When he fished his keys out of his pocket his rosary came out with them, black beads and silver chain wrapped around the ring and fob. He looked at me to see if I noticed, and I, of course, had. A half smile out of the side of my mouth. It made him instantly nervous and embarrassed, and he stuttered something about me thinking that it made him some kind of freak and how he made a promise to always carry it in his pocket. And I suppressed the emotions crashing over me and just quietly acknowledged how much the little things like this are what endears him to me. As if my hands were gentle enough, I could encase the moment in amber, forever.
Later, by a few days, he is leaning in, examining the talismans that I wear on chains around my neck. My efforts at keeping the dark and the evil at bay. The two pints of courage in his veins betrayed his excitement at yet another thing held in common. He reached into a jeans pocket and retrieved the rosary, and just looked at me. And I, of course, understood. He tells me, it's been in my pocket ever since I made the promise, so if I get killed on duty, remember. And it was all I could do to keep myself from reaching out right there, in front of all of our brothers. My wolf eyes held his gaze as long as he'd let me.
And later, and later. The way that we circle each other obscures the line between hunter and prey. We both want both, we want it all. Like a fire that is so hot it consumes everything without leaving even ash, or smoke. And will you consume me, too?
I vacillate between knowing that I'm smarter than this, and being awestruck. It is like being at the same time hopelessly smitten, and heartbroken. And I know there is no way this can last.
I guess that's what makes it so sweet while it does.
22.7.08
17.7.08
When I run
The first footfall strikes asphalt and cleaves my mind. The day's accumulated clutter evaporates as the first few hundred feet clip by. My entire body lets go of a huge sigh and I give myself over, entirely, to the rhythm of left right left right. And I smile and think to myself, my body was made for this.
After the first mile or so the cadences from the academy vie for my attention and I can see Adam, leading us with the guide-on in the blackness of early morning. Dedication, I got a lot of dedication... Standing upright, chest out, head high, I am an urban lion migrating around my territory. My heart leaps and I push into the cadence, quicken the pace and concentrate on lengthening my stride.
My mind is a deluge of thoughts, ideas, plans for the future, all with a hazy screen cast around them. As if the running had claimed the forefront of my brain and delegated the bric-a-brac of daily life to the subconscious where it can't disturb the feet, the legs. The streets open up, the sky picks me up and carries me, and I ask St. Sebastian if he wouldn't like to travel next to me, for old time's sake.
In the end, I get tired. It crashes over in waves, usually starting just before the turn-around, if there is one on the route. I have learned, though, that the game I play is 85% mental, and it is just a matter of crashing through the barriers in my mind like a raging bull. The body and mind have to submit to the will, to the street, and the meditation of each step. I see myself back at the academy yelling to my brethren we cannot fail when the troopers would hold us over on Fridays or wake us up at 0300 for hell night. It is still true, we cannot fail, because we have decided not to.
And the lion lets out a might roar.
At last, my body betrays itself, because when I can sense or see the route's end it lets out another sigh and bolsters itself to be done. A surrender that does not pass unnoticed. I discipline myself by sprinting to the finish. Don't hold back, don't cheat yourself. I cross the line and suck in the sweet air of early morning or late night, victorious. The veins in my calves pulse, sweat runs down my shins, my forehead is lined with blood vessels rushing oxygenated relief to my muscles, my brain. I think of the Spartan spirit within, and feel closer to her, more connected to something primal, simple, uncomplicated and necessary.
And I laugh when I think that I used to hate this.
After the first mile or so the cadences from the academy vie for my attention and I can see Adam, leading us with the guide-on in the blackness of early morning. Dedication, I got a lot of dedication... Standing upright, chest out, head high, I am an urban lion migrating around my territory. My heart leaps and I push into the cadence, quicken the pace and concentrate on lengthening my stride.
My mind is a deluge of thoughts, ideas, plans for the future, all with a hazy screen cast around them. As if the running had claimed the forefront of my brain and delegated the bric-a-brac of daily life to the subconscious where it can't disturb the feet, the legs. The streets open up, the sky picks me up and carries me, and I ask St. Sebastian if he wouldn't like to travel next to me, for old time's sake.
In the end, I get tired. It crashes over in waves, usually starting just before the turn-around, if there is one on the route. I have learned, though, that the game I play is 85% mental, and it is just a matter of crashing through the barriers in my mind like a raging bull. The body and mind have to submit to the will, to the street, and the meditation of each step. I see myself back at the academy yelling to my brethren we cannot fail when the troopers would hold us over on Fridays or wake us up at 0300 for hell night. It is still true, we cannot fail, because we have decided not to.
And the lion lets out a might roar.
At last, my body betrays itself, because when I can sense or see the route's end it lets out another sigh and bolsters itself to be done. A surrender that does not pass unnoticed. I discipline myself by sprinting to the finish. Don't hold back, don't cheat yourself. I cross the line and suck in the sweet air of early morning or late night, victorious. The veins in my calves pulse, sweat runs down my shins, my forehead is lined with blood vessels rushing oxygenated relief to my muscles, my brain. I think of the Spartan spirit within, and feel closer to her, more connected to something primal, simple, uncomplicated and necessary.
And I laugh when I think that I used to hate this.
8.7.08
You and me and the devil makes three.
I am learning to dislike Monday nights. Monday night fallout, some of the guys call it. The weekends are generally busy in my line of work, especially when we're on midnight shift. Especially in the summer. Days blend into each other for those of us on patrol, Friday, Saturday, Sunday kind of lose the power they once held in our lives. Generally they are just another day on patrol, and usually indicate a heavier work-load. But for the brass upstairs, Friday, Saturday, Sunday still have the same sense of holiday as they do for most every other 9-to-5'er. Which is my verbose way of saying that when you are promoted off the street, you get weekends and most major holidays off.
Which also means that the weekend belongs to us on patrol, the meat and potatoes of the department. And it gets busy, and it gets crazy. Sometimes.
And then comes Monday, always. And the brass. They come in from the quality time spent with families, from projects completed, picnics attended and friends visited. Groggy-eyed, coffee mugs clad in hand, they review the record of what our department accomplished over the weekend. This is what most of the guys refer to as Monday morning quarterbacking, and is where (in my estimation) 80% of the strife between upstairs and down is born.
In the academy, when we reviewed training tapes of line-of-duty shootings and traffic stops gone horribly wrong, they were always viewed first with the caveat that officers have to make split second decisions in rapidly evolving situations and it would be wrong for us to sit here and critique everything that the officer should have done differently, from the comfort of our sterile classroom. The mistakes were usually obvious because we had no adrenaline pumping through our veins, no fight or flight kicking in, no back to watch. I always felt like we should have just watched the video clips in silence, as a way to bear witness to the life of each fallen brother or sister, while at the same time creating file folders in our brains lest we find ourselves in similar situations out on the road.
I was driving around very early this morning, looking for criminal activity afoot, and I found myself thinking that the promotions might be too costly in the end. You trade in your boots for wingtips, your office no longer requires gasoline and you miss the sweet sound of the first birdsong at 0330 hours on summer mornings.
I ran it by my mentor and he agreed wholeheartedly. And I have not known him to be wrong.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Sometimes when we are together I don't know who is the captain and who is the ship. It's like being a teenager again with the way that I forget my inhibitions. And when you don't know how to leave, I know that it's the same for you. There is some kind of magic in the summer air so late at night. I can only imagine what autumn will bring.
Which also means that the weekend belongs to us on patrol, the meat and potatoes of the department. And it gets busy, and it gets crazy. Sometimes.
And then comes Monday, always. And the brass. They come in from the quality time spent with families, from projects completed, picnics attended and friends visited. Groggy-eyed, coffee mugs clad in hand, they review the record of what our department accomplished over the weekend. This is what most of the guys refer to as Monday morning quarterbacking, and is where (in my estimation) 80% of the strife between upstairs and down is born.
In the academy, when we reviewed training tapes of line-of-duty shootings and traffic stops gone horribly wrong, they were always viewed first with the caveat that officers have to make split second decisions in rapidly evolving situations and it would be wrong for us to sit here and critique everything that the officer should have done differently, from the comfort of our sterile classroom. The mistakes were usually obvious because we had no adrenaline pumping through our veins, no fight or flight kicking in, no back to watch. I always felt like we should have just watched the video clips in silence, as a way to bear witness to the life of each fallen brother or sister, while at the same time creating file folders in our brains lest we find ourselves in similar situations out on the road.
I was driving around very early this morning, looking for criminal activity afoot, and I found myself thinking that the promotions might be too costly in the end. You trade in your boots for wingtips, your office no longer requires gasoline and you miss the sweet sound of the first birdsong at 0330 hours on summer mornings.
I ran it by my mentor and he agreed wholeheartedly. And I have not known him to be wrong.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Sometimes when we are together I don't know who is the captain and who is the ship. It's like being a teenager again with the way that I forget my inhibitions. And when you don't know how to leave, I know that it's the same for you. There is some kind of magic in the summer air so late at night. I can only imagine what autumn will bring.
28.6.08
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...
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...
26.6.08
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.
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.
18.6.08
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.
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.
16.6.08
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.
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.
4.6.08
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.
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.
30.5.08
Thomas
I didn't think about the ramifications of going on a call with him. I didn't think about it until we were at Sparky and it was too late. Behind him in traffic and he shoots a quick repartee to "S" shift as she passes, and I respond in kind. What are we going to fucking do when we get there? All you can really do is just puff out your chest and summon Billy Bad-Ass.
It worked out okay, I guess. Hard tellin'. I felt relegated, but in the end I came out on top. Ruffled a little maybe, but there's statue polish for that. It's just hard to take yourself seriously when between the lines and pauses in conversation there is that pregnant void that says what are we fucking doing to each other? I don't have the answer.
When I have the time to catch my breath I find that I am reciting the Lord's prayer to myself. Not the new, politically correct version, but the one that was taught to the disciples, the only one that I can roll off my tongue and feel like it's poetry. And it is followed by a reflexive, Forgive me Father, for I am a sinner...
In truth I have a soft spot for the wicked because I know the line is very, very fine. I think they can sense it and most of the time the story ends with them crying and me explaining why the apology they offer is not owed to me, but to themselves. To that future that they could have claimed, but have postponed. And I wonder how much of it is absorbed. The pessimist is certain that it's less than ten percent. And she's really the only part of me that cares.
Forgive me father, for I am a sinner. I fumble through the darkness and pray for divine illumination. I hope that some day some deed makes me worthy of all the blessings I have been bestowed. Cause the Lord knows they have not, as yet, been merit based.
It worked out okay, I guess. Hard tellin'. I felt relegated, but in the end I came out on top. Ruffled a little maybe, but there's statue polish for that. It's just hard to take yourself seriously when between the lines and pauses in conversation there is that pregnant void that says what are we fucking doing to each other? I don't have the answer.
When I have the time to catch my breath I find that I am reciting the Lord's prayer to myself. Not the new, politically correct version, but the one that was taught to the disciples, the only one that I can roll off my tongue and feel like it's poetry. And it is followed by a reflexive, Forgive me Father, for I am a sinner...
In truth I have a soft spot for the wicked because I know the line is very, very fine. I think they can sense it and most of the time the story ends with them crying and me explaining why the apology they offer is not owed to me, but to themselves. To that future that they could have claimed, but have postponed. And I wonder how much of it is absorbed. The pessimist is certain that it's less than ten percent. And she's really the only part of me that cares.
Forgive me father, for I am a sinner. I fumble through the darkness and pray for divine illumination. I hope that some day some deed makes me worthy of all the blessings I have been bestowed. Cause the Lord knows they have not, as yet, been merit based.
24.5.08
The night before...
The thing is to just go faster, I realized. Alone on an unending expanse of asphalt and my mind was steeped in the rhythm of shifting gears, and the push-pull-push that became the revolutions of my feet. You can never go fast enough. My t-shirt was soaked with sweat where my pack rested against my back -- inside was my gun, my badge, a cell phone and the spiderwebs that link a person to reality, to the present moment.
I tried desperately to shuttle myself into the future. The self that is untainted, perfect in its ability to never be reached.
The phone rings, he asks me when I'll be back to work, and he already knows. The conversation flows like a Virgina Woolf manuscript, me watching me reading it back into the receiver. There must be a point in time when this is all outgrown, I vaguely wonder. I can see the way it plays out, the utter disappointment of it all. Elizabeth Taylor said he was indeed a stud, not a pool boy, and it broke the heart of Richard Burton. I don't want even the power to break a heart. Leave me to the open road, my ruminations, leave me to my naivete. Give me only the power that's contained in the bronze of my badge, nothing more. Forget these human failings, I want none of it.
Tomorrow you will find me a grave, man. MLE, remind me of our mortality. Remind me, every now and then, to not take anything so blasted seriously. People like to complicate their lives too much. The better answer is an open stretch of road and a personal record to beat.
St. Sebastian stay close. St. Therese, stay even closer. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory...
I tried desperately to shuttle myself into the future. The self that is untainted, perfect in its ability to never be reached.
The phone rings, he asks me when I'll be back to work, and he already knows. The conversation flows like a Virgina Woolf manuscript, me watching me reading it back into the receiver. There must be a point in time when this is all outgrown, I vaguely wonder. I can see the way it plays out, the utter disappointment of it all. Elizabeth Taylor said he was indeed a stud, not a pool boy, and it broke the heart of Richard Burton. I don't want even the power to break a heart. Leave me to the open road, my ruminations, leave me to my naivete. Give me only the power that's contained in the bronze of my badge, nothing more. Forget these human failings, I want none of it.
Tomorrow you will find me a grave, man. MLE, remind me of our mortality. Remind me, every now and then, to not take anything so blasted seriously. People like to complicate their lives too much. The better answer is an open stretch of road and a personal record to beat.
St. Sebastian stay close. St. Therese, stay even closer. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory...
19.5.08
Sing to me...
It was prefaced with la, la, la, and was scrawled across a Jenga brick that we discovered in Indiana one lonely summer evening. We read the missive aloud to each other and when our host guffawed and awkwardly dismissed its message, we two just looked at each other and knew. It could have easily been a directive from our future selves; don't tarry long here, you'll never find what you're looking for. And so we made an escape the next morning that would have made our grandfather proud.
Sometimes the clues are that obvious.
Most of the time though, we are left fumbling in the dark. This is what I was thinking about, as the Postal Service sang to me on my way in this morning, semi-dark of dawn being burned off by an eager sun, Yirgacheffe filling the car with the smell of coffee. We could spend our entire lives striving to attain perfection and not ever get there. The point is to just believe that perfection is possible, and to get up each day and try again.
I'm sure she has that Jenga block somewhere, still. Oh yes, we sequestered it away as soon as our host turned her back, I think we both were waiting for it to turn green and start glowing. But the words I carry with me, in my center, with the lion and all the little warriors. How can you be lonely when the ones you love are always so close?
This afternoon, after work, the black asphalt stretched out before me in a seemingly endless stretch of possibility. One foot in front of the other I fell into an easy rhythm and it occurred to me that really, what else is this life I've been given but one foot in front of the other? I may stumble, and oh, I have stumbled, but the thing is to just get up and take the next step. It seems so obvious. But how many times have I chosen to completely give up on the path because of just one misplaced footfall? Humility necessitates being able to forgive yourself. Get up, get going, get on with it.
We are already more perfect than we can ever know.
Sometimes the clues are that obvious.
Most of the time though, we are left fumbling in the dark. This is what I was thinking about, as the Postal Service sang to me on my way in this morning, semi-dark of dawn being burned off by an eager sun, Yirgacheffe filling the car with the smell of coffee. We could spend our entire lives striving to attain perfection and not ever get there. The point is to just believe that perfection is possible, and to get up each day and try again.
I'm sure she has that Jenga block somewhere, still. Oh yes, we sequestered it away as soon as our host turned her back, I think we both were waiting for it to turn green and start glowing. But the words I carry with me, in my center, with the lion and all the little warriors. How can you be lonely when the ones you love are always so close?
This afternoon, after work, the black asphalt stretched out before me in a seemingly endless stretch of possibility. One foot in front of the other I fell into an easy rhythm and it occurred to me that really, what else is this life I've been given but one foot in front of the other? I may stumble, and oh, I have stumbled, but the thing is to just get up and take the next step. It seems so obvious. But how many times have I chosen to completely give up on the path because of just one misplaced footfall? Humility necessitates being able to forgive yourself. Get up, get going, get on with it.
We are already more perfect than we can ever know.
15.5.08
Faith in inches.
I love to see the tow-trucks as we pass each other in opposite figure-eights around town. The small ones, when they are empty, leave their haulers pitched against the frames of the truck so that they look like rusty iron crucifixes, arms outstretched upward to the heavens, I am ready if you would only find me worthy. They are a modern reminder of how much suffering and beauty this world can contain, and it is good to remember.
Yesterday I was reminded of something my defensive tactics teacher told me. He was showing the class how much more important position is than technique. If you are trying to work a certain technique, and get fixated on it, you will invariably forget about your position and end up on your back, or worse. He said he would work a technique in inches, and it might take him forever to progress half an inch, but that in the long run it would always be worth it because he would never lose ground. And yesterday in my funk and frustration I thought, it is the same with faith. It is not something I can really elucidate but it filled me with a lot of hope and strength. We do not have to be perfect, we just have to believe that perfection is possible. And you get up each morning and you keep working.
Blessed Father,
teach me to be generous;
teach me to serve You as You deserve;
to give and not to count the cost,
to fight and not to heed the wounds,
to toil and not to seek for rest,
to labor and not to ask for reward
save that of knowing I am doing Your Will.
Yesterday I was reminded of something my defensive tactics teacher told me. He was showing the class how much more important position is than technique. If you are trying to work a certain technique, and get fixated on it, you will invariably forget about your position and end up on your back, or worse. He said he would work a technique in inches, and it might take him forever to progress half an inch, but that in the long run it would always be worth it because he would never lose ground. And yesterday in my funk and frustration I thought, it is the same with faith. It is not something I can really elucidate but it filled me with a lot of hope and strength. We do not have to be perfect, we just have to believe that perfection is possible. And you get up each morning and you keep working.
Blessed Father,
teach me to be generous;
teach me to serve You as You deserve;
to give and not to count the cost,
to fight and not to heed the wounds,
to toil and not to seek for rest,
to labor and not to ask for reward
save that of knowing I am doing Your Will.
4.5.08
Last Midnight
Working with John, finally, last night. I had prepared the text on what my necklace meant and why I wore it, and gave it to him as he loaded his cruiser up in the parking lot, me just arriving. His smile is beatific, I always think to myself, and it lit up his face when he realized I had remembered to bring the meaning in for him.
Hours later we are parked car to car in some parking lot in town and he hands me a photocopy of the story behind his pendant. It is all too much, too beautiful, to kind, and my insides melt with the tenderness that this world can sometimes contain. It is of St. Benedict, and he tells me, they were twins. Benedict and Scholastica.
There is a special twinkle in his bright blue eyes when he casually lets it slip that the two were monozygotes, and that they only met once a year after making the many-mile trek to one or the other monastery. But how close they were, how close. In the end they were buried together, united even in death.
Of St. Scholastica they say Some say that we should only petition God for momentously important matters. God's love, however, is so great that He wishes to give us every good thing. He is ever ready to hear our prayers: our prayers of praise and thanksgiving, and our prayers of petition, repentance, and intercession. Nothing is too great or too trivial to share with our Father. The dependent soul learns that everything we are and have is from His bountiful goodness; when we finally learn that lesson we turn to Him with all our hopes and dreams and needs. Saint Scholastica is obviously one of those who learned the lesson of her own helplessness.
I like this very, very much. I think I am in need of constant help and guidance from the divine and this helps me to believe that I am not the only one; nor are my constant requests and interruptions (perhaps) as annoying as I am afraid they are.
Thank God for John.
Hours later we are parked car to car in some parking lot in town and he hands me a photocopy of the story behind his pendant. It is all too much, too beautiful, to kind, and my insides melt with the tenderness that this world can sometimes contain. It is of St. Benedict, and he tells me, they were twins. Benedict and Scholastica.
There is a special twinkle in his bright blue eyes when he casually lets it slip that the two were monozygotes, and that they only met once a year after making the many-mile trek to one or the other monastery. But how close they were, how close. In the end they were buried together, united even in death.
Of St. Scholastica they say Some say that we should only petition God for momentously important matters. God's love, however, is so great that He wishes to give us every good thing. He is ever ready to hear our prayers: our prayers of praise and thanksgiving, and our prayers of petition, repentance, and intercession. Nothing is too great or too trivial to share with our Father. The dependent soul learns that everything we are and have is from His bountiful goodness; when we finally learn that lesson we turn to Him with all our hopes and dreams and needs. Saint Scholastica is obviously one of those who learned the lesson of her own helplessness.
I like this very, very much. I think I am in need of constant help and guidance from the divine and this helps me to believe that I am not the only one; nor are my constant requests and interruptions (perhaps) as annoying as I am afraid they are.
Thank God for John.
3.5.08
She thinks too much.
Reflecting upon my first OVI last night, my mortality came crashing down into my open window with so many raindrops the sky could no longer hold. It's not my car, who cares if it gets soaked. I will never forget the feeling that gripped me as I transported my drunk back to the station. So many signs were telling me that something was just not right, and I had a glimpse of our ride being played over and over in training courses, what to do when things go really bad.
But they didn't. The St. Joseph card that John gave me to tuck away into my ballistic vest worked its magic, and St. Michael rode into the Sally Port with me. The worst that happened was the guy called me a bitch, and I had to take his shoe off.
But the what could have happened scenarios haunted me, haunt me still, and I try to use their intrusion as good training. Lt. Accorti would be proud of how many "file folders" I have created in my brain these last two nights. I will never again question whether I should call out my stops, and I will make a promise to my future self and to everyone who loves me that I'll stay in the best physical shape I can.
Having breakfast with two of the guys at 4am and in between the laughing and their stories I wonder how wrong I've been. I think of Marcus Aurelius and the image that I hold of myself and question whether I am trying to mar it all somehow. And why? Damocles, your sword looms over me lately. Lord let me muster the strength of all my brethren and all saintly people to walk through the fires of temptation and terrestrial desire with my head held high and my good name unsullied. There is so much more to this life than ego, help me to remember. St. Therese stay near me.
Making my loop through the metparks early this morning I stopped in the middle of the roadway and rolled all the windows down. I could smell a nearby rainstorm in the air that rushed into the cruiser, along with the scent of green, of rotting leaves, of spring. I closed my eyes and drank it all in and meditated for a moment on the bird songs, the forest noises, the cool air caressing my tired face. These journeys down into the valley are perfect moments, gift-wrapped from God and I covet them almost shamefully. Thank you for the sense to be able to enjoy it all.
All my law enforcement brothers and sisters, be safe out there tonight.
But they didn't. The St. Joseph card that John gave me to tuck away into my ballistic vest worked its magic, and St. Michael rode into the Sally Port with me. The worst that happened was the guy called me a bitch, and I had to take his shoe off.
But the what could have happened scenarios haunted me, haunt me still, and I try to use their intrusion as good training. Lt. Accorti would be proud of how many "file folders" I have created in my brain these last two nights. I will never again question whether I should call out my stops, and I will make a promise to my future self and to everyone who loves me that I'll stay in the best physical shape I can.
Having breakfast with two of the guys at 4am and in between the laughing and their stories I wonder how wrong I've been. I think of Marcus Aurelius and the image that I hold of myself and question whether I am trying to mar it all somehow. And why? Damocles, your sword looms over me lately. Lord let me muster the strength of all my brethren and all saintly people to walk through the fires of temptation and terrestrial desire with my head held high and my good name unsullied. There is so much more to this life than ego, help me to remember. St. Therese stay near me.
Making my loop through the metparks early this morning I stopped in the middle of the roadway and rolled all the windows down. I could smell a nearby rainstorm in the air that rushed into the cruiser, along with the scent of green, of rotting leaves, of spring. I closed my eyes and drank it all in and meditated for a moment on the bird songs, the forest noises, the cool air caressing my tired face. These journeys down into the valley are perfect moments, gift-wrapped from God and I covet them almost shamefully. Thank you for the sense to be able to enjoy it all.
All my law enforcement brothers and sisters, be safe out there tonight.
28.4.08
The braggart
As soon as I said it, I wondered why I like to set traps for myself so much. Maybe it's all for the thrill of the challenge, was the only answer I was able to come up with in my sleep-exhausted delirium. Huge hand looming just outside the driver's window, I had to shake it as firmly as I could, lest I get thrown back into the girl's club. The license plate is not for nothing, I guess.
Aww, they wouldn't do it if they didn't like you he says to me again. How much this guy wants to prove to me that I'm in, that I passed their test, that they like having me around. And if they cut me open, inside they'd find a giant lion purring, so happy to have a home.
Yet I realize that much of the time I feel like a kid wearing grown-up shoes. Like I am play-acting. One time when I was in high school I tried on dad's uniform shirt. White, crisp, important; I remember feeling a power that belied my youth when I pondered my reflection in the bathroom mirror. And so it is even now, when I cinch down the velcro straps of my vest, and button my dark blue shirt over it. Shield gleaming under florescence. Don't let them in on the script, kiddo I tell myself. You tell yourself what you want to believe, and the body responds accordingly. It actually is quite simple.
And it is especially interesting to watch the play unfold between he and me. Apparently distance can't delay or deter the hunt, but perhaps that's more of a reflection on the veracity of the hunters than anything else. We must be crazy. Two trained, type-A predators, walking ever narrowing circles around each other under cover of the intoxication that is swept in by a month of midnight shift and not enough sleep. And now it spills out into the day, into real-life and I wonder how this is going to work. Smile on my face as I think it, I am a fucking gunfighter.
Aww, they wouldn't do it if they didn't like you he says to me again. How much this guy wants to prove to me that I'm in, that I passed their test, that they like having me around. And if they cut me open, inside they'd find a giant lion purring, so happy to have a home.
Yet I realize that much of the time I feel like a kid wearing grown-up shoes. Like I am play-acting. One time when I was in high school I tried on dad's uniform shirt. White, crisp, important; I remember feeling a power that belied my youth when I pondered my reflection in the bathroom mirror. And so it is even now, when I cinch down the velcro straps of my vest, and button my dark blue shirt over it. Shield gleaming under florescence. Don't let them in on the script, kiddo I tell myself. You tell yourself what you want to believe, and the body responds accordingly. It actually is quite simple.
And it is especially interesting to watch the play unfold between he and me. Apparently distance can't delay or deter the hunt, but perhaps that's more of a reflection on the veracity of the hunters than anything else. We must be crazy. Two trained, type-A predators, walking ever narrowing circles around each other under cover of the intoxication that is swept in by a month of midnight shift and not enough sleep. And now it spills out into the day, into real-life and I wonder how this is going to work. Smile on my face as I think it, I am a fucking gunfighter.
25.4.08
Two-eleven, he's running!
A poignant eye contact as I was heading east, and the split-second question if I should flip on them or not. Of course you're going to turn around, St. Michael tells me. And who am I to not obey?
Park the car and amble up in my best cool-hand Luke, I tell them that they look really young, and make small talk. This is so freaking sketchy, I'm telling myself. I jot down their info and as I'm walking over to my car I see the kid in the reflection of my windows, and he's looking behind him. This fucker's going to run passes through my brain like an early morning cloud that dissolves with the sun's first rays; fleeting. When I round the corner at the trunk he's looking at me again, talking to his buddy, and the sketchiness is like an eyelash on my eye. It irritates. There is maybe five feet between us now, and a car. How do you measure the distance it takes for a reaction?
It was almost like re-watching a movie. You know what is going to happen, and how it's going to play out. It was just a matter of buying myself enough time to develop a plan before it had to be enacted.
Apparently my planning-skills need work. The kid ditches his bike and we're off to the races through trees, bramble, fences, mud, backyards. And I can hear my entire shift descending upon the area, sirens wailing from each corner of our bailiwick. There is nothing like hearing them coming. Moments later I find him hiding out and I think about how when we were kids, Emily and I used to try to wedge ourselves between the mattress and the wall in our bedroom, when we were hiding from dad. The kid's sweat has bled through two pairs of shorts and a t-shirt, and though I'm swearing at him, I can't stop smiling.
There must be something wrong with me.
It was by far the most fun I've had so far on shift. But writing my report last night, the reality of the situation hit me. It's a total crap shoot. What are the odds that kid didn't have a gun? What would I have done had he decided to fight, and not so much the flight part? How mortal we are, in our black and whites, tin badges shiny under the street lights. It is too easy to forget.
I offer up everything that I have -- body, mind, soul -- and give them to St. Michael to keep in sacred trust. The only way that I can be effective in my job is to learn from every jacked up situation I find myself in, think tactically, have one of Accorti's file folders for each scenario I can dream up, and offer up my faith to a Higher Power. I have to believe that the Father, St. Michael, my guardian angel, my relatives, are always looking out for me. I make it home at the end of eight hours because it's part of a larger design. If by some stroke of fate I don't make it home, I have to believe that was part of the design, too. I have to believe this.
If you love me and you're reading this, I hope that you believe it too. We civil servants are a brave and precious few. Pray for us.
Park the car and amble up in my best cool-hand Luke, I tell them that they look really young, and make small talk. This is so freaking sketchy, I'm telling myself. I jot down their info and as I'm walking over to my car I see the kid in the reflection of my windows, and he's looking behind him. This fucker's going to run passes through my brain like an early morning cloud that dissolves with the sun's first rays; fleeting. When I round the corner at the trunk he's looking at me again, talking to his buddy, and the sketchiness is like an eyelash on my eye. It irritates. There is maybe five feet between us now, and a car. How do you measure the distance it takes for a reaction?
It was almost like re-watching a movie. You know what is going to happen, and how it's going to play out. It was just a matter of buying myself enough time to develop a plan before it had to be enacted.
Apparently my planning-skills need work. The kid ditches his bike and we're off to the races through trees, bramble, fences, mud, backyards. And I can hear my entire shift descending upon the area, sirens wailing from each corner of our bailiwick. There is nothing like hearing them coming. Moments later I find him hiding out and I think about how when we were kids, Emily and I used to try to wedge ourselves between the mattress and the wall in our bedroom, when we were hiding from dad. The kid's sweat has bled through two pairs of shorts and a t-shirt, and though I'm swearing at him, I can't stop smiling.
There must be something wrong with me.
It was by far the most fun I've had so far on shift. But writing my report last night, the reality of the situation hit me. It's a total crap shoot. What are the odds that kid didn't have a gun? What would I have done had he decided to fight, and not so much the flight part? How mortal we are, in our black and whites, tin badges shiny under the street lights. It is too easy to forget.
I offer up everything that I have -- body, mind, soul -- and give them to St. Michael to keep in sacred trust. The only way that I can be effective in my job is to learn from every jacked up situation I find myself in, think tactically, have one of Accorti's file folders for each scenario I can dream up, and offer up my faith to a Higher Power. I have to believe that the Father, St. Michael, my guardian angel, my relatives, are always looking out for me. I make it home at the end of eight hours because it's part of a larger design. If by some stroke of fate I don't make it home, I have to believe that was part of the design, too. I have to believe this.
If you love me and you're reading this, I hope that you believe it too. We civil servants are a brave and precious few. Pray for us.
23.4.08
I thought of you.
They say that if they didn't make fun of you it would mean they didn't like you. From the portrait left in my pigeon-hole, the story of how my absence was sorely missed during the whole poopy pants ordeal, and them calling me on channel 3 with the wannabe DUI last night, I feel very loved.
I ran the plate and timed how long it would take for her to ask me if I was out with that car on three. It shouldn't annoy me, it's good looking out, but it's the delivery I suppose. Gets under the skin. I had pre-planned the conversation we had. Then later on a traffic stop is this one?! he asks my sarge tells me about the car and I tell him that it annoys me how long it's been sitting there, active warrant and all. I give him my theories and he looks at me, patronizingly mischievous look on his face and says I think we have a new goal once we go to day shift. I can't hide my excitement and the geek dance rears its embarrassing head, if only for a moment. And I wonder if they're having as much fun as I am.
I think so.
My Lt. backed me up on one of my stops and the offender was really from Africa and had four names that were about twelve consonants long, each. I showed the license to my boss and without skipping a beat he tells me that I have to call in the DL and tell the dispatcher that my computer is frozen, that I need the information read back. I could barely get the lie across on the radio without breaking down into laughter. Her terse response unraveled us all and the guy behind the wheel must've thought he had rolled into some movie set. We are so professional! But at least we know how to have fun.
Another eight with the S shift tonight, after some much needed cajoling and encouragement from a comrade. St. Michael, if tonight is the night that I am supposed to get into it, please let it be when Simon has cleared station is on the hunt with me. May the spirit of all my law enforcement kinfolk, blood and not, be out with me tonight. We live only to serve, help us to be effective in our mission.
I ran the plate and timed how long it would take for her to ask me if I was out with that car on three. It shouldn't annoy me, it's good looking out, but it's the delivery I suppose. Gets under the skin. I had pre-planned the conversation we had. Then later on a traffic stop is this one?! he asks my sarge tells me about the car and I tell him that it annoys me how long it's been sitting there, active warrant and all. I give him my theories and he looks at me, patronizingly mischievous look on his face and says I think we have a new goal once we go to day shift. I can't hide my excitement and the geek dance rears its embarrassing head, if only for a moment. And I wonder if they're having as much fun as I am.
I think so.
My Lt. backed me up on one of my stops and the offender was really from Africa and had four names that were about twelve consonants long, each. I showed the license to my boss and without skipping a beat he tells me that I have to call in the DL and tell the dispatcher that my computer is frozen, that I need the information read back. I could barely get the lie across on the radio without breaking down into laughter. Her terse response unraveled us all and the guy behind the wheel must've thought he had rolled into some movie set. We are so professional! But at least we know how to have fun.
Another eight with the S shift tonight, after some much needed cajoling and encouragement from a comrade. St. Michael, if tonight is the night that I am supposed to get into it, please let it be when Simon has cleared station is on the hunt with me. May the spirit of all my law enforcement kinfolk, blood and not, be out with me tonight. We live only to serve, help us to be effective in our mission.
20.4.08
The blind squirrel.
It's like the difference between the Boston Scrod and my dad, I tell myself. You can take a wide-net approach and drag the entire ocean floor; sooner or later you're going to score at least one gold dubloon. But try and put my mind around it, I just don't see the thrill or even the pride in that. JD told me about strategies that were so much smoke and mirrors and how it doesn't take a lot of ingenuity.
So this is what I do, part of my car check when I climb in and caress the shotgun's barrel is to offer up my inadequacies to St. Michael and hope that still, he'll find me worthy. Guide my actions, make my footsteps your footsteps, illuminate my night and show me where I'm needed most. Every now and then whisper to me the reason I was called, and don't let the cynicism of the weak-hearted wreck my perspective. Remind me that I am a shepherd for you. Remind me that in my heart lives a lion who serves only to protect the weak, old, infirm, and naive. Help me to do your work on earth, as you do in Heaven.
If I was a lesser person I would save the message he left for me and play it back at briefing, on speaker, at shift change, for all to hear. Let him explain why he would keep it up, even in the midst of his Internal. I would replay the opening over and over and over, to drive home his lonliness, insecurity, isolation.
Like a cast statue, hollow on the inside.
But I understand that I'm a sheepdog and what my role is. So instead I ignore it. It burns the flesh for a minute or two but in the end is another rivet in the armor. St. Michael has to test his army every now and then lest we become complacent. The lack of a response is a much more thorough upset than any words could be, anyway.
So this is what I do, part of my car check when I climb in and caress the shotgun's barrel is to offer up my inadequacies to St. Michael and hope that still, he'll find me worthy. Guide my actions, make my footsteps your footsteps, illuminate my night and show me where I'm needed most. Every now and then whisper to me the reason I was called, and don't let the cynicism of the weak-hearted wreck my perspective. Remind me that I am a shepherd for you. Remind me that in my heart lives a lion who serves only to protect the weak, old, infirm, and naive. Help me to do your work on earth, as you do in Heaven.
If I was a lesser person I would save the message he left for me and play it back at briefing, on speaker, at shift change, for all to hear. Let him explain why he would keep it up, even in the midst of his Internal. I would replay the opening over and over and over, to drive home his lonliness, insecurity, isolation.
Like a cast statue, hollow on the inside.
But I understand that I'm a sheepdog and what my role is. So instead I ignore it. It burns the flesh for a minute or two but in the end is another rivet in the armor. St. Michael has to test his army every now and then lest we become complacent. The lack of a response is a much more thorough upset than any words could be, anyway.
18.4.08
cat & mouse
It's the thrill of the hunt, I realized in my six-a.m.-I-was-too-busy-to-even-eat delirium. The excitement of being at the same time both predator and prey, being drawn into a spiderweb and pretending like you don't want to be trapped. We are walking ever-smaller circles around each other.
The dome light was on when I got to work last night and then I heard the scratch scratch of the PA mic being keyed. It was a lit match dropped into a tinder box. The beeps started a few minutes later and continued like a fierce game of digital tennis back and forth and back and forth between we two until even beyond the wee hours. And I just kept thinking how different and intoxicating it is to be hunted, as I lowered my archer's bow and closed my eyes. St. Therese help me.
When I came in there was a cluster of people standing around the entrance to my locker room, questions, jokes, follow-up. It was like a pack of dogs and he was the alpha, watching everything from just a step removed. He never posed a question but I answered them all to him. Blue eyes piercing beyond the meaning of whatever words my mouth was spewing. I can't help myself for being so aggressive. But I can pretend to be the prey, we can keep playing our game. Watched him walk out towards his car, we knew it was time but neither of us could find a satisfying way of putting the hunt on hold. It was like having a handful of sand that despite your best efforts keeps slipping between your fingers. And then a final volley from him as I was on the road home, bright-red sunrise in my rear view mirror lighting my eyes on fire.
The dome light was on when I got to work last night and then I heard the scratch scratch of the PA mic being keyed. It was a lit match dropped into a tinder box. The beeps started a few minutes later and continued like a fierce game of digital tennis back and forth and back and forth between we two until even beyond the wee hours. And I just kept thinking how different and intoxicating it is to be hunted, as I lowered my archer's bow and closed my eyes. St. Therese help me.
When I came in there was a cluster of people standing around the entrance to my locker room, questions, jokes, follow-up. It was like a pack of dogs and he was the alpha, watching everything from just a step removed. He never posed a question but I answered them all to him. Blue eyes piercing beyond the meaning of whatever words my mouth was spewing. I can't help myself for being so aggressive. But I can pretend to be the prey, we can keep playing our game. Watched him walk out towards his car, we knew it was time but neither of us could find a satisfying way of putting the hunt on hold. It was like having a handful of sand that despite your best efforts keeps slipping between your fingers. And then a final volley from him as I was on the road home, bright-red sunrise in my rear view mirror lighting my eyes on fire.
17.4.08
Batman
I stopped driving for a little while around five because I was just too tired. I was almost a liability, on the road. I pulled into one of my fishing holes and cranked up whatever Indie rock was on the Left of Center channel. A few minutes later I saw a figure getting closer on my driver's side periphery. A cool blast of spring morning air rushed into the car when I rolled the window down and saw that it was JD weaving his way towards my hideout on his bike.
Big smile on my face. He is easily my favorite and I covet the little time I get to spend with him. I don't think the other guys completely get him. They joke with me about sex, bodily functions, masturbation, and JD and I discuss God and faith.
And I don't want it to sound like I judge or compare the relationships with each other. They all have their place. It is just rare and precious when you meet someone that you know you have known before. And so it goes.
Anyway we're talking, catching up, spewing out conversation because we only have twenty or so minutes and we've got to use the time wisely. He asks me about the crucifix, I was waiting for him to ask about it since Friday, and like always I lay my imperfections and vulnerabilities out for him to see because I know he'll understand.
A momentary pause, the spring breeze is cold but it brings bird songs, and the promise of warmth, renewal. He asks so how is the search for the perfect man coming? And all I can do is look at him and laugh. I knew this was a pending conversation as well, but was looking forward to it; we must have some DNA in common with how similarly our thoughts run. We talk and I give him my "hands off, you'll only find what you want when you're not looking" spiel and he gives me the mischievous look of approval. Tells me that these are things we have to pray about and that if it's meant to be God won't let us down. He says that he truly thinks there is one person out there who is meant for us, it's just a matter of having the faith that you'll find them. When he says it, it's clear he's thinking about his wife and I think how lucky some of us are.
And then a nano-second later I think of Nate. I am patient. At times though I feel like Rumi with his talk about having a barrel full of wine but no cups. The Good Lord's blessing can be so overpowering sometimes that it's painful and I feel like I might explode from the beauty of what I've been given. I would walk to the ends of the earth, and still I'd wait.
Then he had to go and we lamented the fact that it will be nearly a year before we get to work together again. In reality it will be a little over a week, but it already feels like an eternity.
The sun was breaking up the eastern horizon with reds and purples and oranges, and I pointed my cruiser in the direction of the metro parks. There were no other cars there this morning. I rolled both windows down to let in the forest sounds and the cold air. The ground was glittery with frost, and as the sun hit each blade of grass it gave up its dew in watery vapor like the earth heaving out a big sigh. And I sighed, too.
Big smile on my face. He is easily my favorite and I covet the little time I get to spend with him. I don't think the other guys completely get him. They joke with me about sex, bodily functions, masturbation, and JD and I discuss God and faith.
And I don't want it to sound like I judge or compare the relationships with each other. They all have their place. It is just rare and precious when you meet someone that you know you have known before. And so it goes.
Anyway we're talking, catching up, spewing out conversation because we only have twenty or so minutes and we've got to use the time wisely. He asks me about the crucifix, I was waiting for him to ask about it since Friday, and like always I lay my imperfections and vulnerabilities out for him to see because I know he'll understand.
A momentary pause, the spring breeze is cold but it brings bird songs, and the promise of warmth, renewal. He asks so how is the search for the perfect man coming? And all I can do is look at him and laugh. I knew this was a pending conversation as well, but was looking forward to it; we must have some DNA in common with how similarly our thoughts run. We talk and I give him my "hands off, you'll only find what you want when you're not looking" spiel and he gives me the mischievous look of approval. Tells me that these are things we have to pray about and that if it's meant to be God won't let us down. He says that he truly thinks there is one person out there who is meant for us, it's just a matter of having the faith that you'll find them. When he says it, it's clear he's thinking about his wife and I think how lucky some of us are.
And then a nano-second later I think of Nate. I am patient. At times though I feel like Rumi with his talk about having a barrel full of wine but no cups. The Good Lord's blessing can be so overpowering sometimes that it's painful and I feel like I might explode from the beauty of what I've been given. I would walk to the ends of the earth, and still I'd wait.
Then he had to go and we lamented the fact that it will be nearly a year before we get to work together again. In reality it will be a little over a week, but it already feels like an eternity.
The sun was breaking up the eastern horizon with reds and purples and oranges, and I pointed my cruiser in the direction of the metro parks. There were no other cars there this morning. I rolled both windows down to let in the forest sounds and the cold air. The ground was glittery with frost, and as the sun hit each blade of grass it gave up its dew in watery vapor like the earth heaving out a big sigh. And I sighed, too.
11.4.08
Midnights
The other night I did a prisoner transport with Billy to ELY, to pick up a kid that I had already picked up once before. It was union talk the whole way, he recruiting me. The highway on the way there was dark like being under water. I stared at Billy's profile in my periphery, momentary silhouettes as we passed streetlights. He is what comes to mind when you think of a police officer; tall, strong, high-and-tight cut, attractive, outgoing, hilarious.
He remembered me, the kid we were picking up, like we were old friends, and Billy made a point of asking if we were. On the ride back the three of us made small talk, mostly Billy and me trying to get each other to laugh at the expense of the drunk kid in the back. Waiting for the light at West and Broad, Billy said he wanted to run it but wouldn't because of the ELY zone car behind us. The kid says, Man you can do whatever the fuck you want, you the police. Billy and I looked at each other and just laughed. At four a.m. it's the funniest thing I have ever heard.
And I had been working so hard to find a drunk. I am like a terminator, I have a loop that I know they travel, and between midnight and two-thirty I am a road dog, out hunting. JD caught one the other night and he looked like a little kid at Christmas. I thought, my God there is something wrong with us all. His smile overwhelmed his whole face when he recounted the story to me. I must have the saddest look of disappointment on my stops when I find out they're sober because last night my sarge told me in his thick accent, not to worry, you'll get your first one soon, just keep up the hunting!
The slap-happiness is starting earlier and earlier. Last night at shift briefing Manny had me laughing so hard I was crying. Then we went on a call of a drunk at a gas station, and it ended up being a really old Vietnamese dude with absolutely no teeth in his head, who was impossible to understand. I had to walk away a couple of times because I couldn't suppress the laughter. I am a grown ass kid.
Bless the police & fire, help us maintain a ridiculously inappropriate sense of humor... I think it's the only thing that keeps us sane and helps us process what we have to see during our tours.
He remembered me, the kid we were picking up, like we were old friends, and Billy made a point of asking if we were. On the ride back the three of us made small talk, mostly Billy and me trying to get each other to laugh at the expense of the drunk kid in the back. Waiting for the light at West and Broad, Billy said he wanted to run it but wouldn't because of the ELY zone car behind us. The kid says, Man you can do whatever the fuck you want, you the police. Billy and I looked at each other and just laughed. At four a.m. it's the funniest thing I have ever heard.
And I had been working so hard to find a drunk. I am like a terminator, I have a loop that I know they travel, and between midnight and two-thirty I am a road dog, out hunting. JD caught one the other night and he looked like a little kid at Christmas. I thought, my God there is something wrong with us all. His smile overwhelmed his whole face when he recounted the story to me. I must have the saddest look of disappointment on my stops when I find out they're sober because last night my sarge told me in his thick accent, not to worry, you'll get your first one soon, just keep up the hunting!
The slap-happiness is starting earlier and earlier. Last night at shift briefing Manny had me laughing so hard I was crying. Then we went on a call of a drunk at a gas station, and it ended up being a really old Vietnamese dude with absolutely no teeth in his head, who was impossible to understand. I had to walk away a couple of times because I couldn't suppress the laughter. I am a grown ass kid.
Bless the police & fire, help us maintain a ridiculously inappropriate sense of humor... I think it's the only thing that keeps us sane and helps us process what we have to see during our tours.
5.4.08
Fiftytwoeleven it is.
Today we were called upon, mutual aid, to take down a very high-risk felon... fugitive from justice from the U.S. Marshals, among others, for things as varied as weapons charges, drug trafficking, felonious assault. This was a bad dude. He's run from the police on several occasions, and has fought with law enforcement before.
There we are in the hallway, banging on the door, wardog behind a SWAT shield, me and the other guy trying to take what cover we could find, guns drawn. My sergeant had his assault rifle slung over his shoulder, yelling at people to stay in their apartments and not come out. We four were all tactics and cover. Standing there waiting, I found myself praying to St. Michael, guide my actions, keep my brothers safe, help us to do the right thing, in your name... The feds, on the other hand... the three of us local cops had a "debriefing" afterwards, as we were forming our own rag-tag extradition team, about how messed up the whole thing was.
It ended up that this super-bad felon wasn't home. Two of the feds spent the better part of fifteen minutes trying to pick the apartment door lock, which made all kinds of racket, which is why all the tenants were sticking their heads out of their doors. What the fuck is going on out there? Wardog holding the shield the whole time, while the feds have their completely exposed faces two inches from the keyhole. And I'm thinking, if this guy is home he is either arming himself for Armageddon right now, or a shotgun blast is about to rip through the front door, or JD is going to be yelling into the mic that everyone bailed out the back.
Finally the lock was defeated and we three local cops cleared the apartment as tactically as we could with the feds nipping at our heels. Wardog still with the shield. We waited so long to make entry that after a cursory sweep, I had to clear to take the calls that had stacked up during the anti-climax.
From then on it was mostly call-to-call, but nothing of much consequence and I only got one report. During a lull I switched my MDT over to AVOL and saw 215 in the list of who was working. A big, ridiculous smile spread across my face, betraying me.
Sometimes loneliness is the best feeling in the world.
A toast to you if you know what I'm talking about. And a prayer for you if you don't. I told Matt today that our reward isn't measured in dollars or cents, it's reaped internally and most of the time with no one but us knowing. He gave me the you are a corny fucking girl look and I, I didn't break stride in walking back out to my cruiser and calling 10-8... anything pending?
There we are in the hallway, banging on the door, wardog behind a SWAT shield, me and the other guy trying to take what cover we could find, guns drawn. My sergeant had his assault rifle slung over his shoulder, yelling at people to stay in their apartments and not come out. We four were all tactics and cover. Standing there waiting, I found myself praying to St. Michael, guide my actions, keep my brothers safe, help us to do the right thing, in your name... The feds, on the other hand... the three of us local cops had a "debriefing" afterwards, as we were forming our own rag-tag extradition team, about how messed up the whole thing was.
It ended up that this super-bad felon wasn't home. Two of the feds spent the better part of fifteen minutes trying to pick the apartment door lock, which made all kinds of racket, which is why all the tenants were sticking their heads out of their doors. What the fuck is going on out there? Wardog holding the shield the whole time, while the feds have their completely exposed faces two inches from the keyhole. And I'm thinking, if this guy is home he is either arming himself for Armageddon right now, or a shotgun blast is about to rip through the front door, or JD is going to be yelling into the mic that everyone bailed out the back.
Finally the lock was defeated and we three local cops cleared the apartment as tactically as we could with the feds nipping at our heels. Wardog still with the shield. We waited so long to make entry that after a cursory sweep, I had to clear to take the calls that had stacked up during the anti-climax.
From then on it was mostly call-to-call, but nothing of much consequence and I only got one report. During a lull I switched my MDT over to AVOL and saw 215 in the list of who was working. A big, ridiculous smile spread across my face, betraying me.
Sometimes loneliness is the best feeling in the world.
A toast to you if you know what I'm talking about. And a prayer for you if you don't. I told Matt today that our reward isn't measured in dollars or cents, it's reaped internally and most of the time with no one but us knowing. He gave me the you are a corny fucking girl look and I, I didn't break stride in walking back out to my cruiser and calling 10-8... anything pending?
4.4.08
A picture of you.
While running this morning I offered up praise to St. Sebastian for giving me the body and the will to hit the streets everyday. It was the perfect weather for movement; overcast, damp, at first chilly. Each breath in was nearly twenty-five percent water vapor; good for any running fool.
Laying down in my bed last night I started on my thanks-giving. There was a long silence after my usual fumblings of gratitude. I clasped my hands together, took in deep breath after deep breath; I couldn't get him out of my mind. At once it made me feel both ridiculously human and embarrassed for the truth of my selfishness. Sometimes we can't help what the heart asks for, is the thought that I reconciled myself with. Maybe patience is my way of being penitent. I would not be able to act in a way which would bring discredit to me, or he, or to break His covenant; which requires great patience, almost to the point of negation. And there I lay, hands clasped, telling myself that Nature provides us with what we are meant to have.
But the heart, oh how it hopes.
St. Michael guide my feet this weekend. Protect my brethren and me with a ready sword. Let us do your work in our mortal jurisdictions. St. Dwynwen help me to find happiness, resolve. And more than anything, patience.
Laying down in my bed last night I started on my thanks-giving. There was a long silence after my usual fumblings of gratitude. I clasped my hands together, took in deep breath after deep breath; I couldn't get him out of my mind. At once it made me feel both ridiculously human and embarrassed for the truth of my selfishness. Sometimes we can't help what the heart asks for, is the thought that I reconciled myself with. Maybe patience is my way of being penitent. I would not be able to act in a way which would bring discredit to me, or he, or to break His covenant; which requires great patience, almost to the point of negation. And there I lay, hands clasped, telling myself that Nature provides us with what we are meant to have.
But the heart, oh how it hopes.
St. Michael guide my feet this weekend. Protect my brethren and me with a ready sword. Let us do your work in our mortal jurisdictions. St. Dwynwen help me to find happiness, resolve. And more than anything, patience.
2.4.08
Choir Practice
Got my second warrant arrest out of a traffic stop last night. Right place, right car, right time to ask for ID from the occupants, St. Michael rides with me and whispers in my ear, I think. This time JD was my backup and it was like old times. Parked car-to-car at a gas station at the halfway point, it was nothing but inside jokes shot like arrows from he to me and back again, across the asphalt, grazing Matt but never hitting him. It is as if I have already known some of those guys for years.
In the station they told me to save some arrests for everyone else. Laughing the whole time, and again with the Mother Hen. This time my Sgt. re-enacted the birth of my nickname, complete with pecking and wing-flapping. I laughed so hard that I couldn't breathe.
There were eleven cars on the road last night, with thirteen of us clad in blue, we were tripping all over each other and it was fantastic. You couldn't turn a corner without seeing a zone car.
At shift outing we were at least twenty. A huge table with never-empty pitchers of beer and pans of pizza and I, rookie that I am, never paid a dime. This is what it is to be a part of the fold, I guess. They kept coming up, in various stages of inebriation, telling me I had passed the test. It is kind of like inheriting a ridiculously loyal family-in-law, but without the hassle of marriage. We are dysfunctional but we don't let it stop us. One by one I made eye-contact with my brothers around the table and one-by-one we honored each other. And then this morning one of the guys (who could only attend via cell phone because of school) sent me a text making sure I made it home in one piece.
Glory Be. What else could you want?
That my overflowing cup would spill out and fill the cups of those who thirst yet are still not quenched. That all who seek would find this kind of meaning.
In the station they told me to save some arrests for everyone else. Laughing the whole time, and again with the Mother Hen. This time my Sgt. re-enacted the birth of my nickname, complete with pecking and wing-flapping. I laughed so hard that I couldn't breathe.
There were eleven cars on the road last night, with thirteen of us clad in blue, we were tripping all over each other and it was fantastic. You couldn't turn a corner without seeing a zone car.
At shift outing we were at least twenty. A huge table with never-empty pitchers of beer and pans of pizza and I, rookie that I am, never paid a dime. This is what it is to be a part of the fold, I guess. They kept coming up, in various stages of inebriation, telling me I had passed the test. It is kind of like inheriting a ridiculously loyal family-in-law, but without the hassle of marriage. We are dysfunctional but we don't let it stop us. One by one I made eye-contact with my brothers around the table and one-by-one we honored each other. And then this morning one of the guys (who could only attend via cell phone because of school) sent me a text making sure I made it home in one piece.
Glory Be. What else could you want?
That my overflowing cup would spill out and fill the cups of those who thirst yet are still not quenched. That all who seek would find this kind of meaning.
1.4.08
Tonight, eleven
Used to be my lucky number.
The first hour I drove around my zone in big concentric circles, wondering what I was supposed to be doing. I jumped at the first chance to be someone's backup, to mete out my own SIFA, and then again drove around in ever-narrowing rings. I parked at one of the many fishing holes in the city, and called my brother-in-law for guidance. "Now what?" As always, he gave me good advice, and no sooner had I devised a plan for myself a call came out and I had a mission. It mostly went like that for the rest of the night and each day thereafter has been a watered down version of the above. I'm slowly getting used to steering the ship where I want it to go.
The other night I made my first DUS/Warrant stop. Nature provided me with all that needed, in that BB had switched with one of the guys and was working on our shift. My warrant appeared on his MDT and a second later his nasal voice was on channel 3, "A., you got him?" And when I said he was my driver BB came back with, "I'm on my way from the mall," and over the radio I could hear the car already in gear, the engine revving. They pay me to do this, I kept thinking. He came flying down the road and we, cops that we are, handled it.
They applauded me in the squad room later, mostly I think to rub it in the faces of the other rookies. And still they tease me about how protective I am of the guys, most of whom are twice my size and could probably bench my weight one-handed. They call me Mother Hen now. In the same way that MLE calls me Scrappy Doo. This is the best nickname they could have come up with, because as easy as it is to forget this, everyday we call 10-8 we're walking a line between life and death. You just never know. It's good to have over-protective, compulsive, type-A people as your backup.
Blessed Father thank you for all that you have bestowed upon me. I hope that someday my actions will have made me worthy of such gifts. St. Michael protect me and my brethren with a ready sword, guide us in our duty of herding the flock on earth as you do above. In nomine Patris, et fillii, et Spiritus Sancti.
Another eight tonight and then shift outing. I am so freaking lucky.
The first hour I drove around my zone in big concentric circles, wondering what I was supposed to be doing. I jumped at the first chance to be someone's backup, to mete out my own SIFA, and then again drove around in ever-narrowing rings. I parked at one of the many fishing holes in the city, and called my brother-in-law for guidance. "Now what?" As always, he gave me good advice, and no sooner had I devised a plan for myself a call came out and I had a mission. It mostly went like that for the rest of the night and each day thereafter has been a watered down version of the above. I'm slowly getting used to steering the ship where I want it to go.
The other night I made my first DUS/Warrant stop. Nature provided me with all that needed, in that BB had switched with one of the guys and was working on our shift. My warrant appeared on his MDT and a second later his nasal voice was on channel 3, "A., you got him?" And when I said he was my driver BB came back with, "I'm on my way from the mall," and over the radio I could hear the car already in gear, the engine revving. They pay me to do this, I kept thinking. He came flying down the road and we, cops that we are, handled it.
They applauded me in the squad room later, mostly I think to rub it in the faces of the other rookies. And still they tease me about how protective I am of the guys, most of whom are twice my size and could probably bench my weight one-handed. They call me Mother Hen now. In the same way that MLE calls me Scrappy Doo. This is the best nickname they could have come up with, because as easy as it is to forget this, everyday we call 10-8 we're walking a line between life and death. You just never know. It's good to have over-protective, compulsive, type-A people as your backup.
Blessed Father thank you for all that you have bestowed upon me. I hope that someday my actions will have made me worthy of such gifts. St. Michael protect me and my brethren with a ready sword, guide us in our duty of herding the flock on earth as you do above. In nomine Patris, et fillii, et Spiritus Sancti.
Another eight tonight and then shift outing. I am so freaking lucky.
26.3.08
Fifty-two-what?
And a Shepherd I shall be
For thee, my Lord, for thee.
Power hath descended forth from Thy hand
My feet may swiftly carry out Thy commands.
St. Michael, guide me with a ready sword,
St. Christopher lead me with the light of our Lord.
In Nomeni Patri, Et Fili, Spiritus Sancti.
I offer thanks for all that I have been given. For the mental discipline I gained while at the Academy, though I suffered the whole way through, I am a stronger person now. (And no suffering goes unnoticed.) For the training officers that I had, how incredibly lucky I am that it worked out the way it did. For not being stuck with a "bad apple" for very long and for having countless allies who stepped in and helped me get through the short time that I was. For my mentor, flawed as he is, for his guidance, humor, zeal and enthusiasm. For his efforts at being a spiritual father to me, that he could sense my wanderings and stepped in with his Shepherd's staff. May his family be blessed beyond the limits of this material existence. For the family that I am a part of, that my genetics gave me an advantage over the others. To my father for passing on his charm with strangers, especially emotionally and mentally disturbed people. That I don't feel lost when talking with people whose words make absolutely no kind of sense. For all of my relatives, departed, whom I started calling on in the early morning hours at the Academy, and find myself praying to for guidance on my way to calls. To all the saints and holy people of this world present and past, for your work and devotion.
In a few days I'll be riding on my own. I'll let you know how it goes...
For thee, my Lord, for thee.
Power hath descended forth from Thy hand
My feet may swiftly carry out Thy commands.
St. Michael, guide me with a ready sword,
St. Christopher lead me with the light of our Lord.
In Nomeni Patri, Et Fili, Spiritus Sancti.
I offer thanks for all that I have been given. For the mental discipline I gained while at the Academy, though I suffered the whole way through, I am a stronger person now. (And no suffering goes unnoticed.) For the training officers that I had, how incredibly lucky I am that it worked out the way it did. For not being stuck with a "bad apple" for very long and for having countless allies who stepped in and helped me get through the short time that I was. For my mentor, flawed as he is, for his guidance, humor, zeal and enthusiasm. For his efforts at being a spiritual father to me, that he could sense my wanderings and stepped in with his Shepherd's staff. May his family be blessed beyond the limits of this material existence. For the family that I am a part of, that my genetics gave me an advantage over the others. To my father for passing on his charm with strangers, especially emotionally and mentally disturbed people. That I don't feel lost when talking with people whose words make absolutely no kind of sense. For all of my relatives, departed, whom I started calling on in the early morning hours at the Academy, and find myself praying to for guidance on my way to calls. To all the saints and holy people of this world present and past, for your work and devotion.
In a few days I'll be riding on my own. I'll let you know how it goes...
12.3.08
Plink.
It was SO SLOW last night so we screwed around in the range for awhile and I got to shoot this:
The first trigger pull requires ape-like grip strength but once you get used to it, it's no big deal. The single-action pull plinks away like a bb gun, amazing! The bad guy in the target had a quarter-size cluster in his left eyeball after I was done with him. I will be adding this little destroyer to my uniform in the very near future...
Then afterwards we were sipping our coffee, cruising, talking, bonding, and he tells me that people go back and forth on caliber size and the 380 usually isn't given a lot of credit because of this ambiguous notion of "stopping power". He says that he'd rather have something that's going to put rounds down range than to have nothing at all. (Aim for the spine, the eye; smaller targets mean higher accuracy.) My dad used to say something similar, that he'd rather be tried by twelve than carried by six. I found myself making a mental note to think about this at the beginning of every shift. How quickly complacency can work itself into the daily routine, as if nothing bad could happen because it hasn't yet.
Remember, like your sergeant told you, you are trained for the very worst situations. You go in hoping that you're the one who gets to take the shot because that way you don't hesitate when you are.
Maybe someday peace and love will reign supreme. But for tonight I'll be sure to vest up and think tactically.
The first trigger pull requires ape-like grip strength but once you get used to it, it's no big deal. The single-action pull plinks away like a bb gun, amazing! The bad guy in the target had a quarter-size cluster in his left eyeball after I was done with him. I will be adding this little destroyer to my uniform in the very near future...
Then afterwards we were sipping our coffee, cruising, talking, bonding, and he tells me that people go back and forth on caliber size and the 380 usually isn't given a lot of credit because of this ambiguous notion of "stopping power". He says that he'd rather have something that's going to put rounds down range than to have nothing at all. (Aim for the spine, the eye; smaller targets mean higher accuracy.) My dad used to say something similar, that he'd rather be tried by twelve than carried by six. I found myself making a mental note to think about this at the beginning of every shift. How quickly complacency can work itself into the daily routine, as if nothing bad could happen because it hasn't yet.
Remember, like your sergeant told you, you are trained for the very worst situations. You go in hoping that you're the one who gets to take the shot because that way you don't hesitate when you are.
Maybe someday peace and love will reign supreme. But for tonight I'll be sure to vest up and think tactically.
11.3.08
Time
Moonlight illuminate my night and my days sun ray make the people say
And a vision some thing's missing so they're screaming out loud
Keep my feet on ground and my head in the clouds.
I'm the arrow, you're my bow, shoot me forth and I will go
And I know and I go and I go get up and go
Make me feel its for real tell me what you know.
And a vision some thing's missing so they're screaming out loud
Keep my feet on ground and my head in the clouds.
I'm the arrow, you're my bow, shoot me forth and I will go
And I know and I go and I go get up and go
Make me feel its for real tell me what you know.
9.3.08
Choose wisely
It seems, when I think about it, that I try to emulate him now when I go on calls. I think that I channel the slight condescension during interrogations, the calm steady way of fact gathering, methodical, organized. In a rush for no one. Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast they'd tell us at the academy. He is the example, personified.
I think about when we were in the jail trying to get information out of a pill addict. I was at first shocked at how rude he was, a part of his personality I hadn't seen up to that point. Now it makes sense (I still have to lose some of the baby fat). All the suggestions, the different ways of doing things, the questions, the motives. When we were on the side of the highway, walking up to the stopped car, and he looks at me and tells me which way to go if he yells "jump". All the hours spent imparting knowledge, with the occasional corny as hell joke.
I will be lonely when it's over!
But I am ridiculously lucky. As if now I could ever deny His existence, after all of these tiny little miracles.
I think about when we were in the jail trying to get information out of a pill addict. I was at first shocked at how rude he was, a part of his personality I hadn't seen up to that point. Now it makes sense (I still have to lose some of the baby fat). All the suggestions, the different ways of doing things, the questions, the motives. When we were on the side of the highway, walking up to the stopped car, and he looks at me and tells me which way to go if he yells "jump". All the hours spent imparting knowledge, with the occasional corny as hell joke.
I will be lonely when it's over!
But I am ridiculously lucky. As if now I could ever deny His existence, after all of these tiny little miracles.
3.3.08
My teachers
I have been blessed with a wide and diverse array of mentors. It seems that the longer I'm around, the more doors open, the more people want to give me what they've picked up along the way. I am incredibly grateful. Here is some of the advice I've been given, thus far.
"Don't die."
"Make it through each shift with all your clothes."
"Don't get too anxious about taking on something new, all you have to do is bullshit and look like you know what you're doing till one of us gets there to back you up."
"Curiosity makes you a good cop."
"We are the biggest gang in the country."
"The single guys here are all man-whores. They're nice but if you were my sister, I'd tell you to stay away from each one of them."
"It's okay to walk away from something that gives you a hinky feeling if you can't figure it out."
"We don't catch the bad guys because we're smarter than they are; we catch them because they're dumber than us."
"Tell yourself at the beginning of each shift that you're not going to die today."
"If you're doing your job right, you'll be worn out but you'll be ready to go right back out and do it all again."
"Never sprint during a foot pursuit because you have to clean what you catch. Keep the bad guy in sight, eventually he'll stop running."
"One day you are going to really fuck something up. Know that it's coming, be able to learn from it, and move on. We've all been there."
"You are going to wreck a cruiser at some point."
"This job is mostly just knowing how and being able to talk to people. You were blessed with that talent and you should capitalize on it."
"Keep having fun."
"Ask for advice and help from the people you aspire to be like. We'll let you know if you're going to the wrong ones!"
"Stay on our side of the table."
"Keep learning, it keeps you young."
"Don't die."
"Make it through each shift with all your clothes."
"Don't get too anxious about taking on something new, all you have to do is bullshit and look like you know what you're doing till one of us gets there to back you up."
"Curiosity makes you a good cop."
"We are the biggest gang in the country."
"The single guys here are all man-whores. They're nice but if you were my sister, I'd tell you to stay away from each one of them."
"It's okay to walk away from something that gives you a hinky feeling if you can't figure it out."
"We don't catch the bad guys because we're smarter than they are; we catch them because they're dumber than us."
"Tell yourself at the beginning of each shift that you're not going to die today."
"If you're doing your job right, you'll be worn out but you'll be ready to go right back out and do it all again."
"Never sprint during a foot pursuit because you have to clean what you catch. Keep the bad guy in sight, eventually he'll stop running."
"One day you are going to really fuck something up. Know that it's coming, be able to learn from it, and move on. We've all been there."
"You are going to wreck a cruiser at some point."
"This job is mostly just knowing how and being able to talk to people. You were blessed with that talent and you should capitalize on it."
"Keep having fun."
"Ask for advice and help from the people you aspire to be like. We'll let you know if you're going to the wrong ones!"
"Stay on our side of the table."
"Keep learning, it keeps you young."
1.3.08
And so it goes
Preparing to leave and he hovers just outside of my personal space, telling me I should compete because I'd blow all the other females away. Tells me with my strength, endurance and shooting skill I'd win something for sure, most likely a gun. He keeps talking but the words stop reaching me. I'm looking at the photo of me and mom and dad at the academy, and thinking about how many times I've beaten him already. I am so much more than a couple of tits, some hips and the lack of a penis.
I wish I could take the preconceived out from under his feet, but I know that I can't. So I stop listening, I pack up, pick up, and move on.
Then out in the hallway and guys who aren't even on my shift are joking around with me, everyone doing their part to make me feel like one of the fold. We are sheepdogs, you remember.
I get words of support over the airwaves as I'm driving home down a sunny stretch of road, and yet even more encouragement (in the form of junior high teasing) once I've reached my door. There's just a couple of bad apples, and I've noticed most of the guys scooping me up in their wings and flying me away when I get too close to the rotten fruit.
And I wouldn't be happy any other way. This is why I signed on, this is why Emily said fuck you to doubt and became OFD's newest member. The brotherhood can make a joke of even the most cutting (and unjust) of criticisms. You're never really alone, and that's a rare thing these days.
*************************************
Your goals for the future, what you want and how you will take it. Remember that kid who was standing in a darkened parking lot of I-70 that September morning. There is a place that you can go to that no one understands, there is a place with limitless strength, yours for the taking. Never let yourself forget how you felt when they said your name. The pride you had associated with it, the strength it bore through those halls. Keep doing what you're doing, you have nothing but potential. (MLE this goes for you just the same. The only thing that gets in your way is doubt. Make it submit to your will and there will be nothing out of reach.)
I wish I could take the preconceived out from under his feet, but I know that I can't. So I stop listening, I pack up, pick up, and move on.
Then out in the hallway and guys who aren't even on my shift are joking around with me, everyone doing their part to make me feel like one of the fold. We are sheepdogs, you remember.
I get words of support over the airwaves as I'm driving home down a sunny stretch of road, and yet even more encouragement (in the form of junior high teasing) once I've reached my door. There's just a couple of bad apples, and I've noticed most of the guys scooping me up in their wings and flying me away when I get too close to the rotten fruit.
And I wouldn't be happy any other way. This is why I signed on, this is why Emily said fuck you to doubt and became OFD's newest member. The brotherhood can make a joke of even the most cutting (and unjust) of criticisms. You're never really alone, and that's a rare thing these days.
*************************************
Your goals for the future, what you want and how you will take it. Remember that kid who was standing in a darkened parking lot of I-70 that September morning. There is a place that you can go to that no one understands, there is a place with limitless strength, yours for the taking. Never let yourself forget how you felt when they said your name. The pride you had associated with it, the strength it bore through those halls. Keep doing what you're doing, you have nothing but potential. (MLE this goes for you just the same. The only thing that gets in your way is doubt. Make it submit to your will and there will be nothing out of reach.)
25.2.08
Pater Noster
You try to do what's right. A lot of the time I find that I'm in some nether-reality in my mind, almost like I'm a third-party observing from above and behind. I reach for the the switch to activate the lights, I grab the mic and call out, I position, I approach, I knock, I question. All as if on auto-pilot. But not in a way that tends towards apathy or disconnection -- it's more like there is a conscious delay in the synapses so that I might have a moment to reflect and consider while surveying the contents of a car (the movement of hands), or beginning a new line of questioning. A crescendo building up to the end game, one must be careful in its orchestration.
And it's funny, while I'm driving now I find myself reciting words that I thought I gave up on in high school, Our Father which art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, as in Heaven, so in earth. Give us day by day our daily bread. And forgive us our sins; for we also forgive every one that is indebted to us. And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil. For thine is the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory, forever and ever. Amen. I envision St. Michael just behind the cage, riding with me everywhere, sword always at the ready. Likewise, the spirit and strength of all my relatives (departed and not) fastened to me like another tool on my bat-belt.
And as often as I can, I give thanks. Today for a kindred spirit who has made it his mission to look out for me, to create experience for me while I am still cloistered. That he defends and sticks up for me more than, perhaps, I do for myself. I think about it sometimes and marvel at how lucky I am to have such an ally already.
Then today, at the hospital, I found myself reciting Hail Mary, full of grace... over and over for the blood-soaked and bruised woman I was questioning. I thought of the story of Mary Magdalene and how the most important thing to a meaningful life is devotion. And how fascinating that the lack of a belief system can really fuck a person up. When you worship yourself, your possessions, and your habit, how quickly everything around you dissolves, crumbles, evaporates.
The lesson is to work hard, earn what you have, but give thanks along the way. No one is entitled to anything. The most fucked up people that I encounter always say that they are owed something. You're not. Suck it up and make something of this life.
And it's funny, while I'm driving now I find myself reciting words that I thought I gave up on in high school, Our Father which art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, as in Heaven, so in earth. Give us day by day our daily bread. And forgive us our sins; for we also forgive every one that is indebted to us. And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil. For thine is the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory, forever and ever. Amen. I envision St. Michael just behind the cage, riding with me everywhere, sword always at the ready. Likewise, the spirit and strength of all my relatives (departed and not) fastened to me like another tool on my bat-belt.
And as often as I can, I give thanks. Today for a kindred spirit who has made it his mission to look out for me, to create experience for me while I am still cloistered. That he defends and sticks up for me more than, perhaps, I do for myself. I think about it sometimes and marvel at how lucky I am to have such an ally already.
Then today, at the hospital, I found myself reciting Hail Mary, full of grace... over and over for the blood-soaked and bruised woman I was questioning. I thought of the story of Mary Magdalene and how the most important thing to a meaningful life is devotion. And how fascinating that the lack of a belief system can really fuck a person up. When you worship yourself, your possessions, and your habit, how quickly everything around you dissolves, crumbles, evaporates.
The lesson is to work hard, earn what you have, but give thanks along the way. No one is entitled to anything. The most fucked up people that I encounter always say that they are owed something. You're not. Suck it up and make something of this life.
18.2.08
Jesus, Mary and Saint Joseph
I am not one to anger easily. I should qualify that. I am not generally set off by the trivial irritations of life. When Henry Rollins said life is fucking hard I knew, in my bones, he was right. Life is fucking hard. I am grateful for how much I've been given, and am proud of how far I've come because I worked my ass of to get here.
Yesterday brought anger like I haven't felt for, I can't remember how long. Even the troops in Columbus couldn't get to me the way he did yesterday. I walked back out to the cruiser, polyester soaked with rain that was coming in horizontally, cursing and fuming the whole way. John met my gaze with sympathy as I headed back out. I took everything out of the trunk. I completely removed the backseat. Flipped down the visors, I even looked in the glove box. I went back in, I'm sure my ears were glowing red, I was soaked, raging, and clenched in my fist the only thing I could find... a ticket that another officer had misplaced.
He looks at me through eyes barely visible beneath folds of skin and tells me that I found the wrong thing. John gives me a sideways glance. I go back outside, without waiting, and can hear his footfalls following me. He shows me, and when I tell him I'd never been shown to look there, he doesn't understand and tells me that I'm still responsible. At this point my ears were so hot that it was uncomfortable.
No one should be set up to fail. The adage is to teach a man how to fish, not to place him at the side of a river, screw with him, and then berate him for not catching anything when he doesn't even know what the fuck a fish is.
Much later a message from John broke the dam. Funny how that works. You tell yourself that you're strong, that this shit doesn't get to you, and in the end it's the caring, the love and support of your brothers that actually pokes through the armor. Goes to the place that you stockpile the insecurity and the weakness.
But thank God for him. And the others. The knowing looks, smiles, winks and secret conspiring conversations that help fill the idle time. And I guess, when I think about it, that's really why I signed up. If I could just take a step back from the flame, I would be amazed at how many allies I've already acquired.
But I can't remember ever having recited the Serenity Prayer so many times, silently, to myself.
Blessed Father, grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.
My new goal is to consistently beat him in activity each month. Shouldn't be hard. (So maybe I don't anger easily but damn am I cocky!)
Yesterday brought anger like I haven't felt for, I can't remember how long. Even the troops in Columbus couldn't get to me the way he did yesterday. I walked back out to the cruiser, polyester soaked with rain that was coming in horizontally, cursing and fuming the whole way. John met my gaze with sympathy as I headed back out. I took everything out of the trunk. I completely removed the backseat. Flipped down the visors, I even looked in the glove box. I went back in, I'm sure my ears were glowing red, I was soaked, raging, and clenched in my fist the only thing I could find... a ticket that another officer had misplaced.
He looks at me through eyes barely visible beneath folds of skin and tells me that I found the wrong thing. John gives me a sideways glance. I go back outside, without waiting, and can hear his footfalls following me. He shows me, and when I tell him I'd never been shown to look there, he doesn't understand and tells me that I'm still responsible. At this point my ears were so hot that it was uncomfortable.
No one should be set up to fail. The adage is to teach a man how to fish, not to place him at the side of a river, screw with him, and then berate him for not catching anything when he doesn't even know what the fuck a fish is.
Much later a message from John broke the dam. Funny how that works. You tell yourself that you're strong, that this shit doesn't get to you, and in the end it's the caring, the love and support of your brothers that actually pokes through the armor. Goes to the place that you stockpile the insecurity and the weakness.
But thank God for him. And the others. The knowing looks, smiles, winks and secret conspiring conversations that help fill the idle time. And I guess, when I think about it, that's really why I signed up. If I could just take a step back from the flame, I would be amazed at how many allies I've already acquired.
But I can't remember ever having recited the Serenity Prayer so many times, silently, to myself.
Blessed Father, grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.
My new goal is to consistently beat him in activity each month. Shouldn't be hard. (So maybe I don't anger easily but damn am I cocky!)
14.2.08
DOA and body found
He was one month older than me, to the day. Walking down to his room in the basement, I thought this was his world as I trudged down the steps, it smelled like shit and piss and old beer, stale cigarettes and unwashed clothes. His skin was jaundiced and pale. When the paramedics strapped him to the board his arms kept flopping off his paunch, like a suffocating fish. That's how we knew rigor hadn't set in, and also the first clue that he wouldn't be resuscitated.
The ghost lingered after the body was gone. There was vomit on the side of his pillow, a small stain, camouflaged by the spent epinephrine needles and AED wrappers. There was a violently loud stain on the couch where he was found, slumped over; the contents of his bladder, after the muscles stopped working. The coffee table was littered with empty beer bottles and cigarette ash, and his despondent cousin was still metabolizing whatever drug (or drugs) they had consumed together.
Eyes fixed and dilated.
We searched the basement for a reason why, as if God was waiting under some unturned cushion or pillow, and if we could only find Him, He'd tell us what had actually happened. Instead we found drugs, and pictures of a dearly departed girlfriend who had passed just four months previous. I think they call that motive. Or at least a reasonable suspicion of same. He had a shrine to her next to his bed.
I kept waiting for the emotion to kick in. A sense of loss, or reverence, or at least a quiet respect. But the accumulation of beer bottles and cigarette ash only served as a reminder that life should not be lived so destructively... as if it were an ever narrowing path to a finite end.
DB joked around with me and made PS grab my leg when I surveyed the closet. JD laughed and sighed and passed his judgment silently, as he always does. Not a one of us offered comfort to the anguished man upstairs or was very understanding when he cursed us as we left. All of us were playing our roles as if scripted. As if our feet were on tracks and we couldn't help but where they led us.
And the whole time I felt his ghost, hovering, just above my shoulders. Was this really my life? Is this really it, then? My God...
Bless me Father, for I have sinned...
The ghost lingered after the body was gone. There was vomit on the side of his pillow, a small stain, camouflaged by the spent epinephrine needles and AED wrappers. There was a violently loud stain on the couch where he was found, slumped over; the contents of his bladder, after the muscles stopped working. The coffee table was littered with empty beer bottles and cigarette ash, and his despondent cousin was still metabolizing whatever drug (or drugs) they had consumed together.
Eyes fixed and dilated.
We searched the basement for a reason why, as if God was waiting under some unturned cushion or pillow, and if we could only find Him, He'd tell us what had actually happened. Instead we found drugs, and pictures of a dearly departed girlfriend who had passed just four months previous. I think they call that motive. Or at least a reasonable suspicion of same. He had a shrine to her next to his bed.
I kept waiting for the emotion to kick in. A sense of loss, or reverence, or at least a quiet respect. But the accumulation of beer bottles and cigarette ash only served as a reminder that life should not be lived so destructively... as if it were an ever narrowing path to a finite end.
DB joked around with me and made PS grab my leg when I surveyed the closet. JD laughed and sighed and passed his judgment silently, as he always does. Not a one of us offered comfort to the anguished man upstairs or was very understanding when he cursed us as we left. All of us were playing our roles as if scripted. As if our feet were on tracks and we couldn't help but where they led us.
And the whole time I felt his ghost, hovering, just above my shoulders. Was this really my life? Is this really it, then? My God...
Bless me Father, for I have sinned...
3.2.08
As a law enforcement officer...
I've been on the road for nearly five weeks now, and the job is challenging, overwhelming at times, demanding, and ten-thousand times better than even the high expectations that I had for it. I love what I do. It feels right, it gives meaning to my life; I actually feel like I'm making the community better each time I call 10-8.
A few nights ago I stopped and arrested my first drunk driver. The guy was very cooperative, and failed each test miserably. He was so hammered that he couldn't remember where he was driving to pick up his 11 year old daughter. A cold shiver ran down my spine when I pieced it together that his young daughter was waiting for him about two blocks up the road. God knows what their fate would have been had I not noticed the equipment violation and decided to stop him for it.
It is an inconceivably thin line.
The other day I assisted on a domestic. The wife was so scared of the husband that she was visibly shaking as she gave us her account of what had happened. Fearful to take action because of the possible repercussion. He was an authoritarian to be reckoned with; his two dogs had the run of the house and used the living room as their litter box. The place reeked of animal waste, strange food and stale air. I remained after he was arrested and transported, to help with statements and the other necessary paperwork. As the women of the house were writing, I found myself praying silently, Blessed Father, watch over this household, take the fear from their hearts and fill it with Your love, with confidence, with strength. Blessed Father, give them the resolve to get out of this mess while they can. Watch over them as they do. As if I could cast some kind of forcefield around the house to keep the evil that had left from returning.
St. Michael, keep whispering in my ear and guiding my hands and feet. Help me get to where I'm needed most, show me how to do your work. Keep all of my brothers and sisters in blue safe as they call 10-8.
A few nights ago I stopped and arrested my first drunk driver. The guy was very cooperative, and failed each test miserably. He was so hammered that he couldn't remember where he was driving to pick up his 11 year old daughter. A cold shiver ran down my spine when I pieced it together that his young daughter was waiting for him about two blocks up the road. God knows what their fate would have been had I not noticed the equipment violation and decided to stop him for it.
It is an inconceivably thin line.
The other day I assisted on a domestic. The wife was so scared of the husband that she was visibly shaking as she gave us her account of what had happened. Fearful to take action because of the possible repercussion. He was an authoritarian to be reckoned with; his two dogs had the run of the house and used the living room as their litter box. The place reeked of animal waste, strange food and stale air. I remained after he was arrested and transported, to help with statements and the other necessary paperwork. As the women of the house were writing, I found myself praying silently, Blessed Father, watch over this household, take the fear from their hearts and fill it with Your love, with confidence, with strength. Blessed Father, give them the resolve to get out of this mess while they can. Watch over them as they do. As if I could cast some kind of forcefield around the house to keep the evil that had left from returning.
St. Michael, keep whispering in my ear and guiding my hands and feet. Help me get to where I'm needed most, show me how to do your work. Keep all of my brothers and sisters in blue safe as they call 10-8.
16.12.07
9.12.07
12 days and a wake up!
I remember the night before the first day. Getting into my car in the driveway on Pleasant Street, I wore my sunglasses so that they couldn't see me crying. They knew anyway. The thing that killed me was hugging MLE -- like the last piece of safety before marching off to death.
It brings back snapshots of the half-boy story that Rudd used to tell us in class. How many times in this life do we cleave ourselves, only to find a better, stronger addition that is truer to what remains than what was cast off.
I don't know now if the change occurred gradually over weeks, or if it was like thunder and lightning and when I woke up that first morning it was to a new spirit. Sometimes overwhelming to think about. There is no point in writing because the words would cloud the simplicity of what I'm taking away from that place: the only thing that is stopping you is your mind. So cliche and common, but amazing in its accuracy. And you'll know it when you experience it -- and I hope that you do.
There is no time for insecurity. No second-guessing or doubt. Around the hill? No way! Over the hill? No way! Through the hill? My way! Through the hill? All day! Lead or follow, there is no way you'll fail if that's what you've decided.
It brings back snapshots of the half-boy story that Rudd used to tell us in class. How many times in this life do we cleave ourselves, only to find a better, stronger addition that is truer to what remains than what was cast off.
I don't know now if the change occurred gradually over weeks, or if it was like thunder and lightning and when I woke up that first morning it was to a new spirit. Sometimes overwhelming to think about. There is no point in writing because the words would cloud the simplicity of what I'm taking away from that place: the only thing that is stopping you is your mind. So cliche and common, but amazing in its accuracy. And you'll know it when you experience it -- and I hope that you do.
There is no time for insecurity. No second-guessing or doubt. Around the hill? No way! Over the hill? No way! Through the hill? My way! Through the hill? All day! Lead or follow, there is no way you'll fail if that's what you've decided.
25.11.07
Nothing without my family.
I pray that I didn't worry you because it was not my intent; I am like that dog who barks in the night at the tree-branch scraping against the window. Sometimes my alarms are entirely unwarranted.
Listen: now is not the time to back down. This is when they'd like for your insecurity and self-doubt to creep in but you absolutely cannot let that happen. Four weeks. A month! It is nothing. A month ago was Halloween, how quickly the time from then to now passed. It will be over and done with before you can even wake up from this lucid dream. Surface for a moment, draw in a deep breath and dive. You can do this because you have already decided that you will.
The amount of strength and support that you can draw from is unthinkable. Everyone should be so lucky, so loved. Each moment that you sit idle, remember the place that your heart resides, go back to your home in your mind and be renewed. Don't lose sight of where you come from, and where you will be returning.
You are the support of so many, remember that. They will look to you when they're wavering. You cannot look weak, insecure, doubtful. Keep your chin up. Unchain that lion who resides in your heart. Lead your people to the finish with a loud and resounding roar.
Send me strength and I will come back to you all like Leonidas. Tempered by the fires of hell and with an indomitable spirit from St. Peter himself.
Listen: now is not the time to back down. This is when they'd like for your insecurity and self-doubt to creep in but you absolutely cannot let that happen. Four weeks. A month! It is nothing. A month ago was Halloween, how quickly the time from then to now passed. It will be over and done with before you can even wake up from this lucid dream. Surface for a moment, draw in a deep breath and dive. You can do this because you have already decided that you will.
The amount of strength and support that you can draw from is unthinkable. Everyone should be so lucky, so loved. Each moment that you sit idle, remember the place that your heart resides, go back to your home in your mind and be renewed. Don't lose sight of where you come from, and where you will be returning.
You are the support of so many, remember that. They will look to you when they're wavering. You cannot look weak, insecure, doubtful. Keep your chin up. Unchain that lion who resides in your heart. Lead your people to the finish with a loud and resounding roar.
Send me strength and I will come back to you all like Leonidas. Tempered by the fires of hell and with an indomitable spirit from St. Peter himself.
28.10.07
The strength of my armor.
Cracks that let the emotion through, the baggage I don't want to own anymore. It's a constant emergency weld, a steeling of the flesh. I am a brick-mason, I never sleep. I spend each moment applying mortar to the weak spots. I cannot allow any flaw in the foundation. This early morning on the drive in I will stop at the nearest bridge and fling that luggage into the watery depths below. It cannot weigh on me anymore.
It was a choice I had to make awhile back, and for the most part I think I made it subconsciously. Not that I didn't think about it; it was just something that I knew I had to do, like taking in the next breath, or waking from sleep. It is not something that one considers greatly. There is a code that each warrior adopts, and it leaves no room for vacillation or second-guessing. Or outward softness. Each footfall is made forward, that is just how it is. You either understand, or you are in the way. That is cold, harsh, cutting, but it really can't be any other way.
When someone opens fire, everyone else will run away but I have made the choice to run forward. When people are fighting, I will be the one to dive into the melee, while you sit on the fringe with your cell phone camera, snapping away. On Christmas Eve when you are snug in front of a fire with your family, I will be lurking, waiting, watching. I understand why. I know why I made the choice that I did. But I don't think that you ever will, and it's not something that I'll be able to explain to you.
Good-bye, good luck. May you find something to give your life meaning. May you one day understand what it is to hear the call to serve and be unable to say no.
It was a choice I had to make awhile back, and for the most part I think I made it subconsciously. Not that I didn't think about it; it was just something that I knew I had to do, like taking in the next breath, or waking from sleep. It is not something that one considers greatly. There is a code that each warrior adopts, and it leaves no room for vacillation or second-guessing. Or outward softness. Each footfall is made forward, that is just how it is. You either understand, or you are in the way. That is cold, harsh, cutting, but it really can't be any other way.
When someone opens fire, everyone else will run away but I have made the choice to run forward. When people are fighting, I will be the one to dive into the melee, while you sit on the fringe with your cell phone camera, snapping away. On Christmas Eve when you are snug in front of a fire with your family, I will be lurking, waiting, watching. I understand why. I know why I made the choice that I did. But I don't think that you ever will, and it's not something that I'll be able to explain to you.
Good-bye, good luck. May you find something to give your life meaning. May you one day understand what it is to hear the call to serve and be unable to say no.
14.10.07
At night, under my breath.
Blessed Father, watch over my family in my absence. Let them know that their love and support reaches me even in the farthest corners of darkness. Keep them from harm and tell them that I get through the week only to see them again.
Help me keep my head up. Give me your strength when mine wavers. Make my voice strong and resolute so that I can be a confident leader and keep everyone moving forward. Help me to remember that this life is perfect and that I am walking a noble path. Help me to remember that I am a warrior and that there is nothing that can stop me.
In the morning remind me that I am lucky.
Help me keep my head up. Give me your strength when mine wavers. Make my voice strong and resolute so that I can be a confident leader and keep everyone moving forward. Help me to remember that this life is perfect and that I am walking a noble path. Help me to remember that I am a warrior and that there is nothing that can stop me.
In the morning remind me that I am lucky.
8.10.07
Orion is with us.
Can I be like Leonidas and keep my stubborn sense of humor, keep the fire in my belly burning white hot? Can I lead people through places they do not want to go with a smile on my face and the unwavering determination that we will not be defeated? When I tell them that we cannot fail, that we can never stop, will they believe me?
That dark morning when I cast my stones to fate I was somewhere else, mentally. The skies were September blue, and a long country road climbed steadily to the horizon, weaving through golden corn fields peppered with brightly colored barns and farmhouses like a black snake. When he asked me if I was in another place, it took me a few seconds to tear myself away and reply, yes. The rush of traffic on I-71 and the grittiness of the empty parking lot made the present so stark, in comparison.
The key will be to have all twenty-nine of us standing sentinel on that same stretch of country road. To somehow have everyone understand that there is no way they can touch us. All they can do is yell, which has become comical, or PT us, which makes us stronger. We own that place.
That dark morning when I cast my stones to fate I was somewhere else, mentally. The skies were September blue, and a long country road climbed steadily to the horizon, weaving through golden corn fields peppered with brightly colored barns and farmhouses like a black snake. When he asked me if I was in another place, it took me a few seconds to tear myself away and reply, yes. The rush of traffic on I-71 and the grittiness of the empty parking lot made the present so stark, in comparison.
The key will be to have all twenty-nine of us standing sentinel on that same stretch of country road. To somehow have everyone understand that there is no way they can touch us. All they can do is yell, which has become comical, or PT us, which makes us stronger. We own that place.
3.9.07
Sing loud, sing proud!
You are the reason that I can make it. You all are. It is like when we were kids and mom and dad would go on a trip without us, and mom would tell us that there are invisible strands that connect us to each other, no matter how great the distance. This whole time, she was right.
At 0620 in a still dark parking lot with the troopers screaming at us over the deafening roar of I-71's morning commute, you are the reason that I do not shake. The thought of returning to a family which contains more love and support than most people will know in their lifetime keeps my arms unbendable, keeps me aloft like a stone cut-out of determination. They cannot form the syllables of my last name with their usual mockery because all of you stand in the way.
I am one of something that they will never be able to break.
At 0620 in a still dark parking lot with the troopers screaming at us over the deafening roar of I-71's morning commute, you are the reason that I do not shake. The thought of returning to a family which contains more love and support than most people will know in their lifetime keeps my arms unbendable, keeps me aloft like a stone cut-out of determination. They cannot form the syllables of my last name with their usual mockery because all of you stand in the way.
I am one of something that they will never be able to break.
26.8.07
Rise like lions!
I have so much to be thankful for. The love and unconditional support of an amazing family who understands the need to constantly push one's self to achieve, to realize potential, to never stop the quest. No matter how divergent the ends might be. That I was born with intelligence, and that my parents encouraged me to excel in my studies. That I have always been a tomboy, and thus athletic, and had Emily to compete and practice with. That I have no doubts in my physical ability and might, at times, even be confident to the point of illogic in that regard. That I was hired so quickly and by such a professional department. That I have an unlimited career ahead of me. That everyone there wants me to realize my full potential.
That I understand why the phrase is so important to Emily, that Life is Fucking Hard, and that it's important to me, too. That we can both use that knowledge as fuel for a hot and intense fire instead of dwelling on it darkly.
That one of the most sexist and closed-minded people I have ever met respected me at the end of my tour with him, and that he called me Annie Oakley and told Reed that it was a mistake that his agency didn't pick me up. That I was able to change his opinion that thoroughly through my actions and not anything else.
That I have the love and support and reassurance of so many successful law enforcement professionals already, even before I take this next step. That I know, deep in my core, even when my hands shake and my lips quiver, that there is nothing I can't achieve once I've made up my mind. And that my determination was passed down by generations of my forebears.
That I am sure we will be unvanquishable.
That I understand why the phrase is so important to Emily, that Life is Fucking Hard, and that it's important to me, too. That we can both use that knowledge as fuel for a hot and intense fire instead of dwelling on it darkly.
That one of the most sexist and closed-minded people I have ever met respected me at the end of my tour with him, and that he called me Annie Oakley and told Reed that it was a mistake that his agency didn't pick me up. That I was able to change his opinion that thoroughly through my actions and not anything else.
That I have the love and support and reassurance of so many successful law enforcement professionals already, even before I take this next step. That I know, deep in my core, even when my hands shake and my lips quiver, that there is nothing I can't achieve once I've made up my mind. And that my determination was passed down by generations of my forebears.
That I am sure we will be unvanquishable.
16.8.07
The half-boy cometh.
Try to reason with anxiety and nervousness; tell yourself that worry and doubt will only drain you of your energy, and believe it because it is true. Remember that there is no part of you that they can take or change or kill. Remember what all the guys have said so far about it being a mind game; that you wouldn't be offended by a small child, and that their words can't hurt flesh and bone, much less that stuff you horde on the inside.
Carry the words of the lieutenant in your back pocket, that pain is weakness leaving the body, and be proud to remember that you have so many unlikely yet devoted allies. Let your family be the trump card that you pull out in the middle of the night, when no one else is looking, to remember why you're there. To remember that life is really not so serious as they'd have you believe.
And above all else let the words of the emperor ring softly in your ears: that nature has intended everything for you, that whatever you may need it has already provided.
Eighteen weeks is not so very long.
Carry the words of the lieutenant in your back pocket, that pain is weakness leaving the body, and be proud to remember that you have so many unlikely yet devoted allies. Let your family be the trump card that you pull out in the middle of the night, when no one else is looking, to remember why you're there. To remember that life is really not so serious as they'd have you believe.
And above all else let the words of the emperor ring softly in your ears: that nature has intended everything for you, that whatever you may need it has already provided.
Eighteen weeks is not so very long.
7.8.07
Would you watch my six?
It's not supposed to be this hard I tell myself after the conversation is over, phone is folded up neatly and tucked back into its case. The bile taste in my mouth sliding back down my throat, my cheeks burning just a little less. I. Feel. Empty.
He tells me that living out west is important, that so is family and the practice and again the casual interjection of transferring my certification and how I could be a cop anywhere and if he was important to me I'd be willing to make that compromise. And like a lion my voice storms out of my gut that moving to the other side of the country is not a compromise, hair standing up on the back of my neck. (When you were a kid, didn't your parents tell you to stay away from a dog that's been hit? That they're the most vicious?)
The anger comes in waves and after it's crested the little reason I have left was able to weakly analyze all the countless other words and syllables into a mental image of me buried by a huge pile of shit and him walking calmly away, clean finger pointing back. Damn you Pyrrhus and your fucked up need to have your point be made. Don't you know it's easier to just go downhill?
Ten or fifty minutes later the phone tells me that maybe there is a way for it all to be worked out and for no moving to be involved, no compromises of that kind, but that he needs to feel safe and that it's up to me. And like a bastard I piss out yeah like what, you need me to play the fucking game and be able to guess what you need me to do to make you feel safe.
And the phone. Says. Yeah.
Over the last year or so my patience has run out on me, the bastard, in search of a gentler life. My tolerance is waning, lord, and my belief in love is endangered. I can be hard and unkind and outspoken and by most things remain unaffected. I try to steel myself, to not let the pokes and jabs and disappointments penetrate my skin. The thing he doesn't get is that I have to be this way, in this circumstance, that I would never survive my job if I couldn't, and that I wouldn't trade any small piece of it for lily-white serenity and a sterile sense of happiness. Bob and Marianne taught us that life is beautiful because it can be so ugly.
He tells me that living out west is important, that so is family and the practice and again the casual interjection of transferring my certification and how I could be a cop anywhere and if he was important to me I'd be willing to make that compromise. And like a lion my voice storms out of my gut that moving to the other side of the country is not a compromise, hair standing up on the back of my neck. (When you were a kid, didn't your parents tell you to stay away from a dog that's been hit? That they're the most vicious?)
The anger comes in waves and after it's crested the little reason I have left was able to weakly analyze all the countless other words and syllables into a mental image of me buried by a huge pile of shit and him walking calmly away, clean finger pointing back. Damn you Pyrrhus and your fucked up need to have your point be made. Don't you know it's easier to just go downhill?
Ten or fifty minutes later the phone tells me that maybe there is a way for it all to be worked out and for no moving to be involved, no compromises of that kind, but that he needs to feel safe and that it's up to me. And like a bastard I piss out yeah like what, you need me to play the fucking game and be able to guess what you need me to do to make you feel safe.
And the phone. Says. Yeah.
Over the last year or so my patience has run out on me, the bastard, in search of a gentler life. My tolerance is waning, lord, and my belief in love is endangered. I can be hard and unkind and outspoken and by most things remain unaffected. I try to steel myself, to not let the pokes and jabs and disappointments penetrate my skin. The thing he doesn't get is that I have to be this way, in this circumstance, that I would never survive my job if I couldn't, and that I wouldn't trade any small piece of it for lily-white serenity and a sterile sense of happiness. Bob and Marianne taught us that life is beautiful because it can be so ugly.
22.7.07
A postcard.
It happens more slowly than you think it would, change does. It's really not the way that movies would have you believe, where one day you wake up and everything is different and you feel like a new person, sun shining in through an open window and birds chirping from a nearby tree. It's more like a grain of sand being constantly underfoot and eventually, over months and years, your gait has changed to compensate for the disturbance. But that is too negative an analogy. It's mostly been up and up and up. A dusting of cobwebs and the downsizing of emotional clutter.
Though it is more romantic to say something like, "and one morning I woke up and I felt like a completely different person, and I knew I had made the right decision." Kind of boring really when it's delivered like it happens in real life, "I looked back over years of struggle, searching, victories and losses, and I realized that I had done alright for myself, that I thoroughly liked the person I had become and that the journey to get to her had been worth it." Life is mostly boring though I suppose. A handful of big events and several stretches of coasting in between.
My brain is too non-committal for a decent post. All I know is that the half-boy cometh.
Though it is more romantic to say something like, "and one morning I woke up and I felt like a completely different person, and I knew I had made the right decision." Kind of boring really when it's delivered like it happens in real life, "I looked back over years of struggle, searching, victories and losses, and I realized that I had done alright for myself, that I thoroughly liked the person I had become and that the journey to get to her had been worth it." Life is mostly boring though I suppose. A handful of big events and several stretches of coasting in between.
My brain is too non-committal for a decent post. All I know is that the half-boy cometh.
16.7.07
onetwothreefour
It came back to me like a lightning bolt, like sitting around the little table we made for our dorm room, eating Raisin Bran and it still smelled like varnish. Like the summer in between semesters when I went in for a midnight shift with dad and Fran was working and we talked about philosophy and how good grilled cheese was with tomato soup and how there was a pregnant potentiality in the heavy, humid 3am summer air. Like being in Deadwood, SD with Clap Your Hands Say Yeah on the radio, espresso coarsing through the veins, like I was the only one in the entire world who wasn't a cardboard cut-out, walking down the street like Seth Bullock all 50 feet of me.
Unrestrained hope pouring out of my little-kid heart. There is nothing you can't do. I drive with the moonroof open at night so that I can see the stars when I look up.
It's in the black of his eyes, the untethered hand, the gold chain peeking out like a mid-life crisis. It's the 4am comraderie that I wish could somehow stretch out forever or at least until I get tired again. It's the drive home through cornfields and cow pastures with the sun coming up and most of the households still asleep. It is the fact that each and every moment is perfect and complete and there for the taking.
Don't go looking for what you already have.
Unrestrained hope pouring out of my little-kid heart. There is nothing you can't do. I drive with the moonroof open at night so that I can see the stars when I look up.
It's in the black of his eyes, the untethered hand, the gold chain peeking out like a mid-life crisis. It's the 4am comraderie that I wish could somehow stretch out forever or at least until I get tired again. It's the drive home through cornfields and cow pastures with the sun coming up and most of the households still asleep. It is the fact that each and every moment is perfect and complete and there for the taking.
Don't go looking for what you already have.
10.7.07
Three months ago today.
My sister found the verse, in college I think, and it was something so simple and so true that it burned itself into my consciousness. Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell. Each time the half-boy resurfaces my brain's first defense is that line, over and over like a mantra of resignation.
Life is suffering. The thing is that one can choose to take on the suffering like a Spartan. If you cannot kill me you will only make me stronger...
It was one of the hardest things I've had to do in recent memory. That's not entirely true, the decision was the hard part; it was agonizing and torturous and even when I made up my mind I completely doubted myself. The action of saying goodbye was mostly surreal. (I should realize that sleep deprivation also played its part.) The Irish face so much like my father's, every row standing at attention, all of the sweat and frustration and sacrifices I'd made these last three months and I was saying goodbye.
Perhaps it is selfishness. The thought of starting over from scratch, going through all the same motions but under three times the pressure is severely daunting. It makes me tired to think about. Perhaps it is partly because I am losing the only stability I've had since April. Now daytime means being home, confronting the silence, the emptiness, and the ghosts that remain. Daytime is like a war-zone between confidence and all the chaotic doubt that hides behind corners and phone calls.
Read this in a year and remember where you came from, the road you walked to get into that uniform, how totally fucked and ridiculous some of the days were. You are way more capable than you will allow yourself to admit, kiddo.
Life is suffering. The thing is that one can choose to take on the suffering like a Spartan. If you cannot kill me you will only make me stronger...
It was one of the hardest things I've had to do in recent memory. That's not entirely true, the decision was the hard part; it was agonizing and torturous and even when I made up my mind I completely doubted myself. The action of saying goodbye was mostly surreal. (I should realize that sleep deprivation also played its part.) The Irish face so much like my father's, every row standing at attention, all of the sweat and frustration and sacrifices I'd made these last three months and I was saying goodbye.
Perhaps it is selfishness. The thought of starting over from scratch, going through all the same motions but under three times the pressure is severely daunting. It makes me tired to think about. Perhaps it is partly because I am losing the only stability I've had since April. Now daytime means being home, confronting the silence, the emptiness, and the ghosts that remain. Daytime is like a war-zone between confidence and all the chaotic doubt that hides behind corners and phone calls.
Read this in a year and remember where you came from, the road you walked to get into that uniform, how totally fucked and ridiculous some of the days were. You are way more capable than you will allow yourself to admit, kiddo.
3.7.07
The Gaelic Club
To my grandfather, for his genetics and everything that entails. For walking the beat when Terry v. Ohio actually happened, for the boxes of cases with his name signed as investigator, and for the beginning of so many of us to wear blue.
To my father, for being the best role model anyone could have. For teaching me to do what is right and what is necessary, despite personal discomfort or awkwardness. For being my moral lighthouse, so that I never feared the dark and choppy sea. For choosing to be fair over being popular, and the importance of why. And most importantly for his name, for giving us such a valuable gift.
To my mother, for her unwavering tolerance and compassion. For her ability to understand human nature but to not become a cynic. And for the untold burden she carried while paving the road for my generation of women in blue.
To Emily, for her intellectual and physical prowess, which has always kept me at the top of my game. For the questions she asked, and for not explaining the thought process, but making me trace it back to the original problem on my own. For leading me to the stoics.
And to Libby, who started everything by sending me a single text message last summer. For not ever doubting me, and for being the most loyal friend anyone could have.
To my father, for being the best role model anyone could have. For teaching me to do what is right and what is necessary, despite personal discomfort or awkwardness. For being my moral lighthouse, so that I never feared the dark and choppy sea. For choosing to be fair over being popular, and the importance of why. And most importantly for his name, for giving us such a valuable gift.
To my mother, for her unwavering tolerance and compassion. For her ability to understand human nature but to not become a cynic. And for the untold burden she carried while paving the road for my generation of women in blue.
To Emily, for her intellectual and physical prowess, which has always kept me at the top of my game. For the questions she asked, and for not explaining the thought process, but making me trace it back to the original problem on my own. For leading me to the stoics.
And to Libby, who started everything by sending me a single text message last summer. For not ever doubting me, and for being the most loyal friend anyone could have.
31.5.07
The new blue bloods.
His photo is washed out and pixelated on the copy announcing his memorial that they hung in the dimly lit basement corridor where we have our academy. Two youthful eyes peer out at you from behind a motorcycle helmet, it looks like he's revving the engine. And when I walk past the photo to go to class, I find myself wondering who held the camera.
The street in front of the church was lined three deep with shoulder-to-shoulder police blue as far as the eye could see, until the heat and humidity of the day claimed the horizon in heat waves, making it impossible to focus. Sweat ran down my face, along the veins on my neck, pooled in the hollows of my collarbone and spilled out, soaking my shirt. If I lead, will you follow? We stood watch with thousands of police officers and when the bagpipes started we moved as one to attention, and held a long and sorrowful last salute.
They carried his casket into the catholic church, bagpipers and all, and the air outside became still, weighed down with the humidity and the mourning. We stood there in the oppressive sun, sweat bleeding through our clothing, wishing there was more suffering we could take on for his family, for his department.
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. And although it means a paltry little, he will never be forgotten.
The street in front of the church was lined three deep with shoulder-to-shoulder police blue as far as the eye could see, until the heat and humidity of the day claimed the horizon in heat waves, making it impossible to focus. Sweat ran down my face, along the veins on my neck, pooled in the hollows of my collarbone and spilled out, soaking my shirt. If I lead, will you follow? We stood watch with thousands of police officers and when the bagpipes started we moved as one to attention, and held a long and sorrowful last salute.
They carried his casket into the catholic church, bagpipers and all, and the air outside became still, weighed down with the humidity and the mourning. We stood there in the oppressive sun, sweat bleeding through our clothing, wishing there was more suffering we could take on for his family, for his department.
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. And although it means a paltry little, he will never be forgotten.
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