Juice Jug & A Hatchet

The evening air was thick with the smell of fresh mowed grass.  The sound of suburban lawnmowers hummed from the neighborhood. I could hear my cousins laughing with delight.  They lived two doors down.


Our families had been drawn to the beach subdivision just a 20 minute drive south of Cape Canaveral where our fathers both worked for the space program.  My step-dad worked for Martin Marietta in their shipping and receiving department.  Martin was building the Titan missiles at that time.  My uncle worked for Boeing in the VAB.  That's the Vertical Assembly Building where the missiles were erected prior to launch.


As kids we were blasé when it came to the launch of missiles since it seemed it happened all the time.  I was 10 in 1960 when we moved from Seattle to Satellite Beach.  It was, as I was to discover in my later years, a great place AND a great time to grow up.  Homes at that time didn't have air conditioning, but since we only lived two blocks from the ocean we had cool breezes to soften the heat of Florida. 


I went down to my cousins yard to find out what they were laughing about.  They had two baby rabbits.  Furry brown balls of cuteness.  My uncle had disturbed a nest while mowing the yard.  I wanted one.  I searched the yard but no more baby rabbits were to be found.  I went home disappointed.  It was Sunday night and Bonanza was on!


The next morning I joined my cousins at the corner to wait for the School bus.  While we were waiting around I spotted something brown and furry squirming in the grass a few feet away.  YAY! A baby rabbit.  I ran over and scooped it up.  OUCH!  It bit me.


I was totally surprised to discover what I thought was a baby bunny was actually a really angry rat.  It had been disabled by the neighbor's Siamese cat.  My uncle, who was in the driveway about to head to work noticed the commotion at the bus stop and came to my aid.  He caught the rat and put it in a paper bag and summoned my mom.


Great, I didn't have to go to school now.  It was off to the doctor in Cocoa Beach to see about my finger.  After getting in to see the doctor he contacted the county health department for guidance.  They advised they would have to send the rat for rabies testing to determine my medical treatment.  We were to bring the rat to their offices in Rockledge, a town on the mainland about 30 minutes away.  Great, I don't have to go to school at all today!


We drove up there with the rat scratching at the bag only to be told they only wanted the rat's head and it had to be in an airtight container before they would accept it.  OK, now what?  First on the to do list, an airtight container.  There was no such thing as zip lock food storage back then.  It was glass or Tupperware and Tupperware was had to come by at such short notice, not to mention expensive. 


There was a hardware store down the road so we went in there to see what they had.  Back then hardware stores also carried kitchen ware.  We found a glass jug for keeping orange juice in the fridge.  It had a plastic lid.  Perfect. 


Now came the problem of separating the rat from his head.  Hardware store.  Hatchet.  Handy.  Ok, so we went thru the check out with our two purchases.  The juice jug and a hatchet. 


Back in the car we were faced with the terrible fact that someone had to chop off that rat's head and get it into the jug.  My mother was not about to do that job.  Not in a million years.  And that acorn didn't fall far from the tree since I was not about to do it either.  I imagine the rat would be none too fond of that plan either.


We drove around as though somehow an answer would reveal itself to us.  Then, as we stopped at a rail road crossing we spotted two guys walking along the tracks.  My mom got their attention and they came over to the car.  They were teenagers, likely skipping school.  My mom offered them $5.00 to chop off the rat's head and put it into the jug.  While I am sure they thought she was crazy, I am equally sure they were happy to get the $5.00.  They did the job and we submitted the grizzly prize to the Health Department for it's testing.


Three days later the lab report came in.  Inconclusive.  Meaning I had to get rabies shots "just in case".  So I got a full series of rabies shots which took place over a month.  The horror stories about agonizing shots in the stomach were not true in my case.  They were simples shot in my shoulder blade and  didn't hardly hurt.  I was very lucky. 


Still, in my later years on the police force I was bitten by a rat snake, squirrel, dog and teenage girl.  For which I received equally painful tetanus shots.  I also received tetanus shots for being skewered in the hand by an anhinga and sliced up on barbwire fences chasing cows and horses from the highway.


It's all fun and games until you have to go to the ER.

When do you really know that you are a police officer? The transition from 'civilian' to 'cop' is complete when:

By Doug Wyllie
When do you really know that you are a police officer? Is it when you realize that you find humor in other people’s stupidity? Or is it when you know for certain that unspeakable evils will befall you if anyone says, “Boy, it sure is quiet tonight.” Is it when you’ve left more meals on the restaurant table than you’ve eaten, or when you come to the knowledge that discussing human dismemberment over a meal is a perfectly normal thing to do? Maybe it’s when you feel good when you hear someone say, “These handcuffs are too tight.” Here are 25 ways you can be pretty reliably sure that you’re really a cop.
1.) You have the bladder capacity of five people combined.
2.) You have restrained someone and it was not a sexual experience.
3.) You believe that 50 percent of people are a waste of good air.
4.) Your idea of a good time is a “man with a gun” call.
5.) You conduct a criminal record check on anyone who seems friendly towards you.
6.) You believe in the aerial spraying of Prozac and birth control pills.
7.) You disbelieve 90 percent of what you hear and 75 percent of what you see.
8.) You have your weekends off planned for a year.
9.) You believe the government should require a permit to reproduce.
10.) You refer to your favorite restaurant by the intersection at which it’s located.
11.) You have ever wanted to hold a seminar entitled: “Suicide: Getting it right the first time.”
12.) You ever had to put the phone on hold before you begin laughing uncontrollably.
13.) You think caffeine should be available in IV form.
14.) You know anyone who says, “I only had two beers” is going to blow at least a .15
15.) You find out a lot about paranoia just by following people around.
16.) Anyone has ever said to you, “There are people killing other people out there and you are here messing with me.”
17.) People flag you down on the street and ask you directions to strange places...and you know where it’s located.
18.) You can discuss where you are going to eat with your partner while standing over a dead body.
19.) You are the only person introduced at social gatherings by profession.
20.) You walk into places and people think it’s high comedy to grab their buddy and shout, “They’ve come to get you, Bill.”
21.) You do not see daylight from November until May.
22.) People shout, “I didn’t do it!” when you walk into a room and think they’re being hugely funny and original.
23.) A week’s worth of laundry consists of five T-shirts, five pairs of socks, and five pairs of underwear.
24.) You’ve ever referred to Tuesday as “my weekend.”
25.) You’ve ever written off guns and ammunition as a business deduction.

The Good Old Days

 

 

 

 

There is a reason it's called  the 'good' old days.

 

Ha!  A friend recently sent me this photo that she took in 1978. 

I don't even remember her taking it.  Dang, I sure wish I had that car back.  It ran like a scalded dog.  And in the days when seat belts were an option that no one 'opted' for.  They are pretty much a nuisance when you are trying to jump out of the car quickly.  Don't want to get hung up. 

Other 'improvements' that interfere with old time police efficiency:  Dinging noises from the dash, cars that don't want to go into gear unless your foot is on the brake, back-up lights that come on when you are in 'stealth' mode, cars that honk when you lock them, doors that ding if you leave them open,  and headlights that 'fade off' when you need instant darkness.  The things car makers add to make their cars idiot proof are the things that call attention when you don't want people to know you are there.  Not a good thing.  And don't even get me started on the size of back seats now.  YOU try stuffing a two hundred pound drunk into backseat of one of these new itsy bitsy cars.

In fact I'm sick and tired of any mechanical device whose job it is to do my bidding is now trying to boss me around.  I hate washing machines that refuse to open their lid if I need to add an item to a load in progress. They might use less water but you have to run truly dirty clothes twice to get them even close to as clean as an old water guzzler could do in one try.  Toilets are stingy with water too, but how is that efficient if you have to double flush for, well, I'll leave that to your imagination...Snotty refrigerators  that scold with warning bells if  the door stays open longer than it has decided is necessary.  I guess it thinks you should actually know what you want before you open the door. No always an option in my house.  And  now the damn TV can  go into screen saver mode because I left it on one channel so long it's decided I'm sleeping or left the room.  Hello....... some of us watch FOX NEWS CHANNEL for more than an hour.  At least people who have an attention span of more than 10 minutes.

I'm loving Al Gore getting his theory on global warming shoved up his Al Jazeera arse. What with the entire chicken little Antarctic Expedition ice-locked during their trip to study the melting polar ice.  I hope all those 'drowning' polar bears eat THEM for lunch.

 And, while I'm on a rant against new technology, how about these new light bulbs?  I don't want to pay $2.50 for a .30 bulb.  Especially one that has a color that hurts my midnight shifters eyes and if you happen to break it you need a hazmat team in full protective gear to clean up the 'mercury' spill.  And who in heaven's name decided fuses in two dollar string of Christmas lights was a good idea?  It's easier to throw the string away and get another one than fiddle with those little stuck closed slidy things in the plug, and that's only if you can find the microscopic fuse in the first place.  Then, if you get it in and test the string, it does not work anyway. 

My Garmin in the  wagon queen family truckster insists I need a new version because it's over a year old.  Duh, I don't think the highways have been changed all that much to find a route from here to there.  And besides, half the time it tries to send me the wrong way down a one way street.  It never chooses the same route twice.  And I think the bitch that did the voice that talks started out with an attitude because she's always snotty when she tells me I missed a turn.

I tried switching her for the British guy but he can't pronounce anything right.  At least when he says it, it sounds sexy.  Thank heaven for the mute option.

 Now, if I could just mute the washer, dryer, fridge, my whiny dog, iPhone, and the people who ignore the fact that I'm on the 'no call list'..................

Donut Signs

OOPS!

NIGHT OWL` WHITE OWL

I LOVE the night! Guess that's why I worked all those years on midnight shift! Darkness is a friend, cloaking me in stealthy safety. Wraping me in its cool velvet embrace. It's the closest thing to be being invisible! If you make it your friend there is nothing to frear. It will protect you.............

LUCKY ME!!!

As the song goes:  " Money, Money, Money .................MONEY!

Wow! I must be the luckiest person on the planet! I have become a billionaire in just as couple weeks. What are the odds? I just received notifications from two separate attorneys for the United Nations that I am receiving a grant AND and endowment, The grant is 6.5 million and the endowment is 8 million.!!!!

AND, get this, simultaneously, as luck would have it, an aunt in Italy is leaving me 3.5 million, an uncle in Hong Kong left me 5 million, a cousin in the Philippines and a secret admirer in Nigeria wants me to have 6 million! I can harldy... believit it!

Who knew I had so many sick, dying rich relatives- all of whom want ME to share in their good fortune. I want to pay off all yalls mortgages. I'll just need to borrow a few thousand dollars from each of you to pay off those 'pesky' processing fees. So if you would kindly mail me certified checks made out to CASH to my P.O. Box in Switzerland I can get the claims process started.

 I am a bit concerned tho, none of those attorneys can spell or construct a complete sentance. But, what ever. I look forward to sharing my great forturne with 250 of my closest friends!

 Love you all!

BUSH~WHACKING WHILE DRIVING! You just can't make this stuff up!

BUSH-WHACKING WHILE DRIVING!

BWI?

(Bush-whacker)

You just can't make this stuff up!

Like I said: 

You just can't make this stuff up!



" I'm not gonna write you 'a' ticket..................."

I remember the time my lieutenant assigned me to start enforcing the new STOP signs located in an exclusive shopping area. They guarded a heavily used crosswalk.

 

The merchants association had been hounding the commission for ages, wanting those signs.

 

The signs had been up for a month, they held back on enforcing them so people could get used to them being there.

 

So, that day, I head out there, stop at the French Bakery and get a cup of coffee and a croissant roll.

 

I set up in front of the an Italian restaurant about a half block away (clearly visable) and get all comfy. I no more than got a sip and a nip when a big Cadillac zooms thru the intersection. Thank heaven for plastic lids!

 

I get her pulled over in front of a jewelry store (one that could give Tiffany's a run for their money).

 

I walk up to her window and she's all decked out in her la-de-da designer outfit, perfect hair, jewelery up the ying yang. I announce her violation and make the usual request for her DL, registration and proof of insurance.

 

 

As she produces the paper work she says in her prissy entitled attitude, "you can't write me a ticket,

 I was on the committee that got those signs installed!"

 

"I'll be right back m'am". I go back  to my car and run her stuff.

 

I am sure she assumed I was checking with the mother ship to verify her special dispensation - and the brass would say I should let her go. I finish and return to her window.

 

"Your're right m'am, I won't be writing you 'A' ticket..."

 

She begins to smirk, content in her superiority........................

 

"I'll be writing you two.  Your tag is expired".

 

Heeh, Heeh, heeh, I loved that job!

 

Besides, it's not good to make my coffee get cold!

 

BTW please note, I had a croissant not a donut!

 

 

 

To paraphrase Colonel Jessup - an open letter to the nit pickers

To paraphrase Col. Nathan Jessup in A Few Good Men...

Dear NIT PICKERS,

"I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom! You weep for Bin Laden and you curse the military. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what we know: That while his death might be tragic to some it saved lives. And while the existance of OUR military may be grotesque and incomprehensible to some, it saves lives!

You don't want to know the truth...because deep down in places you don't talk about at parties, you want us on that wall! You NEED us on that wall! 

We use words like honor, code, loyalty, patriotism. We use those words as the backbone of a life defending a nation. You use them as a punch line!

The military has neither the time nor the inclination to explain to those who refuse to comprehend - to the ignorant few who rise and sleep under the blanket of the very freedom they provide, and then dare to question the manner in which it is provided. "

It would be interesting to see the naysayers take up a post and stand a watch- walk a few dozen miles in a desert, humping a 90 lb back pack and dodging bullets, shrapnel and slurs. Sweating, bleeding, dying, losing friends and colleagues. Suffering hardship inspite of the unappreciative liberals and political nit pickers. 

Frankly I don't Give A DAMN what they think! Our military is the greatest force for good ever seen on the face of the earth!!!!!!!!

What's so great about DONUTS?

Ode to a Donut

The problems not solved by a donut are few,

And even those problems are solved by two.

Posted by Chet Haase at 4/06/2010  

Well, the cliche' is cops and donuts, or doughnuts if you want to get all literary.  There are many reasons why the donut is the perfect cop food.  Here are a few of my  personal favorites.  Please feel free to add any thoughts you might have on the subject.

• they are inexpensive- cops can afford them
• they are easy to eat on the go - cops have to be ready to respond to radio calls in an instant
• they are filling- a cop never knows when or if they will get a true dinner break
• they are carbs - a cop always needs to be able to have a burst of energy while chasing someone
• they are made during the middle of the night - who else is working at those hours?
• they come in many flavors- cops have a wide variety of taste preferences
• they are easy to find- every diner, convenience store or grocery has fresh donuts
• they are easy to share-  cops always take care of each other
• they are easy to trade- many a tip I received from a bum was coaxed with a donut
• they go great with coffee-  sugar and caffeine are a marriage made in heaven, especially if you work midnights
• they are easy to clean up- if you spill while driving 100mph after some murderer, when it's over you can just throw it away.  The birds will be grateful
• they are a common language- every culture has it's version of the donut
• they are a great ice breaker- you can make any pickle puss citizen crack a smile by making a donut joke
• you can take your left-overs home- the rug rats and spouse will scarf them up
• THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A BAD DONUT!
• _______________________________________(your comments are appreciated-fill in the blank)

Anonymous Ode To Donuts from the Internet:

Ode to Donuts

                     Look, yonder!
              A Donut! with icing and sprinkles!
A must-have food item on a day like today
                (With the cold and the work and the no sleep)
                    Ah, that buttery taste.
                Coffee? Yes please!
  Hm; that was good. Perhaps I should have another!
I give my last change to the clerk, my new brother,
And the pastry goes down with ease.
Maybe more? Shouldn't let them go to waste!
     (With the cream and the jelly and the chocolate so deep)
     Just one more and I'll be on my way.
Yes, sir, that one with all the sugary wrinkles.
Mmmm...what a good food to ponder.


Shit; now I weigh 250 pounds.

*

Ode to the Donut
Oh, Donut

How your sweetness and flavorings make my taste buds dance

As if romping in a bed of chocolaty sprinkles

Your fluffy, sweet bread adds texture to your yumminess

And your frosting on top comes in all flavors and colors

Chocolaty brown, sugary pink,

and even clear glazed.

Some donuts are old-fashioned

While some are bars and fritters

Many have holes in the middle

But some have jam, jelly, or custard centers.

Sure, some people abuse donuts

They then become known as “fat”.

The stereotypical police man eats donuts with coffee.

So whether you’re Dunkin’ or Krispy Kreme

Never leave me, donut

You’re the perfect breakfast food.

You are deep-fried, cooked, sugared and covered

And you go perfect with milk

Your sprinkles add crunch and color

And donut,

I love you!

Officer days, before Sergeant days

This was a seriously fast car!  Had it up over 110 a few times. 
Ah, the good old days.  You'd get time off for that now days!!!

Guest Author, Rod Duke,

 is a friend who was a police officer

in the Chicago Housing Authority. 

Since retired, he is writing a book

and has graciously allowed me

 to share a sample of his work.



Rod Duke

Hunter/Prey

 In the 70’s, Mutual of Omaha sponsored a nature based television show called “Wild Kingdom.” My most prominent memory of the show is of a cheetah chasing a gazelle. There is a fluidity, and rhythmic dance between the hunter and prey as the chase ensues. The gazelle gallops quickly, zigzagging to change directions as the cheetah closes the distance with every stride. The cheetah effortlessly pounces onto the gazelle and brings it crashing into the dust. Claws grip sheering muscles and fangs sink into tensed sinew. The violent thrashing of the two forms become lost in the dirty haze as the hunter savors its fallen prey.

 The chase was always my favorite part of policing. I wanted to rid my areas of patrol of its criminal element, but I didn’t want it to be easy. I didn’t care if they wouldn’t go quietly. Secretly, I wanted them to run. I silently dared them to. The younger they were, the more likely they were to try you. To a teenager, a twenty, to thirty year old is an “old man.” They think that they can out run you. They think that if they challenged your authority in a foot race that they would be victorious. Isn’t it the folly of youth that they believe that they are invincible, immortal?

 The young never seem to fathom that their elders once believed that we were gods too, but eventually had to face their own mortality. It was the chase that returned my youth, my vitality, and my power!

Whenever I arrived on the scene, I’d access the body language of those I approached. Watching their hands for sudden movement and looking for cues to pinpoint who was considering flight.

 Another telltale sign of a runner was when their face is turned towards you, but their body is slightly shifted in the direction of an exit. For this subject, I would slowly move towards the direction their body telegraphed and wait.

 When their body lines up, the sprint starts and the hunt begins. I was always quick, but the Marine Corps and the police academy gave me endurance. While on foot patrol, we were exiting northbound from 4950 S. State Street and entering the playground that was centered between 50, XXXXX4947 S. Federal.

A lone teen wearing black from head to toe slowly started walking backwards as we were moving towards him. As unusual as it was for him to be standing in the middle of the playground at eight-ish in the morning, it was not a crime. However, his attire, which made him non-descriptive and his sudden decision to move way from us made him look suspicious.

 Drug dealers and shooters are normally adorned in basic black. It is their uniform of the day. I smile as he slowly increases his backwards paces.

 “Good Morning! Going somewhere?” I call out through my grin. He lets out a giggle as he returns my smile and turns his body slightly leftward and towards the gallery of the adjacent building.

We are within the first quarter of the playground, but he has trotted into the opposite edge and approximately 20 feet from the building’s opening. I have almost double that distance to close on him if I want to catch him.

 I call out to him once more. “Hey, don’t make me chase you!” I shouted through my grin and slight chuckle, but he did not heed my warning. I liked that. His head and the rest of his body swiftly swiveled around as I pulled out my wooden baton and drew in a lung filling breath.

The chase was on. The first steps we took in sync but I watched his feet and doubled my stride to intercept him. He wasn’t as fast as he thought he was because I had made it through the playground before he was within ten feet of the breezeway.

I was feeling the burn in my thighs as I dug into the unyielding pavement. He could hear me closing in.

My prey tried to trick me as he entered the building. He stomped his feet and zigzagged to feint a decision to run towards the stairs and lead the chase upwards. I mimicked his movement and stomped as loudly as he did to let him know how much ground I’d gained and that I was upon him.

“You know I’ve got you don’t you!” My voice echoed as we dashed through the building and towards the next. “Ahhh! Ahhhhh! Was all he could utter.

“Come here! I growled as I leapt upon his back as he tried to change direction in the final seconds of our chase.

 “Ahhhhhh! Momma!” He screamed as our bodies hit the moist grass.

Still riding his back, I held onto his coat collar.

“Boop.” Was the sound his head made when I lightly tapped him onto the back of it with my baton.

“I told you not to run from me didn’t I?”

 I cuffed him and rolled him over. During my protective pat down I found a 50 pack of rock cocaine on his person.

This was a nice pinch that would carry us easily until lunch.

Memoir Chapter...

3/15/2011 9:21:07 AM 

 

Cop for A Day - Video

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY DAD!

If he wasn't in heaven he would be 98 today!

Miss you dad, love you..

Hemet Field, Calif.  WWII instructor pilot

My dad and Aunt June-  She Died when she was 18, shortly after this photo

Margie & Don

THE PENNY JAR

The penny jar

Every police officer knows that there is a gun at every call they respond to.  It’s on their hip.

Not every person who is placed under arrest just says ‘ok,’ and renders themselves up for handcuffing.  People will resist violently for no apparent reason, to the most minor of charges.

While not every resisting arrestee can be subdued easily that does not mean they get a free pass.  We can’t just say, ‘ok, you don’t want to go to jail, go and sin no more’.  Yet the offense/situation does not rise to the level that shooting is an option.

When a struggle ensues to accomplish handcuffing it exposes the officer and the subject to injury; it also means the possibility of their gaining control of your firearm.  Too many officers have been killed with their own weapon while trying to detain someone for a minor offense.

One of the greatest dilemmas facing law enforcement is the need for an intermediary ‘disabling’ tool.  What is needed is something that is less than lethal and can stop resistance in its tracks.   Police science has struggled to find the perfect intermediate weapon. 

So it was with great appreciation we received the first delivery of pepper spray.  Finally, something that would stun a resisting person long enough to apply handcuffs, yet you didn’t have to inflict blows with a night stick or get up close and personal to wrestle or fight.  And the best part – keeping your firearm far enough away from snatching hands.   

After orientation, an unpleasant personal experience with the substance ‘oleoresin capsicum’, and the rules of engagement our department settled on, it was issued for use. 

 Finally, something that could stop a fist fight instantly.  It was nicknamed ‘ass-whipping’ in a can’.

I was an FTO (field training officer).  The first thing you realize when you train new officers is that they fall into three categories:

·        The natural born officer:  They instinctively get it and all you’re called upon to do is orient them to the city geography, department procedures, rules and policies. 

·        The created officer:  Ones that didn’t get it thru DNA but they pick it up pretty good.  You have to add explain the 'why and how’ to the aforementioned training needs. 

·        And finally, the never gonna get it, gonna get washed out non-cop.  These are the ones that are totally lacking in common sense, no aptitude what so ever.  They are either going to get killed or get someone else killed.  It’s just a matter of who and when.

And it’s your job to explain that in volumes of reports to justify why they are not suited for this kind of work.

***

So it’s the first night on patrol with my new recruit.  It’s the first night on patrol with a can of pepper spray on my gun belt. 

The recruit is a pleasant looking, good size young man with a reserved demeanor who had obviously been frightened by locker room warnings about what a holy terror of an FTO I was.  He looked something like a deer in the headlights.  His tactical / survival plan was to lay low, agree with whatever I said and hope I approved of him.

I spent the first part of the shift showing him the perimeter of our zone, assessing his willingness to learn and how quickly he picked up on things.  He was bright and pleasant but remained cautious.  I knew he was afraid of me.  That’s ok, I had his attention and this is not a popularity contest.

It started out quiet, not many calls and those were mundane.  Then around 0300 we got a loud music complaint at a local apartment complex.  When we arrived the person who’d called was an off duty state trooper.  The apartment complex had a policy of discounting rent to law enforcement officers in exchange for them being willing to intervene in minor neighbor disputes. 

One of the residents in his building called him to report her neighbor was playing his guitar and singing so loud she could not get to sleep.  When the trooper asked the performer to knock it off for the night the guitarist told him where he could stick it.  So the trooper backed off and decided the guitarist needed ‘on duty’ persuasion.

This was a perfect call for my recruit to spread his wings a bit.  Just knock on the door, ask pretty please be quiet, take a few names, run them thru the system and say nitey-nite.

Well, we all know there is no such thing as a routine call.  I couldn’t wait to see how this easy one was going to go south in nothing flat.

We approach the door and can clearly hear the guitar and singing.  The apartment is the kind with interior doors to an interior hallway.  The doors are hollow core, no threshold so sound and light emit from the units into the common hall. 

Recruit knocks.  No answer.  Recruit knocks louder.  We hear discussion in the room but it is undecipherable.

Finally a young man opens the door, “Vat u vant?” he says in a thick Russian accent.

Recruit, “Your music is disturbing the neighbors, can you call it a night please?”

“Dis is free country, I play if I vant.  Police can no tell me what to do, dis is FREE country!” and slams the door in our faces.

Recruit looks at me, I could read his face…. Ok, now what do I do?

I nod at the door, he knocks again.  A young woman opens the door.  “I am sorry,” she says, “he is new here.  He does not like police.”

“We need to make him understand that it’s very late and the neighbors want to sleep” we told her.  She invited us inside.  He was on the sofa stroking his guitar and singing some kind of Russian folk song.  (Not bad either but it was not for me to say).

The Recruit tries again to charm the Russian, “sir, please, no more music tonight.  You can play tomorrow”.

“Fuck You, I come to free country, I can play if I vant”.  Clearly he had learned some American slang, and now the aroma of metabolized Vodka was wafting toward us.

He jumped up off the sofa and began to shove my trainee to get him out the door.  Well, I’m pretty sure that in Russia if you start shoving the cops around you end up bruised, bloody and in the gulag for a very long time.  Something we certainly have in common.

So it was on.....

We are in the process of switching from being shoved out the door, to dragging him out into the hall for handcuffing.  When we got to the door he head butted my recruit into the door.  Unbeknown to us in the corner behind the door was a huge onion shaped bottle.  If full of water, it could have held 5 gallons easily.  However it was half full of loose change. Mostly pennies.  There were thousands of them.  

Run thru a Coin-Star machine there was probably enough to buy this nit-wit a one way ticket back to Moscow.

Well, as the recruit was pushed into the door, the door was pushed into the jar.  There was a big loud popping noise almost an explosion as the glass burst and pennies flowed like liquid onto the ceramic tile foyer.  In a situation like this you have two immediate problems, glass to get cut on if you fall down, and the pennies acted like ball bearings, they were a slippery as KY jelly!

Ok, no more fooling around.  We managed to drag this guy, slipping and sliding across the penny slick tile out the door and onto carpet-firma in the hall.  We had him pinned down but he was squirming and bowing to avoid the handcuffs. 

My recruit looked to me for a hint at our next move.  I pointed to my brand new can of cap-stun and said ‘you or me?’  He said I want to do it.  (Good boy, he was not afraid to get his feet wet). 

The freshly issued protocol called for us to step back and announce pepper spray would be used if they refused to submit.  When we stepped back the Russian looked bewildered.  He’d never seen a wrestling match end or what the ‘though’ was end, in quite such an abrupt and inexplicable way. 

He was still trying to figure out why the stupid police had let go of him when my recruit told him to put his hands behind his back or he would be sprayed.  Well, this guy was not about to comply and had no clue what getting sprayed meant.  Too bad.  As he tried to get up he said his final “fuck you”.  Just then the recruit gave him a full face soaking.

It worked like a charm.  All the attitude and fight melted out of this idiot instantly.  He fell back on the floor and couldn’t wait to follow my recruit’s instructions.  He walked out to our car like a whipped puppy.

The unfortunate aftermath of pepper spray is many fold.  First you are not immune to it.  It burns your skin, eyes, nose and mouth.  It hangs in the air, clings your hair, clothing and the interior of your cruiser.    It can linger on for hours and sometimes days.

Needless to say the decision to use cap-stun is tempered with the knowledge that the user will have a price to pay, thus this decision is entered into with some prudence.

Back to our Russian. 

The full scope of the pepper spray deployment dawned on us gradually.  As we were stuffing him into the back seat of our car his companions emerged from the apartment like rats fleeing a sinking ship.  This didn’t surprise us. 

However, when old ladies in night robes and hair curlers began emerging from the far end of the building we realized that the positive air pressure of the hallway had driven the fumes into all the adjoining apartments-- the entire length of the hall.  Thus effecting 20 apartments. 

 Within 10 minutes the parking lot was filling with angry, sleepdeprived residents.  


Well, part of our job is problem solving.  We had solved the case of the defiant Rusky guitarist and now we had to solve the problem of the pepper bombed apartment building.

We summoned the fire department who responds, as always, lights and siren.  Waking all the residents of the other half dozen buildings in the complex.

When I explained the situation to the Battalion Chief he laughed, shook his head and deployed vent fans.  Thus our job here was done - we had gone from one sleepless resident to 300+ angry, residents forming like a swarm of bees from  a poked at hive! 

Time for us to bail out and take our prisoner to jail.  A trip made  with all windows down; if the prisoner tried to squirm out his half open window he’d just have to hit the pavement head first at 35mph!  We pulled into the booking sally port and the doors were rolled down.  We entered the booking vestibule, barely able to breathe ourselves. 

During this entire episode my recruit never gave away one expression of what he was thinking.  Dead pan face the entire time.  He is at the counter filling out the paper work and looks up at me without cracking a smile. He gets a little glint in his eye and and a telltale micro curve at the corner of his mouth as he says to me “I think I’m gonna like this job.”

He turned out to be the smartest recruit I ever trained.  He was a natural born cop.  He has done a fantastic job over the years and was a superb detective.  I am very proud to have had a part in his career.

Good job Tom!