“Chilly evening, isn’t it?”

“Yes, winter’s finally arrived.”

“I almost lost an ear to frostbite walking from where I parked.”

“Is it a ’90s party?”

“Did my track suit give it away?”

He’s waiting at the front door to get into the party. The police officer is waiting to serve the noise complaint.

“That and the playlist. It’s pretty loud.”

“I guess.” He glances down at his Reeboks. “How about I promise to let the DJ know when I get in and you can get back to the warmth of your patrol car?”

“Sorry, I have to get the owner’s name for the report.”

“Oh, I can tell you that! It’s D_____ T____.”

She smiles at him and shakes her head. “Nice try.”

He rings the door bell again. Turning back to the officer, he rolls his eyes and bobs his head inexactly to the music.

“Maybe if the music wasn’t so loud, they could hear you and let you in.”

“Fair point.” A few cars pass.

“Do you know their phone number?”

“No, but there’s an Instagram hashtag for this party; we could take a selfie and see if someone notices.”

“Why not?”

He pulls his phone out and steps beside the officer. “Smile!” He reviews the snapshots. “Let’s see: #ssf90jams and #busted.”

“#turnitdown?”

“Added. And some Mayfair filter. Voilà, it’s posted.” He places the phone back in his pocket. “What are you doing after your shift?”

“Sleeping.”

“Why not swing back by the party?”

“I’m more of an ’80s lady.”

“Like Devo?”

“Guns N’ Roses.”

“Of course… Axl Rose is odd duck. Great showman, though.”

Two men walk past with their Staffordshire Bull Terrier on a chain leash.

“OK, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll leave now. If you do get in, tell the hosts that if we get another complaint I’ll come back with the SWAT team and we’ll have a Waco re-enactment. That was the ’90s, right?”

“Whoa. That’s so harsh.”

“I know, I’m kidding. Can you stream music on your phone?”

Twenty minutes later the host comes out to find the two singing along to “November Rain.”