The Call Box

The Call Box: An Adventure in the Rose Garden

As we clear the station, there is still some daylight left when we receive a call. “Unknown trouble” at the Coliseum rose garden. This type call can mean anything and usually does.

polic-call-box-pedestal-lapd-gamewell-DCAL2786_dt1By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

There are some things we do that we can really take pride in. An exceptionally good arrest, for instance, is why we are who we are.

But honestly most of our daily contacts are non-criminal and non-confrontational. From directions to the bus stop to assisting the motorist who locked his keys in the car.

There are those special few though that make us smile when we remember. This is one such encounter.


University Division, where I am working night watch with my partner Frank Isbell, is known for three things—

1) home to the campus of the University of Southern California (USC).

2) the Memorial Coliseum, home to the 1932 Olympics, the Rams, Trojans, Bruins and many major sporting and other events. It will be temporary home to the Dodgers in a few years.

3) high crime.

As we clear the station, there is still some daylight left when we receive a call. “Unknown trouble” at the Coliseum rose garden. This type call can mean anything and usually does.

Los_Angeles_Memorial_Coliseum_(Entrance)The coliseum which is a stadium capable of holding in excess of 100,000 spectators along with parking covers many, many city blocks. The surrounding area is park-like in appearance comprised of grass lawns, numerous trees, benches etc. Also adjacent to the stadium is the Rose Garden, a several hundred-yard square area given over to hundreds and hundreds of roses of all species. There are winding paths and benches to just sit and enjoy. The garden is surrounded by a 31/2 to 4-foot-tall brick wall, covered in what else? Climbing roses. In the evening when there is even the slightest breeze, the fragrance of the roses can be detected blocks away. Entrance to the garden is by one gate on the south wall and one gate only. Affixed to the gate is a small sign, “This gate will be locked at five P.M.”


As we enter, the park has turned quiet and seemingly deserted. It will soon be time for the night people to appear.

Approaching the gate, we see the subject of our call: two majestic appearing “grande dames,” approximate age late 70’s. They were dressed in all their finery tall as wealthy women are required to be, sporting large brimmed sun hats, gloves and carrying hand fans (yes, fans).

Regal in both appearance and manner, they are both corseted and queen-sized in lavender and lace and they are also inside the locked gate.

One has been crying but now has it check, both are trying to maintain control and seem slightly distraught, but still formidable. They had lost track of time while enjoying the flowers and somehow attracted the attention of a passing motorist, hence the call.

We determine they are uninjured and we attempt to calm them and assure them we will get them out as quickly as possible. Now finding the man with the key seems a long shot. Calling the fire department would only embarrass the ladies and show them we couldn’t handle our own problems. No way.

Memorial Rose Garden LAOk, so how do we do this?

Now, Frank and I are both fairly good sized, very good shape, former Marines, able to leap tall buil…well, you get the idea. The fact remains that these are women of ample proportions, both of whom outweigh us. This has to be handled diplomatically.

The only object of any use in sight is a heavy-duty city trash can with lid chained to the wall adjacent to the gate. Looking around we realize just one long block away at the Figueroa Street entrance to the park there is a family style restaurant.


Exposition_Park_Rose_Garden_LA_bannerAfter hearing my tale of woe, the maître de sends me back with a step-stool, a sturdy wooden chair and an even sturdier busboy. By his looks, a student athlete. The maître de thought he might come in handy.

With three of us, it was a no brainer. Frank and busboy on the inside. Matron onto stool then to trash can then wall. Busboy hops fence with step-stool and down she comes. Number two was even easier. Some nervous laughter, some “Oh’s and ah’s” and here we are.

The women forced a “tip” on the reluctant busboy who told me it had been an adventure and a nice break from the kitchen. The matrons dutifully recorded our names and serial numbers in a tiny notebook with a tiny pencil. We escorted them to their vehicles and saw them off.

Frank and I waited, in vain, for many years to see if we had been named in their wills.


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