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.
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