By Attorney Robert T. Torres
For Variety

THE first call came in from the dispatcher as soon as we rolled out. “It could only happen on Saipan,” I thought to myself. A garment factory bus collides with a parked truck in Lower Base. The owner was nearby getting sawgrass or “sakati” for his animals. The bus backed up, causing the collision. No big deal. Just another day on the island.
What a local thing that is. Every day you’d come home around 4:30 from work, having had enough of “No money for this” and “We can’t do that.” You’d put on your favorite camouflage “baha’ki” shirt, the one your cousin in the Army gave you. You’d fire up that old 1985 Toyota truck with the bad muffler, hoping that the tailgate would hold up. You’d mix your favorite red ugam pugua from your backyard tree with some pupulu. You’d listen to RJ’s daily pick of Candy’s “Mas” dance on KZNM. There you go, around the “karisu” in Charanka or Tanapag looking for the good “sakati.”
The sun is dipping over the horizon as you find a good spot. Take out the machete and hack away, then load up the truck. Getting home, you’d back up the load next to the fence. You know, the one you put up last year with your brother-in-law with some barbed-wire and tangan-tangan. The familiar strong odor of the cows or goats hits your nose, mixing with the fresh smell of the newly cut grass. The animals moo or bay with eagerness. Once you are done you’ll relax with a cold one. Satisfaction.
It isn’t too much except that these days you don’t have grandma mixing you that power drink concoction — whip up two eggs, some Carnation milk, a splash of sugar and a shot of whiskey. Dad shared it with you during a hard days’ work. “Flamenku.” The good stuff that would take you to finish a tough project on the farm. Yup, that’s how it is for farmers like us. Computer guys, lawyers in suits, or directors in ties in government offices just wouldn’t understand what it is all about. All you’d want to do is get to the simple routine of tending to your animals or “gaga.” You can complain full-time to them. They are always listening attentively as they chew through the grass you just provided. Just like the customer-service folks in a government office.
I wondered to myself that evening, as Officer Sandy and I drove away from the scene in Lower Base, how he could do this job every day. Barely five hours later (I think I was already snoring by then) during that ride-a-long in the traffic cruiser, we got the call at midnight reporting a DUI in Puerto Rico. And we still had a few more hours before we finally got off at 5 a.m. Except for the Sunday morning after initiation weekend at the Delta Sig fraternity house at San Diego State, I had never been so tired in my life. I slept like a baby — during the shift in the cruiser. Sandy, however, was still as fresh and cheery as a Chuukese fisherman in Moen as we left each other. He’s still that way today.
Great career choice. Twelve-hour shifts. A crime lab that remains stuck in the 1970s. Your uniform has more splotches on it than an elementary school tie-dye project. You’d have to gas up and clean your own vehicle for your shift. Friday night riots. Saturday daytime break-ins. Sunday night domestic fights. Being called every name in the book. Threatened with lawsuits. All for a base salary that is barely higher than an altar-server. You have to work overtime just to feed your family. They complain you are never around or sleeping all the time. You are told you have to stay in shape but you get no time for exercise. “Chochu Maigu.” And they want to take overtime away. Not much to ask for right? Might as well be asked to multiply the bread and fish to feed the masses.
Somehow this week I feel like whipping up some Flamenku and sharing it, along with a good chew. Underpaid and abused. And we aren’t talking about legislators or judges. Sandy is probably still driving around Dandan, hoping his tires hold up in his old DPS cruiser, still answering calls at 3 a.m. Meanwhile, we are home in bed. Our animals content from getting the sakati meal. Sleep well.