The Day Everyone Decided to Test My Patience — A Quiet Afternoon in Helsinki

It was a quiet day shift as we patrolled the streets of Kallio and Sörnäinen. The afternoon sun was out, and every now and then a familiar breeze of cannabis drifted in through the open car window — part of the neighborhood’s natural ecosystem.

Kallio and Sörnäinen are old working-class neighborhoods in central Helsinki — once known mostly for cheap rents, heavy drinking, and open drug use. In the last decade they’ve become trendy and increasingly expensive, full of cafés, students, artists, and young professionals.
But beneath the new polish, the old reputation is still alive. The same streets also attract addicts, dealers, and the kind of people who migrate naturally toward places where boundaries are loose and no one asks too many questions.

We rolled through the narrow streets toward Pengerpuisto — “Ridge Park”. It sits on a small rise between the neighborhoods. It’s a popular place to drink, smoke, and do business that doesn’t make it onto tourist maps. Local drug dealers liked to hang around there, selling weed. And right on cue, three Gambian guys we knew well were sitting on a bench, drinking beer, playing music, clearly waiting for customers. We pulled up to have a chat.

I asked how they were doing — apparently great. According to them, they were just enjoying the sunshine with music and beer. I agreed it would be a perfect day for beers in the park… if we weren’t working a Tuesday shift.
The men were perfectly polite, as any good businessman would be — mouthing off to the police is bad for business.

We decided to check if they had any warrants. I took their IDs and walked back to the patrol car to run them through the system.

I sat down at the passenger-side terminal, ready for the usual list: driving rights, criminal history, warrants. While I typed in their details, two Finnish women approached. One of them marched straight up to my window and snapped:

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“That’s not your concern,” I said, knowing full well that this wouldn’t satisfy her.
She leaned closer, eyebrows twisted into an angrier shape.

“Yes it is! Don’t harass our friends!”

“Are those your boyfriends?” I asked — just as the screen lit up with the man’s record:

Drug use.
Theft.
Drug dealing.
Several sexual offenses including offenses against a minor
And more.

Meanwhile the second woman had gone to the men, pointing at me and asking why the evil police was bothering them.

I scrolled through the man’s list of drug crimes.
The woman at my window was turning red with anger, cursing me, calling me a pig, a racist, a bastard.

She threatened to file complaints and police reports about me.

I looked her straight in the eyes.
A petty part of me wanted to hit “print,” hand her the sheets, and let her see exactly who she was defending with her moral outrage. I imagined her face falling, the self-righteousness evaporating, shame replacing certainty.

My cursor hovered over the print button.
My pulse crept up.

But I also knew the truth:
People see only what they want to see.
Even a criminal record won’t convince someone who’s already decided they’re morally superior.

I weighed my legal duty of confidentiality, basic ethics, and the risk of losing my job over a moment of ego.

I shut my mouth, kept a straight face, and swallowed the urge.

I got out of the car without saying a word to her and walked back to the men — the woman following me, still snapping and swearing like a malfunctioning fire alarm.

I handed their IDs back.

“All good — for now. Behave,” I told them.

“Thank you, police,” one of the men said, all smiles.
Both women flipped us off.

We drove off slowly. In the side mirror I saw the Gambian guys happily waving at us while their Finnish girlfriends gave us the finger.

We barely had time to judge the women’s life choices before the dispatcher gave us another call: assault at a park right next to Kallio Church. A man had been hit in the head with a skateboard. Ambulance was already there.

Seconds later we were on scene.

I walked to the ambulance. Paramedics were applying what we call a Friday Beanie — a thick head dressing used on bleeding wounds — to a man who looked like a stereotypical junkie.

He knew the attacker and gave us a name. According to him, they had been drinking together when the other guy had hit him with his own skateboard — which he’d brought with him into the ambulance.

We went into the park to find the group, a cluster of severely intoxicated addicts. Nobody tried to run. We began interviewing witnesses.

I was writing down a witness statement when loud shouting came from behind me.
The man with the Friday Beanie stormed into the scene, pointed at a guy lying on the grass and yelled he was the attacker.

I acknowledged it, kept writing.
A second later I heard swearing and heavy thuds.

I lifted my head, glanced over my shoulder, then back to my notebook.
Two more words written.

Then my brain caught up.

I looked again.

The Friday Beanie Guy was mounted on top of the man lying on the ground, choking him with his left arm and hammering him in the face with his right.

I turned fully — yep. Full-on beating.
The victim, hilariously, was still smiling.

I grabbed the attacker by the arm.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m fucking beating him! You don’t hit me with a skateboard!”

“Are you serious? You call us here and then start beating someone while we’re standing right next to you?”

“Well I fucking had to!” he yelled — as if it were the most logical thing in the world.

“You understand we’re taking you to jail now, right?”

“…yeah, well, fuck, I guess.”

We loaded him into the caged transport compartment and drove to the detention center.
During intake, I told him:

“You are the dumbest person I have ever met.”

“Why the fuck would you say that?”

“No one — ever — has called the police and then started beating someone in front of the police.”

He sighed.

“Yeah… well… I guess I’m kinda stupid.”

“It’s good that you admit it,” I said. “Maybe there’s hope for you.”