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Tom Hanson Jumps to Death off 21 Jump Street

April 28, 2012

(Here is another installment from my series TV Character Obituaries.)

MYTHICAL CITY – Yesterday, life came full circle for Tom Hanson when he launched himself from the roof of 21 Jump Street, the building at which he used to work as a grown man impersonating a pretty teenage boy, the type of job description that he usually avoided talking about whenever throwing back beers with members of the Hell’s Angels.  Hanson was part of a team of police officers, all of whom had required a full eighteen years to arrive at puberty, who worked undercover at high schools, keg parties and teen angst meetings. The hormones of these cops had started kicking in just as they were making the decision to enter the police academy, meaning that, thank God, they would not be shooting blanks at suspected criminals.

Hanson had grown up wanting to be a big time cop, busting the likes of Al Capone and Dwight D. Eisenhower; leading raids on Columbian cartels while saying things like, “See you in hell, Marco!;” investigating the murder of a Greek shipping heiress that would prompt some thug to scoff, “Hanson, you don’t know how far up to the top this thing goes.” The only problem was that cops who busted ass on such a large scale had rugged, weathered faces, and talked in gruff voices – in a word, such avengers for justice looked and acted like Bogie, not the pretty Bacall, the ex-lady-starlet that would have died to have the high sculpted cheekbones of Tom Hanson.

At the police academy, a few of the male cadets played cruel tricks on Hanson, for instance hiring a Maybelline salesgirl to harangue him during firearm instruction. But it was obvious that these men were trying to mask their forbidden lust for the nubile young trainee. One fellow cadet, Stanley Wojciehowicz, refused to steady a rope while Hanson climbed to the ceiling of the gym because looking upward at the lithesome, springy and androgynous Hanson brought an uninvited protuberance to his police-issued sweatpants.

Hanson began as a uniformed cop teamed with a thirty-year-old lady officer named Melba Moore. This was a disaster, since the people he pulled over for speeding just laughed at him and asked him for his ID. Meanwhile, Melba, who had always enjoyed the notoriety of being the beautiful half in all her partnerships, bristled when the guys would whistle at the two of them arriving back at the station after a shift, and then quip, “Not you, Melba, your pretty partner.” That was when the department said, sorry, kid – literally, kid – but we are transferring you to 21 Jump Street.

Hanson often said not to hate him because he was beautiful, that he already hated himself enough for his preternatural Vogue-like visage. He tried everything imaginable to de-prettify his mug, from wearing the constant frown of a French existentialist to running into a brick wall. The result was that the former made him appear deep and sexy to young girls who wrote bad poetry, while the latter gave him a cute little scar on his prominent cheekbone that had talent scouts asking if he would pose for Teen Magazine.

Hanson was forty-five-years-old with the exquisite features of a twenty-five-year-old model when he returned to 21 Jump Street to see if a face-first dive off a five-story building would finally give him that Humphrey Bogart grandeur he had sought all his life.

The word is that Jesus cannot take his eyes off his latest angel, former officer, Tom Hanson.

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