Editor’s note: This essay is part of “Stories from the Street,” a Police1 series featuring first-person reflections from officers across the country. These essays are about the lived experiences and moments that changed how officers think, lead and serve. If you have a story to share, we’d love to hear from you. Submit your story here.
By Vince Scotto
Cops experience so much over the course of an extended police career. In my case, 20 years with the NYPD provided a lifetime of memories that still play out in my mind. I haven’t been in uniform for almost 13 years, but some moments stay with you. Unfortunately, many aren’t enjoyable due to the nature of the profession. Yet I always find myself being reminded of the funny stuff that went hand in hand with life on patrol.
When you’re working in NYC as a rookie, you’re mostly walking a foot post. It’s boots-on-the-ground interaction with all types of creatures great and small. Even though I wanted to be rolling in a police car, seniority was a factor and I didn’t have any. Therefore, this new jack had few options. So you made the best of the situation and engaged with the public face to face. At the time, I didn’t fully appreciate it; now I can reminisce about a good portion of those days.
Being young on the job had its challenges, because you were still finding a place in the hierarchy of policing. When you’re the low man on the totem pole, assignment choices can be disheartening. Nonetheless, you had a lot of relative freedom. There was fresh air instead of a cramped cubicle. I just felt lucky, and it seemed as if the whole city was at my disposal.
Here I was, this fresh-faced kid looking to explore and find out where the action was. I wasn’t a wallflower. I talked to everyone. Regardless, the uniform inherently transformed you into a blue magnet that attracted good and bad. Can you imagine? All things considered, this was perfect for me.
Now, it wasn’t always smiling and dining out there in the Big Apple. You still had to monitor the radio and beat feet to calls in your designated area. Additionally, the Greenwich Village section of Manhattan was eclectic. On any given tour, you could encounter something shocking, cringeworthy, laughable — and frequently the complete hat trick of all three. This job was like no other. Sometimes I can’t believe it was once my livelihood.
“On any given tour, you could encounter something shocking, cringeworthy, laughable — and frequently the hat trick of all three.”
In the beginning, I was still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but realized the city could eat you up and spit you out if you weren’t careful. One might question their employment choice as one of New York’s Finest because you were frequently put in precarious positions. The community I served was politically charged, and it occasionally felt like being under a microscope. Even in the early 90s, there was a fair amount of the “fuck the police” mentality. You have to understand — cops are the fine line between order and chaos, but we can be treated like punching bags and scapegoats. Add to that the changing culture within the NYPD. Just a few years before I came on in 1992, there had been a few big scandals that created tremendous distrust.
It didn’t matter how professional or honorable you were. A bad apple gave the illusion of a completely rotten organization. This image problem worked against front-line officers trying to do the right thing. The daily battle could really wear you down. It was like walking a tightrope — you had citizens who appreciated you and others who despised the uniform. Something like that can have a profound effect on anyone’s psyche. This dichotomy made an officer think twice about themselves and their choices.
As has been said, we live in a polarizing society. Police are praised and villainized simultaneously. Compound that with the political climate of a major city. High-ranking officials are constantly vying for power and control. Is it any surprise the foot soldiers get used as pawns in this game of ego? These are the battles we struggle with the most. It’s a tug of war. Being used as a piece of equipment and expected to act like an emotionless robot is frustrating to say the least. I recognized this young and wrestled with it throughout my career.
“It was like walking a tightrope — you had citizens who appreciated you and others who despised the uniform.”
With that said, I found myself searching for little silver linings. Just like in everyday life, we should work on being grateful for what we have. I’m much more evolved in that way of thinking now; back then it was far and few between, but there were still moments of clarity.
What I failed to mention earlier was that many of my assigned foot posts were near Washington Square Park, which might very well have been the weed-smoking capital of the world. Most of the dealers in the park were regulars, and there was definitely a lot of banter between the young cops and these street hustlers. They knew who we were and we knew who they were. Everyone knew their place. It really was a well-organized kind of thing. Sometimes we’d catch them peddling the ganja and sometimes we wouldn’t. We coexisted and, for the most part, kept it cordial. Every so often there’d be a big dust-up of an operation to crack down on the activity. It definitely was a rite of passage for a good number of us newbies at the 6th Precinct.
One night I had a call come over the radio for a male overdose in the back alley of a building. It was connected to one of the NYU dormitories a block from the park. My foot post encompassed residential housing, college classrooms, dorms and commercial businesses — shops, restaurants — a downtown city environment with a non-typical college atmosphere. Urban, not rural, but it worked. And I was now an active participant in this diorama.
Upon arriving, I couldn’t initially identify where the person was. The lighting was poor and there were dumpsters and piled-up garbage bags everywhere, creating visibility issues. You can’t assume a call is authentic. Dealers and would-be perpetrators often call 911 to report fugazy incidents hoping for distraction. You never know when you might be walking into an ambush. If your guard is down, bad things can happen.
Thankfully, another officer from an adjoining foot post responded with me. We walked slowly in the middle of the street as we approached the first dumpster. Our logic was that someone might be shooting up behind one of them. Honestly, it felt like a scene from an apocalyptic movie — eerie. As we got closer, light from an overhead streetlamp and an open window above gave us better visibility. Not to be overly dramatic, but it seemed like a set-up. Something was off.
I called the dispatcher asking for more information. This is common — you ask for a call-back or a more detailed description. There was no call-back and no more information. So we approached the dumpster, and lying on top of the garbage bags was our male junkie with a needle sticking out of his arm. He was completely out of it, slumped like a crash-test dummy.
Within minutes, we heard a student yell from a dorm window: “Hey, this one’s for you!” My first instinct was, Oh fuck, we have a problem — we’re vulnerable. Whoever’s up there could throw something or worse. We backed into the street and looked up to a cloud of smoke. Two kids leaned out the window, waved. Then we heard familiar music. At first it was unclear because we were still perplexed by PCP Pete on the ground. I even wondered if these jokers threw him out the window.
Then we smelled the reefer. The music got louder. We were smack-dab in the middle of some dazed-and-confused skit and getting a contact high to boot. It was as if we were seeing a mirage until we heard this: “Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when they come for you…!”
“We were smack-dab in the middle of some dazed-and-confused skit and getting a contact high to boot.”
For those unfamiliar, that’s the theme song from the TV show “Cops,” a 1987 reggae hit by Inner Circle. How fitting, right? So not only did we have smoke-man dealers and demolition-derby druggies — we had clowns too. It became clear the overdose wasn’t a trap and had nothing to do with the impromptu serenade from our NYU college comedians.
This was a relief, but strangely enough, a sense of pride came over me. These kids acknowledged and interacted with us in a human way. Indirectly, they were showing appreciation for the Po-Po. They laughed, we laughed, and I called an ambulance for our aided case, who was surprisingly revived. A lot of pressure and stress comes with the weight of that uniform, but there are silly times when you can inhale, breathe deeply and not take things so seriously. For the record, I meant the air, not the Mary Jane.
About the author
Vince Scotto is a retired NYPD supervisor with 20 years of service and a deep commitment to the well-being of first responders. After two decades in law enforcement, he now works as a mental wellness advocate and coach, helping police, firefighters, EMTs and other frontline professionals navigate the emotional challenges of their work. Known for his compassion and steady presence, Vince continues to support those who devote their lives to serving others.
