Raindogblue

New Skin

Subject stops, Contacts, Clients, Ride Alongs, and Frequent Flyers,

Welcome to my new skin.

From eleven letters captured from an ancient MDT, comes a new look for Raindogblue. The directive is the same: Momentary Glimpses of Police Life. Be warned. This is the blog of street cop: brutal, injuring, disturbing. The stories are real. The jargon is used. Only the names of people and places have been changed to protect the fragile and innocent.

Welcome to the Villages. Welcome to my beat.

Tell me what you think: comment, ask questions. This record is for you as much as it is for me.

Sideways

A call or a person that becomes unpredictable, out of control, dangerous, and sliding towards a foreseeable cluster, but with the ability to correct prior to disaster.

Sleeping Days

At court yesterday, I spoke to a newly promoted sergeant. On Nights for the first time in nine years, he likes the crew and the work, but the hours are a struggle. He can't sleep. He bought expensive ear plugs, and a fan for white noise. In the end, he turned to a prescription sleep aid.

I admire him. I can't work Nights: period. I become an angry, hateful person.

But, as the conversation lingered in my mind over the afternoon, I couldn't help but think that any job you have to be medicated for isn't healthy.

Off-Duty

Last night, leaving my family at the beach, so I could attend court today, on my day off, I found myself behind an erratic driver.

From median to fogline, from lane center to the edge of the asphalt precariously close to the ditch, the car bobbed, back forth, to, fro, again and again, at 65 miles per hour. A wreck, on-coming or single vehicle was imminent.

I own no cell phone. My work cell, at home, I had a sole option: back off, give space, wait, watch for a county car typically in the area at this time of night.

After seven miles of shadowing spasmodic driving, I had my opportunity. A sheriff's car sat at the entrance of the wildlife refuge, lights off lurking. I slowed, flashed him. He didn't see me. He was on the phone. Signaling, I pulled car to car.

Drunk driver. 10 times over the white line.

I pointed.

He fluidly shifted to drive, and thanked me, and entered the highway.

Two miles east, he stopped the car for tailgating white weaving back and forth over the white line. She had all the classic signs, except she was sober. She was not on the cell. She was exhausted, coming off a long shift after work. The deputy cited her for careless driving.

I thanked him, and continued my journey home.

Wally

"Man Down, Village and Rain, conscious, but not moving."

Six blocks from the ram bar of my prowler, the call is all mine.

On the corner, a turtle on his shell, I find Wally staring up at me, mouth open, lips flapping, but not speaking.

I study him; spot the red eyes, smell the booze. He's a detox candidate.

Are you hurt?

Or drunk?

He rasps out a slurred "Drunk," followed by a "I live here." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of three houses.

"Please, take me home."

It's an option, if he lives nearby.

Where's your ID?

"Wallet." He points at his pants.

I pick his pocket; snag his wallet, examine his ID. He lives the next block over. I return his property, confirm he has keys, and wait a second for cover.

By his biceps, we guide him home, unlock the door, turn on the lights, and ask a neighbor to watch him. We're thanked, and assured this is Wally everyday.

A Moment.

The radio hums. Dispatch calls my number.

"Six juvies climbing the front of the school and the flag pole."

The call is in the next district. I'm a not close. Cover is farther.

I don't go code.

Twelve minutes later, I'm talking to ten skater teens. A belt hangs from the flag line strung from the school to the pole.

They were horsing around. The belt became stuck. They've been trying to remove the belt ever since.

I park my prowler under the article of clothing, pick the tallest teen, and have him scramble up the side of the squad car, leap off, and snag the belt.

Disbelieving their success, they all ask for stickers, slapping their prizes on their boards.

Emboldened, a few ask if they can sit in the back of the patrol car and pretend they've been cuffed.

I agree.

Cell phone cameras emerge: photos snapped.

The bravest ask to be cuffed and spread out against the trunk, heads down legs apart, my elbow in their backs. They're all grinning: laughing, pushing close.

I can't help but concede.

Schedule III

After returning from vacation, my sergeant spoke to me. The roster had changed. Once again, I could have my preferred days off, but I would be on the bubble. Everything could change in forty five days. Tired of instability of constant shifts changes, I declined for the security of seniority.

Less than Optimal

After a conversation between the union and the brass, optimal staffing has been rescinded.

Addiction

Tonight, I took Dana to jail. She was hot on a want, but happy. After three months on the run, she said "I don't have to look over my shoulder." She'd been clean for a year, but fell back, knowing no other way. At fourteen, her mother started sharing her crank, so she would not have to use alone.

Two Women

Two women approached me. They asked a favor. Would I eat a donut?
They were on corporate, team-building scavenger hunt.
They needed a picture.
They had the donut.
In the name of community policing, I submitted.