Trike Patrol Merilyn Here
The night shift dispatcher, a man named Reyes who’s been on the desk for twenty years, once said: “Merilyn doesn’t arrest you. She outlasts you.”
Patrol Unit M-847, callsign “Merilyn” Vehicle: Modified Cushman Model 53, three-wheeled electric trike. Armored saddlebags. Single floodlight. Jurisdiction: Dockside Bypass, Sector 7
The trike is low to the wet asphalt, painted matte charcoal with a single pink stripe down the fender. A tiny, faded lipstick kiss mark is stamped on the rearview mirror. That’s her signature. The rest is all business: steel toe boots on the pedals, a short baton clipped to the side basket, and a thermos of chicory coffee jammed into the cup holder.
She pats the trike’s dash. “Good work, Louise.” Trike Patrol Merilyn
Last spring, a stolen forklift tried to run her trike off Pier 9. She didn’t swerve. She just turned on her floodlight, full beam in the driver’s eyes, and sat there. The forklift hit a pothole and died. The driver ran. Merilyn finished her coffee, then called it in.
Most of Sector 7 is a ghost after 2 AM—shuttered warehouses, the slow drip of pier water, and the occasional stray dog that knows better than to cross her path. Merilyn doesn’t patrol for speed. She patrols for presence .
You see her coming before you hear the whine of the electric motor. Merilyn doesn’t sneak. She arrives . The night shift dispatcher, a man named Reyes
She wrote in the log: “Subject fled on foot. Trike undamaged. Louise performed admirably.”
She calls the trike “Louise.”
She sees the kid trying to jimmy a lock on the old fishery. She sees the bar fight spill onto the sidewalk before the first punch lands. She sees the woman walking alone pull her coat tighter—then relax when she spots the pink stripe and the slow, circling light. Single floodlight
At 4 AM, when the rain starts, Merilyn parks under the overpass. She takes off her helmet. Her hair is shorter than it used to be. She has a small scar above her left eyebrow—a souvenir from a drunk with a bottle last February.
She isn’t a hero. She isn’t a detective. She’s the third shift on three wheels, the last set of eyes before the sunrise.
Then she lights a cigarette, watches the fog roll in off the water, and waits for the next stupid thing to happen.
