Haven't posted in too long. I need to find more time to write. My book has been put aside for at least a year now. I've got a lot of edits, changes, and re-writes in mind for certain parts and I'm dreading getting started. The problem is the book is my story, about my life, and my life is always changing. People's roles in my life change over the weeks and months, so the characters in the book change. The Weirdo and the Monkey are as close to a constant that I have in my life, but even they change. The Monkey is always growing and changing. Today I can ask him how old he is, and he can answer. Six months ago he would just stare at me. The Weirdo is always reinventing herself, and is about to go back to school.
Work has had some good change. I finally got promoted to Sergeant last month. I know it'll wear off in time, but I still get a thrill seeing those chevrons on my sleeve. I like being Sarge. I know everybody always feels this way, but I feel like I worked my ass off for this - and continue to. Schedules need to be done, vacation, school, and military leave all need to be accounted for. Overtime needs to be kept in check. I've been doing all this since November anyway, so at least I had a jump on learning what I was supposed to be doing.
Despite all the change, some things will always remain. I'm training somebody at work right now. I've got a training officer on my shift, but it was indicated to me that because of my good training record they wanted me to check the new guy out and make the call on whether ot not to keep him. I'm sure I'll always be training, at least on some level. I'm good at it, which stems from having a lot of patience. The Monkey holds the record for being able to run through my patience faster than anyone, but he's my child so I guess that's the universe balancing itself.
Anyway, off to the grocery store for some milk and juice.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The First Five
Five years ago today I began my career as a police officer.
I thought about it the entire time I was in the application process and the academy, but as I've said before the weight of this job never really hit me until I hit the road. I had no idea what I was doing when I first started out. I knew some stuff about the law and I was a good shot. Part of me prayed that was all I would need.
Despite my prayers, some things they just don't teach at the academy. They don't teach you how to play politics within the department. They tell you to stay clear of the bullshit knowing damn well the bullshit can find you just as easy. There is no lesson on how to go from being in a room with a dead body to being in a room with your family eating dinner an hour later. Nobody discussed how sad, then upset, and then angry you'll feel at the blind hatred you find yourself the target of. I never heard about the numbness I'd feel in a car chase or running into the woods looking for a man with a gun. I didn't understand the power I had until I had wielded it a few times. Not just the power to make an arrest or to stop someone's freedom of movement. The intoxicating feeling of walking into a place you wouldn't normally be walking into and knowing you were safe from harm or harassment. The uniform. The badge. Nobody dares to fuck with you because while the consequences are unspoken they are also guaranteed. Cars on the highway move out of your way. The thugs that your mother warned you about walk or run away when I show up. That is power. That is also one of the most dangerous and difficult things to understand. That power can lead to arrogance, which can get you killed awfully fast.
Luckily I haven't made any lethal mistakes to date. I've been scared and angry, sad and joyful. I've had my finger on the trigger a squeeze away from taking a life. I've slapped the backs of friends and enemies under the same roof. I've bled and sweat, broken a bone, crashed a car and tackled total strangers, but I'm still alive and in good working order. For that I thank God every day.
More than anything I keep remembering the words a former Sergeant once told me as I was merrily blabbering about how happy I was to have made it one full year on the job: the first five years are the hardest. Five years seemed a long way off back then, and it sure as hell feels like a long time ago now.
I'll never be perfect, but I can say with confidence that after five years I am a damn good cop. If the first five are the hardest it's not because of the work. The work never changes. It's only because it takes about that long to really find your rhythm - like walking on hot coals. Too slow or too fast and you'll get burned, but if you move at your own pace you'll make it through the fire.
I thought about it the entire time I was in the application process and the academy, but as I've said before the weight of this job never really hit me until I hit the road. I had no idea what I was doing when I first started out. I knew some stuff about the law and I was a good shot. Part of me prayed that was all I would need.
Despite my prayers, some things they just don't teach at the academy. They don't teach you how to play politics within the department. They tell you to stay clear of the bullshit knowing damn well the bullshit can find you just as easy. There is no lesson on how to go from being in a room with a dead body to being in a room with your family eating dinner an hour later. Nobody discussed how sad, then upset, and then angry you'll feel at the blind hatred you find yourself the target of. I never heard about the numbness I'd feel in a car chase or running into the woods looking for a man with a gun. I didn't understand the power I had until I had wielded it a few times. Not just the power to make an arrest or to stop someone's freedom of movement. The intoxicating feeling of walking into a place you wouldn't normally be walking into and knowing you were safe from harm or harassment. The uniform. The badge. Nobody dares to fuck with you because while the consequences are unspoken they are also guaranteed. Cars on the highway move out of your way. The thugs that your mother warned you about walk or run away when I show up. That is power. That is also one of the most dangerous and difficult things to understand. That power can lead to arrogance, which can get you killed awfully fast.
Luckily I haven't made any lethal mistakes to date. I've been scared and angry, sad and joyful. I've had my finger on the trigger a squeeze away from taking a life. I've slapped the backs of friends and enemies under the same roof. I've bled and sweat, broken a bone, crashed a car and tackled total strangers, but I'm still alive and in good working order. For that I thank God every day.
More than anything I keep remembering the words a former Sergeant once told me as I was merrily blabbering about how happy I was to have made it one full year on the job: the first five years are the hardest. Five years seemed a long way off back then, and it sure as hell feels like a long time ago now.
I'll never be perfect, but I can say with confidence that after five years I am a damn good cop. If the first five are the hardest it's not because of the work. The work never changes. It's only because it takes about that long to really find your rhythm - like walking on hot coals. Too slow or too fast and you'll get burned, but if you move at your own pace you'll make it through the fire.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Ice Cream Sandwiches
Last week while I was working I took a minute to run inside a gas station. I had a craving for some ice cream, which happens more often than I'd like to admit now that I've quit smoking. Specifically I wanted one of those Snickers ice cream bars because they are amazing.
Well I got inside and browsed the ice cream thing, and to my dismay there were no Snickers ice cream bars. It was a pretty basic selection, so I went with your basic ice cream sandwich. Didn't think twice about it. Paid my tab, got back in the car, and swung around to the far end of the parking lot so I could watch to make sure the clerk closed up safely.
I peeled the paper off my ice cream sandwich and took a bite. It was chocolaty and creamy and delicious, and like a punch to the head a memory sprang up from the abyss.
My grandmother on my mother's side had a big, beautiful house back in Syracuse. It was the perfect house for grandparents, with a big, dirty garage for us to play in with Papa, a set of red carpeted stairs we could slide, run, and fall down, and a big kitchen where Gramma made magic happen. My Gramma could cook like it was nobody's business. How many hot, delicious meals emerged from that kitchen I'll never know, but I do remember that there was more to Gramma's kitchen than just pasta. In the corner was Gramma's seemingly centuries old refrigerator. The freezer made up the bottom of the unit, so it was at the perfect level for small children. Whenever my brother, sister, cousins, and I would find ourselves turned loose at Gramma's house we would always take a moment to run into the kitchen, tug open the freezer, and help ourselves to the box of ice cream sandwiches. Gramma never ran out of ice cream sandwiches. If we spent all day over there, leaving only one left in the box, and went back over again the next day there was another box ready and waiting. Gramma always had ice cream sandwiches. I swear she must have made trips to the grocery store just to buy them.
Sitting there in my patrol car I remembered what it was like to spend hours running around, playing, just being a kid, and how great that ice cream sandwich was when it was time for a break. Isn't it funny how a certain taste or smell can bring you back to a moment or time that was dear to you? Gramma will always have ice cream sandwiches in my mind.
Well I got inside and browsed the ice cream thing, and to my dismay there were no Snickers ice cream bars. It was a pretty basic selection, so I went with your basic ice cream sandwich. Didn't think twice about it. Paid my tab, got back in the car, and swung around to the far end of the parking lot so I could watch to make sure the clerk closed up safely.
I peeled the paper off my ice cream sandwich and took a bite. It was chocolaty and creamy and delicious, and like a punch to the head a memory sprang up from the abyss.
My grandmother on my mother's side had a big, beautiful house back in Syracuse. It was the perfect house for grandparents, with a big, dirty garage for us to play in with Papa, a set of red carpeted stairs we could slide, run, and fall down, and a big kitchen where Gramma made magic happen. My Gramma could cook like it was nobody's business. How many hot, delicious meals emerged from that kitchen I'll never know, but I do remember that there was more to Gramma's kitchen than just pasta. In the corner was Gramma's seemingly centuries old refrigerator. The freezer made up the bottom of the unit, so it was at the perfect level for small children. Whenever my brother, sister, cousins, and I would find ourselves turned loose at Gramma's house we would always take a moment to run into the kitchen, tug open the freezer, and help ourselves to the box of ice cream sandwiches. Gramma never ran out of ice cream sandwiches. If we spent all day over there, leaving only one left in the box, and went back over again the next day there was another box ready and waiting. Gramma always had ice cream sandwiches. I swear she must have made trips to the grocery store just to buy them.
Sitting there in my patrol car I remembered what it was like to spend hours running around, playing, just being a kid, and how great that ice cream sandwich was when it was time for a break. Isn't it funny how a certain taste or smell can bring you back to a moment or time that was dear to you? Gramma will always have ice cream sandwiches in my mind.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
The Liver
So the Weirdo's dad, my father in law, finally got a liver transplant.
The call came in very early Thursday morning around 4 AM. The Weirdo woke me up as she was excitedly talking to her mom on the phone. I gained just enough consciousness to figure out if I needed to get out of bed. My brain heard that my in-laws were going to go up to the hospital first, and that we wouldn't meet them up there until a more reasonable hour - like 7:30 or 8 AM. The Weirdo then proceeded to call what seemed like 15 other people to tell them the good news about the available liver. I kicked her out of the bedroom so I could go back to sleep. I was beyond thrilled about the liver, but if I can get two more hours of sleep then seriously, GTFO.
So a few hours later we made our way up to the hospital and began the long wait. The Monkey was surprisingly well behaved, when considering the fact that hospitals are probably among the worst places to be waiting with a toddler for a long period of time. So I drove the Monkey to my mom's house. That day was also her birthday. The transplant team at the hospital said the day you get a transplant is like your second birthday, so in that sense my mom and my father in law now share a birthday, which is kinda cool.
Back to the hospital. Waited and waited, playing cards and eating hospital cafeteria food and doing anything to pass the time. Finally he was out of surgery and everything was looking OK. The Weirdo and I got home feeling exhausted. We went to sleep, only to wake up a bit later to horrifying news that there was some kind of complication. The Weirdo rushed back to the hospital, leaving me home with the Monkey.
Thankfully there was nothing seriously wrong. So after a few days my father in law is talking, sitting up, and even cracking jokes. I've commented to several friends and family about how amazing medical technology is. Really think about this: someone died, so they took an organ out of that person, cut open my father in law's abdomen, put the organ in... and it WORKS.
There was a time when people no doubt said something like that was impossible. Makes you wonder what things that are impossible to us will be routine in the future.
The call came in very early Thursday morning around 4 AM. The Weirdo woke me up as she was excitedly talking to her mom on the phone. I gained just enough consciousness to figure out if I needed to get out of bed. My brain heard that my in-laws were going to go up to the hospital first, and that we wouldn't meet them up there until a more reasonable hour - like 7:30 or 8 AM. The Weirdo then proceeded to call what seemed like 15 other people to tell them the good news about the available liver. I kicked her out of the bedroom so I could go back to sleep. I was beyond thrilled about the liver, but if I can get two more hours of sleep then seriously, GTFO.
So a few hours later we made our way up to the hospital and began the long wait. The Monkey was surprisingly well behaved, when considering the fact that hospitals are probably among the worst places to be waiting with a toddler for a long period of time. So I drove the Monkey to my mom's house. That day was also her birthday. The transplant team at the hospital said the day you get a transplant is like your second birthday, so in that sense my mom and my father in law now share a birthday, which is kinda cool.
Back to the hospital. Waited and waited, playing cards and eating hospital cafeteria food and doing anything to pass the time. Finally he was out of surgery and everything was looking OK. The Weirdo and I got home feeling exhausted. We went to sleep, only to wake up a bit later to horrifying news that there was some kind of complication. The Weirdo rushed back to the hospital, leaving me home with the Monkey.
Thankfully there was nothing seriously wrong. So after a few days my father in law is talking, sitting up, and even cracking jokes. I've commented to several friends and family about how amazing medical technology is. Really think about this: someone died, so they took an organ out of that person, cut open my father in law's abdomen, put the organ in... and it WORKS.
There was a time when people no doubt said something like that was impossible. Makes you wonder what things that are impossible to us will be routine in the future.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Who are you?
So the other day I was watching a television show, and to make a long story short a guy ended up going to jail. There was talk about the guy - who was not a hardened, bad criminal - still being able to make a life for himself after he got out of prison. It kinda got me thinking.
In this day and age just about everything we do is documented somehow. Records are kept of almost every aspect of your life. Birth certificate. Social Security Number. Tax forms documenting how much you earned and where you earned it. Court records accessible nationwide detailing every criminal or traffic offense you've ever committed. Driver's licenses with your picture, height, and weight.
Now imagine life a hundred years ago. No driver's license. No Social Security card. No government records available on the internet. You were who you told people you were. If I wanted to live under ten different names in ten different states the only thing in my way was my imagination. In Georgia I'm Anthony the cop. In New York I'm Anthony the teacher.
The thought occurred to me that if I was to get myself arrested for, say, stealing an old lady's purse, today I would be booked into a jail where my picture and fingerprints would be taken. My information would be sent to the FBI, so a permanent record could be kept. The local court system would handle my case, and we'll say I'm sentenced to serve one week in jail. When I've finished serving my time no matter where in the country I go my record will follow me. I could leave Georgia and try to get on with another law enforcement agency in California thousands of miles away. Almost immediately they would check my record through the FBI and see that I was a purse snatching bastard, and promptly throw my application in the trash. My actions, my decisions, follow me for the rest of my life.
A hundred years ago I get arrested for stealing a purse. I do one week in jail. When I get out I make my way across the country to California. I don't have any identification, and there's no way to prove who I am, so I pick out a new name and run with it. Nobody ever learns of my old purse snatching days.
I guess it's kind of a double edged sword, our modern way of documenting everything. If someone rapes or kills someone else I want those records kept, copied, distributed, and readily available so everybody in the world knows that person is a terrible son of a bitch. The flip side of that is there are no second chances, even when well deserved. The example on television was an 18 year old kid getting busted for stealing a car. He is remorseful and apologetic. Should an 18 year old be punished - by being permanently labeled as a convicted felon - for the rest of his life? It's hard to imagine that, assuming that same 18 year old goes on to live a normal, productive, crime-free life, that when he was 58 he still wouldn't be allowed to enjoy some of the privileges that non-felons enjoy because they didn't make a big mistake 40 years prior.
Just some food for thought I guess.
In this day and age just about everything we do is documented somehow. Records are kept of almost every aspect of your life. Birth certificate. Social Security Number. Tax forms documenting how much you earned and where you earned it. Court records accessible nationwide detailing every criminal or traffic offense you've ever committed. Driver's licenses with your picture, height, and weight.
Now imagine life a hundred years ago. No driver's license. No Social Security card. No government records available on the internet. You were who you told people you were. If I wanted to live under ten different names in ten different states the only thing in my way was my imagination. In Georgia I'm Anthony the cop. In New York I'm Anthony the teacher.
The thought occurred to me that if I was to get myself arrested for, say, stealing an old lady's purse, today I would be booked into a jail where my picture and fingerprints would be taken. My information would be sent to the FBI, so a permanent record could be kept. The local court system would handle my case, and we'll say I'm sentenced to serve one week in jail. When I've finished serving my time no matter where in the country I go my record will follow me. I could leave Georgia and try to get on with another law enforcement agency in California thousands of miles away. Almost immediately they would check my record through the FBI and see that I was a purse snatching bastard, and promptly throw my application in the trash. My actions, my decisions, follow me for the rest of my life.
A hundred years ago I get arrested for stealing a purse. I do one week in jail. When I get out I make my way across the country to California. I don't have any identification, and there's no way to prove who I am, so I pick out a new name and run with it. Nobody ever learns of my old purse snatching days.
I guess it's kind of a double edged sword, our modern way of documenting everything. If someone rapes or kills someone else I want those records kept, copied, distributed, and readily available so everybody in the world knows that person is a terrible son of a bitch. The flip side of that is there are no second chances, even when well deserved. The example on television was an 18 year old kid getting busted for stealing a car. He is remorseful and apologetic. Should an 18 year old be punished - by being permanently labeled as a convicted felon - for the rest of his life? It's hard to imagine that, assuming that same 18 year old goes on to live a normal, productive, crime-free life, that when he was 58 he still wouldn't be allowed to enjoy some of the privileges that non-felons enjoy because they didn't make a big mistake 40 years prior.
Just some food for thought I guess.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Five
I really tried last night. I went to bed around 10 PM, deciding against my impulse to stay up and watch the State of the Union address. I would get a nice, full night of sleep before my long day and everything would be peachy.
Tomorrow is my long day because I get up in the morning with the Monkey, stay up all day with him, and then go to work all night. I'll sleep during the day Thursday after being up about 24 hours, and then work Thursday night. Then when the weekend hits I'll get back onto a day schedule where I'm sleeping at night. Then the whole cycle starts over. So basically twice a week I go from a day schedule to a night schedule. It's a little like a square peg and a round hole, but more like a peg that's been chipped away enough that it fits both square and round and you don't know where the hell to put it.
Well, 3 AM hit and I sat up in bed wide awake. I had a dream that I was at work and in trouble for doing a bad job approving reports. Like I had missed all kinds of spelling and grammar mistakes. Who the hell has dreams about spelling errors?
I guess work and being a supervisor has been on my mind a lot lately. If all goes well, if all goes the way I've been told it will go, I'm looking at a promotion to Sergeant in March. And yet, I'm worried. I'm worried that something will change, or somebody will change their mind. I have plenty of confidence in myself and my ability to be a supervisor. I'm worried that at the last minute they'll give it to someone else for some reason. Like move a Detective Sergeant back to Patrol Division to save the money from giving me a raise - basically the same treatment the Weirdo got at her job last year. It's like the closer it gets to March the more anxious I get. I just hit my 30th working day as shift supervisor, which qualifies me to get paid as a Sergeant. Submitting the paperwork to get the raise got me excited, but then I started wondering if the paperwork would bring just enough attention to the situation to motivate a change.
In other news, had one of those "moments" with a kid at work last week. This deadbeat son of a bitch "father" was visiting his ex wife and their son. He had watched the son all day so the mom could go to work. At first you'd think it was a good thing for him to do; put aside the troubles that ended the marriage so their son could be taken care of. Not so much. The jerk interrogated his 5 year old son all day.
Does your mom bring men over here?
Does your mom talk to other men on the phone?
Does your mom talk about me to other men?
Five years old. This poor kid wants to talk to his dad, wants the approval of his dad, but also doesn't want to talk about his mother to his dad because he knows that's a gray area. So the mom comes home just in time to catch the father in a rage.
Nobody will ever want you.
You'll never find better than me.
Whore.
This is, of course, right in front of the five year old. The verbal jabs turn to actual jabs, and the guy pins the woman down on the floor. He slaps, punches, and chokes her. Bends back her hands and fingers as she tries to defend herself. He draws blood. The five year old is crying, no doubt thinking that this is all because he talked to his dad during the day. At one point the guy snatches his son by the front of his shirt and drags him across the room like a bag of rocks. The woman got free, got a knife, and scared the monster enough to make him run out the front door of the apartment. He was long gone by the time we got there.
So I'm taking my notes and gathering all the required information. The woman decided to gather up some stuff and stay with her sister for the night. She was afraid to stay in her own apartment. As I'm standing in the hallway explaining how I would swear out warrants for the guy's arrest the five year old suddenly walked up in front of me and held his arms out to the side. He wanted a hug. I hugged the kid, realizing that it wasn't really me he was hugging. He was hugging safety, comfort, security. He was hugging the idea of a police officer and the stability that comes with them.
As we walked out the front door the five year old reached up and held my hand while scanning the woods and parking lot with his eyes. He asked me if I thought his daddy was going to attack us if we walked outside.
Not on my watch buddy.
He held my hand all the way to the car. The next morning I decided against going home and going to bed, and instead I stayed up to make sure the warrants for Battery and Cruelty to Children were signed, filed, and put onto the computer.
The way I see it, even if something goes wrong and I don't get the promotion in March, at least I can still spend my time at work locking up worthless assholes like this guy.
Tomorrow is my long day because I get up in the morning with the Monkey, stay up all day with him, and then go to work all night. I'll sleep during the day Thursday after being up about 24 hours, and then work Thursday night. Then when the weekend hits I'll get back onto a day schedule where I'm sleeping at night. Then the whole cycle starts over. So basically twice a week I go from a day schedule to a night schedule. It's a little like a square peg and a round hole, but more like a peg that's been chipped away enough that it fits both square and round and you don't know where the hell to put it.
Well, 3 AM hit and I sat up in bed wide awake. I had a dream that I was at work and in trouble for doing a bad job approving reports. Like I had missed all kinds of spelling and grammar mistakes. Who the hell has dreams about spelling errors?
I guess work and being a supervisor has been on my mind a lot lately. If all goes well, if all goes the way I've been told it will go, I'm looking at a promotion to Sergeant in March. And yet, I'm worried. I'm worried that something will change, or somebody will change their mind. I have plenty of confidence in myself and my ability to be a supervisor. I'm worried that at the last minute they'll give it to someone else for some reason. Like move a Detective Sergeant back to Patrol Division to save the money from giving me a raise - basically the same treatment the Weirdo got at her job last year. It's like the closer it gets to March the more anxious I get. I just hit my 30th working day as shift supervisor, which qualifies me to get paid as a Sergeant. Submitting the paperwork to get the raise got me excited, but then I started wondering if the paperwork would bring just enough attention to the situation to motivate a change.
In other news, had one of those "moments" with a kid at work last week. This deadbeat son of a bitch "father" was visiting his ex wife and their son. He had watched the son all day so the mom could go to work. At first you'd think it was a good thing for him to do; put aside the troubles that ended the marriage so their son could be taken care of. Not so much. The jerk interrogated his 5 year old son all day.
Does your mom bring men over here?
Does your mom talk to other men on the phone?
Does your mom talk about me to other men?
Five years old. This poor kid wants to talk to his dad, wants the approval of his dad, but also doesn't want to talk about his mother to his dad because he knows that's a gray area. So the mom comes home just in time to catch the father in a rage.
Nobody will ever want you.
You'll never find better than me.
Whore.
This is, of course, right in front of the five year old. The verbal jabs turn to actual jabs, and the guy pins the woman down on the floor. He slaps, punches, and chokes her. Bends back her hands and fingers as she tries to defend herself. He draws blood. The five year old is crying, no doubt thinking that this is all because he talked to his dad during the day. At one point the guy snatches his son by the front of his shirt and drags him across the room like a bag of rocks. The woman got free, got a knife, and scared the monster enough to make him run out the front door of the apartment. He was long gone by the time we got there.
So I'm taking my notes and gathering all the required information. The woman decided to gather up some stuff and stay with her sister for the night. She was afraid to stay in her own apartment. As I'm standing in the hallway explaining how I would swear out warrants for the guy's arrest the five year old suddenly walked up in front of me and held his arms out to the side. He wanted a hug. I hugged the kid, realizing that it wasn't really me he was hugging. He was hugging safety, comfort, security. He was hugging the idea of a police officer and the stability that comes with them.
As we walked out the front door the five year old reached up and held my hand while scanning the woods and parking lot with his eyes. He asked me if I thought his daddy was going to attack us if we walked outside.
Not on my watch buddy.
He held my hand all the way to the car. The next morning I decided against going home and going to bed, and instead I stayed up to make sure the warrants for Battery and Cruelty to Children were signed, filed, and put onto the computer.
The way I see it, even if something goes wrong and I don't get the promotion in March, at least I can still spend my time at work locking up worthless assholes like this guy.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Checkers
Earlier today the Weirdo posted "walking the fine line between being hopeful and being the queen of denial". I get that. I get her. It's stuff that holds an ever-present spot near the front of your mind, but bears so much weight you just don't want to talk about it.
I don't do defeat well. I'm usually an optimist until a little ways after there's no point anymore. I remember playing checkers with my grandfather as a kid. He believed in teaching that life is tough, so he didn't just let me win. When I was down to my last checker, backed into a corner with nowhere to go and no move left to make, I would spend whole minutes studying the board looking for any last chance I had to do something about it. My grandfather would laugh, knowing the game was over, but I wouldn't give in. Finally, grudgingly, I would concede - and it absolutely ate me up to do it.
When two officers both wanted to go to the same class recently there appeared to be no way to logistically make it happen. They were both on the same shift and manpower would be too drastically affected. Enter Anthony, Boy Wonder. I sat down and figured out a plan that involved switching and changing around half of patrol division, but in the end I had a viable plan. The Lieutenant shot it down because it was unrealistic, but I had a solution. I had a move.
I am stubborn and bull-headed and I won't stop hoping for another move. The Weirdo and I, our whole family, are waiting for a phone call about a liver transplant. If the call doesn't come this minute, there's always the next minute. If not today, there's tomorrow. We still have moves open to us.
I don't do defeat well. I'm usually an optimist until a little ways after there's no point anymore. I remember playing checkers with my grandfather as a kid. He believed in teaching that life is tough, so he didn't just let me win. When I was down to my last checker, backed into a corner with nowhere to go and no move left to make, I would spend whole minutes studying the board looking for any last chance I had to do something about it. My grandfather would laugh, knowing the game was over, but I wouldn't give in. Finally, grudgingly, I would concede - and it absolutely ate me up to do it.
When two officers both wanted to go to the same class recently there appeared to be no way to logistically make it happen. They were both on the same shift and manpower would be too drastically affected. Enter Anthony, Boy Wonder. I sat down and figured out a plan that involved switching and changing around half of patrol division, but in the end I had a viable plan. The Lieutenant shot it down because it was unrealistic, but I had a solution. I had a move.
I am stubborn and bull-headed and I won't stop hoping for another move. The Weirdo and I, our whole family, are waiting for a phone call about a liver transplant. If the call doesn't come this minute, there's always the next minute. If not today, there's tomorrow. We still have moves open to us.
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