Archive for the ‘I’m Just Saying’ Category
A cop’s gun. His sidearm. An extension of his right arm. It’s always there for him when or if he needs it, without fail.
A gun is an extremely low-maintenance friend, never asking for much in return for its dedication—a modest diet of fresh bullets along with a little Hoppes gun oil to wash them down, a bath every Saturday night, and don’t let them play in the rain and the dirt. Never drop them and always remember they sometimes experience “issues” when left alone with small children. That’s about it. Treat them well and with respect, and a cop’s gun will forever remain at his side.
If used and treated properly, guns can save lives. I can say this with authority because that’s exactly what mine did—save lives. However, guns are easily influenced, tending to mimic the habits and traits of the people they’re around—guns with good people do good things, while guns in the hands of bad people…well, you know.
Actually, I liked the feeling of a pistol on my side. Its weight was sort of comforting even though the constant gravity-induced downward-tugging at my belt could be a bit annoying at times. And there’s that thing about the hammer insisting that it tear a hole in the lining of every jacket I owned. It’s…well, it was pretty darn aggravating, but you get used to it. After all, a little patch, a needle and some thread, and you’re back in business.
The third member of a detective’s close and limited circle of workplace BFF’s is his take-home car. They drive them for so long that the foam seat cushions conform nicely to the shape of their aging and constantly morphing rear-ends.
Unlike the silent relationship with guns, detectives, who most often work alone, have been known to talk to their cars, using them as sounding boards for working out case details or ideas. For example, at 3 A.M., after working a case for 36 straight hours with very few clues and/or evidence to ponder, a detective has a seat in his unmarked car to take a break and gather his thoughts. In a matter of minutes he’s thinking out loud…talking to his car. “That bit of spatter on the ceiling makes no sense, does it? How did it…”
And let’s not overlook the graveyard shift sing-a-longs that help keep officers awake once the magic time-to-fall-asleep-’cause-it’s-four-o’clock hour rolls around. Now, all of this solo singing and chattering is not an indication that anyone has stepped over into cop la-la-land. Instead, these actions each serve a legitimate purpose.
A detective’s car is fearless, and the bullet hole in the front fender is a constant reminder that the car “took” the one that was meant for the officer. Each ding, scratch, and dent has a backstory. There’s history forever etched into a detective’s car. Some good and some not so good.
Yep, the three make a great team—the brains (the detective), the brawn (the gun), and the…well, there’s no “B” for the car, but it’s definitely an integral part of the trio. They go everywhere together. They’re inseparable. Day-in and day-out. They’re together during the tough times and the good times. Through fights, saving lives, weddings and divorces. The three were side-by-side when the detective held the kid whose mother had just died in a car crash. And when he comforted the parents whose son took the overdose. When he sat behind the wheel and wept because he couldn’t reach far enough inside the burning car to pull the crying infant from the flames.
For twenty-five years, the three sacrificed everything to work in the rain, snow and unbearable heat. They put in grueling, long hours. They’ve worked with injured body parts and during times when the investigator’s family members were sick and dying.
And then the day finally comes…the day when the three are no more. The detective drives to work and parks, not in his old space, the one he’d parked in for years, but alongside a row of fleet cars…strangers. He walks inside for the last time and hands in the keys. Then it’s time to slip off the holster. The instant weight loss feels horrible. Sliding the badge across the desk is worse. But the three BFF’s have too many miles behind them to keep going. It’s time to say goodbye to a great team.
After all, there’s always a fish to catch or a burger to flip. A mall to guard, a nightstick to twirl, and shoplifters to nab. Flowers to plant and birdhouses to build. And let’s not forget those customers who need greeting. Besides, that little blue vest is downright sporty, dontcha’ think?
It’s one of those days. You know, when words can’t seem to find the page no matter how hard you try. Sure, there are plenty of police-type topics floating around that could easily assist writers with crafting a more realistic tale, but attempting to find inspiration among news headlines can be downright depressing. Nope, I’m not feeling it today.
For example, just this morning I read where a patrol officer stopped a woman for speeding—51 in a 20 mph school zone. Her remark to the extremely polite officer was not, “Gee officer, thanks for slowing me down so I didn’t kill a tiny kid while driving at a speed of over TWICE the posted limit.” No, not at all. Instead, her snippy comment was, “No wonder you people get shot. You’re absolute a**holes.” So doing his job in a polite and respectful manner while she was breaking the law is cause for him to be shot? Un-freakin’-believable.
Then there’s a group out there who are actively recruiting members who’re willing to arm themselves for the purpose of “giving cops a taste of death.”
Chicago police are investigating the finding of a child’s dismembered body parts.
The Atlanta woman who called for the killing of all white police officers.
A man in Colorado who called police and threatened to start shooting officers. A few hours later someone indeed shot at local officers.
A motorist intentionally struck and killed a firefighter who was collecting money for charity.
More wildfires rage on in California, where the temperatures are hovering in the 100’s today. Yet, stupid people are still launching fireworks toward dry brush and grasses as a form of nightly entertainment.
A Houston man killed two people and then placed their bodies inside two drums. He then burned the bodies and hid the remains in a warehouse.
A Florida man was recently arrested for masturbating at Burger King. Please hold the pickle and Whopper jokes.
TSA agents allegedly steal money from travelers, and some agents are accused of groping attractive passengers during “necessary” hands-on searches.
A dentist who killed a protected lion is back at work filling and capping teeth.
Someone is shooting at random cars on a Phoenix highway.
And…U.S. prisons are filled to the brim. Overflowing, actually. There are well over 200,000 inmates housed in federal prisons across the U.S., a number that’s well over 30 percent capacity. Probably closer to 34 or 35% over the limit. If we look a bit closer we’ll see the number actually reflects an increase of somewhere in the neighborhood of 195,000 prisoners in just under 35 years.
What’s the solution to our woes? Why is our country wandering aimlessly down such a dark path? Is it because we’ve become a culture of Me! Me! Me!. Well, who knows, but I’ll bet the guy at Burger King couldn’t care less. Like many people today, all that concerned him was “having it his way.”
So this is why there’s no real blog today. I’m tired of all the bad news.