Figure eight

His insecurity comes out unannounced and at jagged intervals, as if personalities could have Tourettes syndrome. We all were going from call, to call, to call, with no time to eat or catch our breath, or wipe our brows in between. And my phone rings during a momentary stillness and he tells me that I hope you're not worrying, I'm not ignoring you and I wondered about the thought of his behind the reason for the call. Then later my phone rings again and it's raining and I'm flying down the highway. He tells me I need to take a break, when it rains we slow down, and I tell him that I'm pretty sure I'm not sweet enough to melt if I get a little wet. He does his mutt-laugh and I tell him, in jest, that I think he might though, so he should stay dry and cozy in his car. There is an awkward silence followed by his mutt laugh and only then do I realize the full effect of my words. The power that you hand over when you want the other person to desire you. He tells me, you know you would be stuck with me and waits for the response. There is none, from me, and he asks if I would meet him somewhere.

And I felt so lonely for him, but couldn't explain why. Not even to myself.

Later in his self-conscious ramblings his lips are saying that my blue eyes are penetrating, like a wolf, like the lone wolf. And it comes out, in his boyish flirtations, that he's jealous of the attention that I get from the others. My ears perk up and I can tell that he is waiting for a response that would indicate my level of interest. Like a bastard, like the lone wolf, I let the silence surround us and watch him watching me. Maybe I am too much of the predator, too much of the time. I am thinking about how soon he'll be gone when we get the call, injury MVA, we go flying to it lights and sirens breaking up the dark humidity of the night. We split the call in half and later compare notes. He is helping me when I handcuff the sobbing child of a man with whom I was dealing; he leans into me as I tighten the first cuff, his weight against me, breath on my neck as I am engaging the double lock. I look up and laugh and he just says My God...

He makes me promise that I would be honest with him if I thought he wasn't pulling his weight. He thanks me for following up on a task that I was charged with. He calls for me with a question when I am already halfway down the hallway, leaving. The way my name sounds when he says it. What is it that I do to you?

St. Teresa intercede on my behalf...

A true friend's prayer

O St. Joseph whose protection is so great, so strong, so prompt before the Throne of God, I place in you all my interests and desires. O St. Joseph do assist me by your powerful intercession and obtain for me from your Divine Son all spiritual blessings through Jesus Christ, Our Lord; so that having engaged here below your Heavenly power I may offer my Thanksgiving and Homage to the most Loving of Fathers. O St. Joseph, I never weary contemplating you and Jesus asleep in your arms. I dare not approach while He reposes near your heart. Press him in my name and kiss His fine Head for me, and ask Him to return the Kiss when I draw my dying breath. St. Joseph, Patron of departing souls, pray for us. Amen

Say for nine consecutive mornings for anything you may desire. Be sure you really desire what you pray for because it has seldom been known to fail.

This prayer was found in the fiftieth year of Our Lord Jesus Christ. In 1500's it was sent by the Pope to Emperor Charles when he was going into battle.

Whoever reads this prayer or hears it or carries it, will never die a sudden death, nor be drowned, nor will poison take effect on them. They will not fall into the hands of the enemy nor be burned in any fire, nor will they be defeated in battle.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Some of them call me in brave moments when their wives or significant others have stepped out. Others send text messages as the alcohol takes effect, growing ever braver and bolder with every round. One leaves me voice messages which are at the same time insulting and possessive and I wonder, how does that work? Everyone acting on their own impulses, some more transparent than others.

They all call themselves brother and me their sister, but really more like the red-headed step child. And I guess, in a sense, we are a kind of family. Dysfunctional and troubled but the job requires that we be as close as kin.

Except for the exception. He gives me prayer cards to tuck into my vest. He made a gift of a key chain that his priest blessed. He tells me about the prayers that he has offered up with me as the beneficiary, gives me advice and is always en route to be my backup. And when I think about it I know that I'm not afraid of failing, but I am terrified of letting him down.

St. Teresa of Avila I ask for your intercession and strength as I walk through the wolf pack. Calm, assertive. Little flower, help me to establish myself as the lone wolf in the specific circumstances where it is warranted. St. Michael inspire my mind more than my feet, help me to remember why I am even there in the first place. Let it be my father's spirit that guides me at each impasse, and not the advice of those ill-informed who have their own selfish desires for my career. Blessed Father I ask for help in carrying out your mission in my small corner of this world. Help me to remember my purpose and the beauty that exists in sacrifice, the sanctity in being hungry.

Nod your head if you are called, too.

Scrubs need not apply.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Thank you: for being my backup even if you weren't dispatched to the call, for answering the question I didn't even think to ask, for making the effort to divvy up the work-load, for always watching my six, for the look that means you understand why I'm frustrated -- that I know you are too, for genuinely listening, for always always always being there if I need you, for being the best brothers that anyone could have. St. Michael, keep them close to your heart, watch over them with your sword at the ready.

We few, we happy few.

Sunday night angst

I looked at my MDT screen in disbelief. Seven units on the board, six red and I was the only one in blue for "In Service". Six is our minimum and there I was, parked in the middle of town, the only car patrolling a city who has had as many as thirteen out at a time. Frustrated does not come close to what I felt. Anger is nearer to it, but there was a bountiful heaping of disappointment attached to whatever emotions were churning inside.

You do what you can with what you've got, I guess. That's what it comes down to for me, anyway. The calls came out and I was the first on scene, last to clear, and pounced on the radio before the scrubs could dictate the dispositions, as if they had been of any use at all. On more than one occasion I found myself praying to St. Michael out loud as I approached the addresses calling for help. Ride with me because you are the only backup I'll have tonight. At one point I was searching a hotel room alone, gun drawn, because the cavalry just wasn't coming and it had to get done. You take a deep breath, have faith in your training and just take the first step.

Three cars showed up after I had handled the entire call and served only as an embarrassment to a ridiculous situation. I am the rookie, I kept thinking.

I had this fantasy, this dream-team that I would put together if I could choose my own shift. It was too much to think about though, and on my way to back up another officer on a call I wasn't dispatched to I passed the zone car as he pulled into Dunkin Donuts, and lazily stepped out of his unit to go inside for a cup of coffee. The officer who was dispatched to be the backup on the call radioed in from the other side of town and I never called out that I was going to be enroute as well, so as far as this zone car knew, the primary officer would be on his own for some time at a fucked up situation. And still he felt that it would be okay to take a load off and grab a cup of coffee. I motherfucked him the whole way to the call. I remember him telling me on a slow night that he doesn't do anything that haven't trained me to do because why should I put myself out there and we were talking about typing reports on the computers in our cars. I remember regarding him as a sad old man then, scared, ineffective, and writing him off in my mind.

I realized tonight that there is really nothing that pisses me off more thoroughly than a bastard work ethic. Either shit, or get off the fucking pot. The "I'll show up eventually but only after someone else has arrived on scene first and only after I know that things won't be too fucked up" attitude puts my life on the line. We all took an oath when they gave us our guns and badges and no part of it contained the words, "I will hide on the edges of our jurisdiction" or "I will put forth the minimum effort required" or "I'm really just doing this for the job security and the benefits". Grow a fucking set and take some pride in what you do, what you are, the service you provide to your community. Or move the fuck on.

I was saved by a mutual aid call near shift change and the scrubs had to rely on themselves for awhile. As I was driving out to the other PD I was thinking about how much I work out, how I try to stay at the top of my game, how when it's slow I'll either play the street game, or drive around and think about how I would handle different tactical situations around our bailiwick. And I am by no means trying to sing my own praises, it's just that I know that these are the things that could save my fucking life one day, and I owe it to myself and my family to keep at it. I thought about my dream team and how it will never, not ever happen.

But then I had this vision of dad walking down the hall of his PD, with probably the same exact exasperated and FUCKING ANGRY look on his face as I had driving around in my patrol car. And how he would go into the kitchen, or the squad room, and proclaim, "There's no crime in here!!!" to which his officers could only respond by beating feet and getting the fuck out on the street where they belonged. And I prayed to God that someday I get the chance to say that to a room full of scrubs and have them respond similarly.

We don't work in an office building. People's lives hang in the balance when we choose to be lazy. Think about it.

Offering up my reward

Afternoon shift was ushered in with a flurry of good news and notes left for a job well done. The feeling of warmth paralyzed me as I stood in the dark in our tiny locker room, not moving until the waves had finished crashing over me. It is good to be appreciated. It is even better to believe that the praise is deserved.

Up on I-480 later, I thought the woman I was out with was going to fall off the bridge. Why is it that I always come across these people in the worst (tactically) places possible? Windy, rainy, heavy traffic, and there she was under the influence of something and trying to make her way back to me. In the back of my car she's telling me that I'm a very pretty cop and do I get hit on a lot? In between the sobbing and fumbling for her cell phone. She asks if I like my job, which I of course reply emphatically in the positive. So I reciprocate by asking her what she does and when the answer is exotic dancer I don't really know what to say. Then she follows it up by saying that she wants to be a detective. Then more unintelligible syllables in between the crying. I am getting a reputation for making people break down.

I asked John, later, if I really looked that mean and scary and he just laughed.

St. Michael stayed close all night because I was in good position for a majority of the calls we took. First on scene, last to clear, this is a good thing. I find that I use my stern voice (the one I use with Rocky) quite frequently while I'm working, but that there's always a part of me that just can't take myself seriously. A part of me that is standing a few feet away laughing at my attempt at seriousness. I am a kid playing dress-up in my dad's uniform.

When I got home, late, I went for a run and realized that it was my way of rewarding myself after a long and busy day. Took the watch off, the vest, the belt, it was just my shorts, shirt and running shoes. I felt weightless as I hit the streets and sucked the humid air down deep into my lungs. The fog clung to my skin and soaked me to the bone. Six miles clipped by like nothing and I found myself saying Gesu, Maria, Gesu, Maria under my breath to match the cadence of my feet.

It is good to go to bed hungry and tired.