfather's rather impressive CB radio and police scanner command center. Most nights, he'd sit there for hours, listening to the seedier happenings in and around Galesburg. I never thought one day I'd do the same. Help me, Quad Cities. I may have just become a scanner person.
In the wake of this week's civil unrest, scanner culture has exploded -- and the Quad Cities is no exception. On Monday night, the QC police & EMS feed was the most listened to scanner stream in the country. But MY recent obsession with the local police scanner started before the unrest and heartache of this week. Last month, there was a shooting in my neighborhood. Thankfully it wasn't on my block, but it was close enough to rattle my windows and send me to the basement for a little while.
When I got brave enough to look out, I could see the glow of police lights a few streets away. I'm nothing if not nozy, so I hopped online and listened to the scanner for a bit to see if I could eke any details. The next weekend, I got a text from a panicked friend -- this time it was HER turn to live near a shooting incident. Within minutes, we were BOTH tuned into the scanner feeds, eager for information. Since then, I've listened every evening, and especially with the recent turmoil and tragedy, it's a tough addiction to break.
For a scanner novice like me, though, it's often hard to follow. I don't know a thing about police lingo, and I wouldn't know a 10-4 from a 10-54. One of the easiest ways to listen to our local police is through a stream on Broadcastify.com, a website and app known for its scanner streams. But the QC feed scans through EVERY local police and EMS band at once. It's constantly bouncing from Moline to Davenport to Rock Island to Bettendorf. As you'd expect, this can be a tad frustrating.
The other night, I was trying to follow along with the radio chatter of a high speed car chase that crossed state lines. But every few seconds, it would cut away from the car chase to another city, where some poor officer was responding to a 911 call about a kid throwing a temper tantrum because mom wouldn't let him ride a moped. Now, I realize that everyone's problems are different and that 911 is an invaluable resource for all sorts of emergencies, but at that moment, I found myself seething in contempt for Moped Kid who I've never and most likely never will meet.
Just then, I got a text from a friend. It read "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST GIVE THE KID A MOPED ALREADY."
That's when I realized maybe sitting in front of a police scanner all night isn't the healthiest of hobbies, unless you're (a) the police or (b) our thankless reporters upstairs right now with one ear constantly glued to our newsroom's scanners. At the end of the day, you're pretty much just being a Nozy Nancy eavesdropping on someone's worst day ever. There's a fine line between listening to police scanners for information and listening for entertainment, and that's a line we should never cross.
The next night sealed the deal for me. I hopped on the scanner JUST long enough to hear -- you guessed it -- a friend's son getting pulled over. And yep, I called my friend to let her know. Then I stopped and looked in a mirror to make sure I hadn't COMPLETELY turned into my grandpa. At this rate, it won't be long before I'm putting peanuts in my Pepsi, mixing jelly into my mashed potatoes, and eating peanut brittle without any teeth (my grandpa was an interesting guy.)
I miss him like crazy, and I'd like to think he's up there somewhere with a desktop full of the finest hi-fidelity eavesdropping equipment heaven can provide. As for me? I'm giving the scanner a rest and letting people live their most horrible moments with one less uninvited audience member. Besides, I've got TV to watch. There's a 6-hour marathon of "Cops" starting...
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