This is a guest post from Thomas J. Cline, a 48-year law enforcement veteran and writer/trainer at the Chicago Police Academy. He is author of “Cop Tales! (Never Spit in a Man’s Face... Unless His Mustache is on Fire)” and “Surviving Storms: Non-Tactical Career Survival for Law Enforcers.”
Piss and vinegar, that’s what I was full of my first 10 years on the street. Most days I couldn’t wait to get to work. My enthusiasm overrode hangovers, lack of rest or other self-induced pain and suffering that may have plagued me.
Youth, good health, examples and encouragement from fellow coppers made me feel invincible. I wasn’t faster than a speeding locomotive, but I could outlast perps that took flight as long as they were visible.
Perhaps leaping over a tall building in a single bound was out of the question, but I had the stones to enter them to search out bad guys and even climb on their roofs and scale any structures supported by those roofs. Neither rain, sleet, snow nor cold kept me from my self-appointed tasks.
As much fun as it was at work, it was even more fun after work telling the tales of victory over evil. Topping that was the chest-puffing induced by a co-worker embellishing your drama of courage and heroism to a group of civilians, especially females.
We would look at each other and marvel saying, “And they pay us for doing this stuff!” We felt like the Wyatt Earps of the 1970s, brave, courageous and bold. Though officer safety was stressed at the academy and at roll calls, it seldom occurred to me that I might actually get hurt or possibly lose my life at work.
Of course there were the occasional wake-up calls, but those were soon forgotten. A night in the tavern talking and laughing about an incident was like hitting the snooze button. I’d forget the danger and start again, to believe in my own invincibility.
I recall stopping a car for blowing a red light one evening. My partner approached the driver. I covered on the passenger side. The passenger wore a scar that went temple to chin and a poncho like Clint Eastwood in the spaghetti westerns. His hands were under it. This wasn’t good.
I drew my pistol but kept it out of sight behind my buttocks, waiting to feel out what was going down on the driver’s side. When my partner ordered the driver from the car, I figured it was time to see the passenger’s hands. I told him to slowly put his hands where I could see them.
My partner seemed to have control of the driver, now spread-eagled on the car. The passenger simply ignored me, looking straight ahead. I gave the “Let me see your hands” command three more times.
In my aggravation and haste, I was overcome with stupidity. I opened the door. He simultaneously turned, placing his feet on the ground facing me. At this I repeated angrily, “I want to see your hands” and reached under the poncho. My left hand found the business end of a sawed-off .20 gauge shotgun.
To this day, my coolness of response still amazes me. Carefully, my hand moved the barrel away from my midsection, and as if in slow motion I placed my pistol in the middle of his forehead and said, “I’ll blow your fucking brains out if you scare me,” as if I wasn’t scared already.
Feeling his grip loosen on the shotgun, I carefully pulled it from under the poncho. He slowly removed his hands and raised them above his head. Backing up, I told my partner about the gun and ordered poncho man from the car. Once covered by my partner, I searched both fellows. My guy had a double shoulder holster with a loaded 9mm under each arm. The .20 gauge had not been loaded or I suspect I’d not be writing this.
After calling for assist cars and a wagon, we went into the station to do paperwork. We talked coolly about what had happened. I sat down at a typewriter and rolled a case report through. When my hands came up to type I couldn’t. My hands were shaking so violently I couldn’t even hold a match to light the cigarette I opted for in place of typing. It was a good three-quarters of an hour before I could calm myself enough to do anything productive.
Still, that night in the tavern we told the story and beamed as we listened to it told by others. The shakes were gone, soothed by tonic, vodka and the triumph of good over evil. The next day we had our motors runnin’, back out on the byways, looking for adventure and whatever came our way.
Much of my rambunctious nature was lost once I became “Officer Friendly,” got married and had children. In 1997 I was dumped from my “Officer Friendly” spot and returned to a beat car. My list of priorities had drastically changed. Catching the bad guy, once at the head of the list, fell in the order. Returning home safely to my wife and seven children was number one.
There is a great movie I watched with my children entitled “Angus.” It’s about a smart fat kid struggling with the cruelty bullies inflicted upon him. George C. Scott plays Angus’ grandfather. They have a conversation about courage. Grandfather makes the point that Superman is not at all courageous because he is invincible. He knows nothing can hurt him. Humans don’t have that luxury.
Doing dangerous things, while holding the belief that one cannot or will not be hurt, is fun and exciting. It is a way to garner accolades from peers who also get off on the thrills and recognition, but don’t call it courageous; it’s selfish recklessness that too often nets our family a eulogy and a flag they don’t want.
I now suspect the high-risk behavior I once found so righteous was nothing more than my ego gone voracious for inflation. When I chased offenders it had nothing to do with the seriousness of their offense. It was because they had the audacity to run from me.
Maybe I did those risky things for the same reason that dogs lick their testicles…because they can, it felt good in the moment and nobody tried to stop me. Maybe that piss and vinegar I was once full of was really shit.
What do you think?
