Thursday, June 14, 2012

Either You Have it or you Don't, A Short Story

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June 14th, 2012

I was just released from my field trainer and was finally on my own after two months of road patrol training in my new police career.

Being new, a rookie, you are regulated to the night shift. Its part of the process. Paying your dues on nights while gaining respect of the veteran officers who already did their time, working the late shift and “humping calls.”

That’s what it’s all about. Proving your worth in the field.

I was considered a good guy by the veteran officer’s since being hired, it didn’t mean I was on easy street with them though. There is more then being a good guy utilizing your personality to make friends. You have to prove yourself in other ways too by utilizing everything about yourself.

Do you have common sense? Are you going to get involved or sit back and do nothing? Are you a team player?

I would tell Mimie, that I wanted to be a good back-up officer, because if the officer I was backing up trusted me, then I defeated half the battle of proving myself by being a good cop. The back-up officer, I felt, was essential to keeping everyone safe.

There’s two types of back-up police officers’. The first officer does what he or she is suppose to do. Basically, be he back up. They don’t intrude on your call. He or she allows you to control it and they watch your back if your the lead officer, in case someone tries to ambush you or you overlook a weapon the bad guy is concealing. It’s a pretty simple role.

Then, there’s the back-up officer everyone dreads. The one you would rather cancel then have them arrive on your scene. He or she is the one that steps on your toes and tries to take over the call that your currently the lead on. You just can’t trust them to play their role.

I just wanted to be that guy you could depend on. The one that gives a cops mind relief, when I arrived to the scene to back him up. The other half of being a good officer is not backing down when another officer is in distress. Being there, side by side, no matter what. If we were battling Arnold Schwarzenegger and he threw me off his back well, I would get back up and jump on the pile again. It’s just the kind of dedication you want to see.

On my first day alone, I didn’t think it would be the veteran officer making the mistake. A mess that I would have to clean up. But I guess I got what I was looking for, complete respect. Even if it was at his expense.

It was day one and the start of my twelve hour shift. Only three more to go in my four day work week. I had been on this schedule during my training and I was beginning to enjoy it, but by the fourth day of your shift your extremely tired. Your body feels like it's always in a constant state of jet lag.

On this, my first night alone, I was dispatched to a domestic disturbance where I would have my first confrontation that would test me and my ability as a new officer and how I would be perceived by other officers in the future. I was about to prove my self worth.

You either have it or you don’t.

I was the back-up officer, backing up my field trainer who arrived before I did. I was standing in the living room of a small house. The room didn’t feel any larger then a walk-in closet. I did my job as back-up and stood by with my field trainer as he poke with both parties.

My trainer has been on the job for almost twenty years. He was burnt out after all his years of service. He drank, off duty, chained smoked, and held on to what little hair he had left way to long. His body was not what it was ten years ago. Years of bad eating killing off what he once was.

Willie, subject number one, was sitting at the table. He was talking incoherently, his eyes practically closed. He was wearing a dark t-shirt and blue jeans. He was a crack addict but he was clean cut, for now. His black hair cut so short you could see the chocolate skin covering his skull. His black skin made darker from the hot sun burning the flesh during the day when he worked as a day laborer. He was wearing no shoes. The only thing I could make out was “damn women” as he went his on tangent of lost words.

His wife was standing near the kitchen, our subject number two. She was pissed. I don’t know if she was more pissed about a knife incident that she was trying to explain to us after she dialed 911, or just fed up with his crack smoking. As the back-up, I just sized them up the entire time. 


It wasn’t too late that night, but Willie’s wife was already in her pink bath robe. She still had heavy make up on her face that over took her black skin tone. She was wearing a large wig that made me think of Whoppi Goldberg in Ghost. She stood defiantly before us, with her arms crossed, while Willie talked a big game.

“Shut the fuck up, Willie, shut the fuck up.” She would shout at Willie in between her explanation as to what was going on and why she called us there.

“He’s mad cause I didn’t buy him no food when I went to get dinner”, she said.

“Bitch I done told you…” Willie shouted with his eyes closed.

“Shut the fuck up Willie, Shut the fuck up, anyhow, so when he woke up he was mad and pulled a knife on my ass.”

“I ain’t crazy to pull a… (Willie)

“Fuck you Willie, I called the police here.”

(Willie)…knife on that crazy bitch because I…

“See what I mean that crack got Willie all fucked up.”

…don’t even smoke crack.” (Willie)

Their bickering words were running into each other like radio waves and it was hard to decipher what the hell happened.. My field trainer decided to separate them and had Willie’s wife step outside. I stayed inside to watch Willie.

Willie sat there and begun to put on his shoes. I still couldn’t make out a damn thing he was saying. Only pieces of his story.

“I didn’t, didn't...no knife” He would say as he placed a sock on his foot. “I’ll just fucking leave, I’ll fucking go. Ain’t...get me no food, bitch.”

Even through they were both separated by a concrete wall and a solid wood door, I could still hear his wife’s voice cutting through as if she was still standing in the kitchen.

“Fuck that shit, he’s going to jail! He pulled a knife on me! That motherfucker is going to jail!” She was yelling.

Willie was so preoccupied with his own hell he was oblivious to what his wife was yelling just a short distance a way.

“I mean officer” Willie would begin for the tenth time, “ I’m just gonna leave this place man.”

“Fuck that he’s going to jail!… (Wife)

“I wanted food but I ain’t pulling a knife on that bitch”, Willie mumbled.

…Jail, J-A-I-L, he’s going to Jail!…(Wife)

“I was...sleep, anyhow, the knife was already on the table”, Willie said half a sleep.

…. I don’t care officer take him, take him.” (Wife)

I stood there and didn’t say a word. As far as I was concerned Willie wouldn’t hear me anyway. I mean he didn’t even hear his wife who was clearly adamant for his incarceration. I just stared at him. He was sitting in a chair by the kitchen leaning over tying his shoes.

The front door opened and walking through was my field trainer. He looked at me and threw his hands in the air and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, guess he’s going”, he said to me.

I followed in behind him as he passed me expecting to make the arrest without setting him off. Basically, walking up to him and telling him to stand up prior to giving him an indication he was going to jail. Everyone acts differently when they are placed in handcuffs. They either go willingly or they don’t. Some get caught up in the fight or flight syndrome.

“Get up, Willie”, my field trainer said as he reached in his front pouch to remove his handcuffs.

“What? What?”, Willie said looking confused as he stood up from his chair “I’m going to jail?!” He shouted, his eyes wide like saucers. He clearly wasn’t happy.

“Yup, turn around.” My field trainer said.

My eyes began to open as wide as Willie.s’. I couldn’t believe my field trainer, a cop for almost twenty years, showed our cards prior to us being prepared to arrest him. I mean, I was green, but even I knew not to do that. From Willie’s demeanor he wasn’t going peacefully.

Willie started to push back from us placing his back against the wall. His big hands in front of him, his arms stretched out. The palms facing forward and his fingers spread wide. He stood like he was ready to push back. I saw it. Did my field trainer?

“Wait, wait, wait”, Willie said. Finally something I could understand clearly other then his actions.

“Turn around Willie, just turn around” The field trainer said, sensing that he just made a big mistake himself. His twenty years finally catching up to him in one big “oh shit” moment.

Willie had no intention of turning around, in fact he put his head down and bulled rushed forward crashing into my field trainer. The force so hard his momentum threw him to the ground. I stepped aside with all the grace of a Matador moving his cape to distract the raging bull. Willie made a move towards the door. As he passed by, I reached over and gripped his right shoulder pulling him back. I then lunged forward and wrapped my left arm around his left shoulder jumping on his back. I pulled his torso back with all my might, like a horse jockey pulling on the reigns of his horse, until we both fell back.

I swung the momentum back in my direction, like a championship team going on a scoring frenzy. Our combined weight throwing us backwards towards the ground, our bodies crashing through a glass coffee table. I landed on my back with Willie’s back landing on my chest. I tried to crawl out from under him driving my feet into the glass riddled ground, pushing backwards as hard as I could. But Willie’s weight was too heavy and I took him along for the ride.

Willie was able to break my grasp and he turned his body towards me. I placed my arms behind me to brace myself and started to get up, using my arms to spring forward from the ground but Willie drove his shoulder into my chest, blasting me backwards into his couches.

The larger of the two couches was snug in the corner of the back wall with the right armrest parallel with the side wall where the two wells met to for an “L”. The love seat was on the far side wall , which in this small room wasn’t far enough. That back of the smaller couch was against the side wall the front right armrest facing the left sided armrest on the large couch.

The force from Willie’s half tackle shook the room. Our large bodies rocking the couches upwards. When it settled in place the large couch landed on my radio holster and the smaller couch landed on my gun holster, pinning my hips to the ground.

Exposed and defenseless to Willie, I reached up and bear hugged him, pulling him into me, trying to immobilize him. I felt his body pressure increase on my as we both made a collected, “oomph” sound like the air just got purged from our body. My field trainer had joind the pile jumping on Willie’s back. I was thankful for the help, but no the extra two-hundred and fifty pounds of weight added to Willie’s already two-hundred and thirty pouds on top of me.

I could feel Willie attempting to land punches into my sides, but I was able to guard against them by staying as close to the inside of him as possible. Not the easiest to do for a guy who is also six foot two inches, two-hundred and twenty five pounds myself. I decided I would fight back.

I did my best to get him off of me. Yelling to him, “Willie, just give up Willie, give the fuck up!” When that didn’t work, I met his force with my own. I tried punching him in the ribs as hard as I could. It didn’t work. It seemed to make Willie more aggressive. My field trainer decided to use a weapon.

On my back I couldn’t see much. I was tucked into the chest of Willie as much as I could. I needed air. I tilted my head to the right of Willie’s left shoulder to get a peak and take in some air.

“What the fuck!” I shout.

My field trainer had used his pepper spray on Willie at the same time I gasped for air. I took in a huge amount of cayenne pepper as I breathed in. We were all blinded from the spray. The pepper seemed to open my airway just to allow more of the oily residue into my system. The burning went from my nostrils and throat down my esophagus and trachea, burning everything that it covered. I continued to punch at Willie even though I couldn’t see and could breath even less.

During the confrontation that seemed to be taking forever, Willie bit my field trainers arm forcing him to drop the pepper spray. Willie the reached out and picked it up from the ground. He made a loud yell, like Tarzan from the jungle. Placing both arms firmly on the carpet he did a push-up, lifting my field trainer with him and tearing his shirt from my grasp. When I fell back I saw why none of my punching in the sides of Willie was working. Willie had on a thick back brace. I was punching plastic until my knuckles bled.

My field trainer was yelling for help on the police radio. In between transmissions I heard him yell at Willie, “I’m going to shoot you, I’m going to shoot you.”

I yelled, “Shoot him, I’m exposed, shoot him.” I would have shot him myself but my gun was pinned under the couch.

I looked up at Willie as he looked down at me. Our eyes locked into each other. My face was totally exposed and I was tired from all the punched I threw into his back brace. It was a stand off between he and I. Even through my field trainer was on his back, this was going to be between him and I. It seemed like we were waiting for the first to make their move. Suddenly, I took my right hand and use my palm to strike him in the side of the neck. It stunned hi. I felt his body go limp. I then struck him again. This time pushing my hand into him peeling him off of me. I slid away dragging the couches with me. Willie went to the ground. My field trainer rolled off his back.

I got to my feet as I pushed the couch off my gun belt. I fell forward and now I was on top of Willie. Grabbing at his arms I was able to finally get him in handcuffs as the cavalry came running in.

I pushed off of Willie and fell back on to his couch. Sweating profusely I sat there exhausted. I didn’t move anything but my eyes. Surveying the damage that was in his living room. I glanced down at Willie who was looking at me. Are eyes locked again, but I was on top this time, I was the victor in this melee. My field trainer laid on the ground exhausted. I got up and walked over to him extending my hand I pulled him up from the ground. He smiled.

“Good back-up man, good-back up” is all he could muster.” I smiled at him, “That’s all I wanted to be.” I said. “You earned it today Chris, welcome.” He replied.

I looked about the room at all the cops that were there. They all nodded their heads in their way of saying nice job kid, welcome to the club.










Christopher Fusaro. The author of Captain Imperfecto.

© copyright 2012. All rights reserved.


Also see us at www.captainimperfecto.com

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Leaving My Weekend Cocoon


June 12, 2012

I am encased in my weekend cocoon. I feel safe here, sandwiched in between my Friday and Sundays. There really is no worry in my glass that surrounds me, other then what to do with the boys to keep them occupied. It’s the only time I feel normal, because after all, who wants the weekend to end?

I escape in the weekends because it’s when I don’t have to worry about bills, banks and responsibilities. I can shelf them in the back of my mind until my eyes open first thing Monday morning when I’m open for business. Until then, I do my best to ignore the fact that Monday is looming out there, and spend time in between the Sat and the Sun enjoying the day before they fade away.

The weekends are when I try to recover and heal from a never ending barrage of misfortune and stress from a week of uncertainty. When you lose someone as important to you as your children’s mother, your coping skills go beyond a normal three day bereavement afforded to you from work, family and friends. I try to rebuild my bridges and mend fences with life, but I just don’t have enough material to do it. I am relying on my old self, but he died months ago.

There are no more fun days, the days of the week just melt together as reminders that more time has gone by and another week has yet to begin. It weighs on me like a never ending conveyer belt, I anticipate the up coming weeks like the dark clouds brewing on the horizon. I count the hours until the weekend ends, as if I am counting the Mississippi’s between the lighting and the crash of thunder, to determine how much time I have until it will arrive. I’d rather hunker down inside my two day umbrella and ride out the storm spending my time with my boys. Pretty soon the full-time dad will have to come to a close. I have to return to work.

I guess the return to work could be good for me. The sand in the hourglass is draining from the top bulb and has almost settled in on the bottom. I don’t want to break the cocoon I’m in, but I know eventually I will have to cut my way out or slip through the exit hole. With the last few ounces of sand falling through, as I bust through my encasement, where I am suppose to flourish into a beautiful butterfly. It will represent my new beginning, as I spread my wings for the first time.

The problem is that I‘m not one for insects. I just like the idea of something sheltering itself in a cocoon, however in my case, I have no desire to break free. I don’t think there is anything wrong with being sheltered in your own world. Just as long as your in touch with reality. My reality is all to real, with no way of spinning my situation into a silk threaded shelter to ignore it. Doing so will only allow me to hide myself from my predators much like the pupae that houses itself within; for protection until it is ready to face the world. I know hiding isn’t the reality, I only conceal reality on my weekends. An encasement that I have been using to shelter my kids to heal their heartbreak, but ultimately it will be exposed.

I fill their weekends with as much fun as possible. When every fiber of my being just wants to rest, I somehow get up and get going. Most of it’s only for my boys, but a part of it is for me. I look in the mirror and see what my cocoon is transforming me into and I don’t like it. Thankfully, I can recognize that. I should do more for myself but there is so little time for me. My hair is fully grown out, when I use to shave it. My beard has a mind of its own, I haven’t trimmed it. My muscle mass is slowly deteriorating, I haven’t been to the gym. My eyes are baggy, I haven’t gotten any sleep. The transformation in this cocoon isn’t turning me into a beautiful insect. It’s keeping me that ugly bug that spun it to begin with.

Eventually, nature will take it’s course and will unwillingly push me out. Whether it is by acceptance or by the banks hands, as we are caught in the housing mess. I’m searching deep within myself to turn into the butterfly that is meant to be seen and turn this thing around. To get myself together, I am trying to accept the weeks and not just the weekends. But it is hard to look beyond tomorrow, when you are told not to look past today. And it’s even harder to leave our home where I find safety in this place. This is my cocoon. It protects me as I hide inside of it.
 

Our home is our truss, safety from the rest of the world. We can be ourselves here. It is truly our castle. I’m the king of course, along with the two prince. If we decide to venture out , our “horse and carriage” just outside the door awaits and I take my boys out and far away from here. But the security of home, is where I feel most comfortable, where I can watch my boys play uninhibited. It is only when the confines of home close in on us do we go out. But my energy is almost gone and keeping up with them is getting harder and harder. So it seems safer here.

This is our habitat much like nature is for the butterfly, it feels normal for me, us. Everything is exactly the same, since we first moved to this place. It gives me a false sense that Mimie, my wife, is still here, physically. Nothing has changed. I sit in my chair and look at each individual room and think of the memories gone by, good and bad. I want to hide in here for good, but that isn’t an option, it wouldn’t be fair to my guys.

I have to search myself as I hibernate in our cocoon. Look deep within and become what I was meant to be now that she is gone. I have to look adversity in the eyes and not wait for nature to take its course and force me out, but to fight my way out. To achieve greatness, so that my sons know that it is not okay to give up, that we all face hardships in life, but it is how we react to it that will define us. To shatter this damn cocoon and not be afraid to leave beyond the shelter of the weekends. We are meant for better things in life. You just need the will and the desire to find it and want it. I won’t quit on myself. I just have to find my desire again. I know there is passion in me somewhere, we all have it. If I don’t, it’s just wasted talent.

I need to bypass the cocoon and figure out how to make my fun days the Monday’s and leave my weekends behind.











Christopher Fusaro. The author of Captain Imperfecto.

© copyright 2012. All rights reserved.


Also see us at www.captainimperfecto.com