Courtesy, Professionalism, Respect

September 5, 2001

I went on a ride along with cops from the Sixth Precinct the other night.  The Sixth covers the West Village.  Most of the calls we responded to were gay domestic violence cases.  Gay guys really can beat the shit out of each other.  I saw a lot of blood that night.  Didn’t get near any of it though.  AIDS.  The cops wore surgical gloves underneath their work gloves.  “Why the work gloves?” I asked.  “We never know when someone is going to want to get tough with us.”

I never worry about that in my job.  I never go on a sales call and think about how I’m gonna take down that marketing director.  How I’m gonna get that Bic pen out of her hand if she starts getting wise.

 
            For a few hours, I sat quietly in the back of the patrol car.  After awhile, the cops forgot I was there.  They started talking naturally, which is exactly what I wanted to happen.  Mostly these guys talked about women they’d see walking by.  Or about the freaks hanging out on the sidewalks.  They talked about how their new sergeant was not a stand-up guy and about how so-and-so had been on the job for 20 and was just about to retire.  At red lights, tourists would come up and gesture for them to roll down their windows. 

             “How do I get to the Bowery Ballroom?”

             “Where’s Union Square?” 

             No please.  No thank you.  Yet the cops obliged them with the correct answer.

A call came over the radio about a crazy man causing trouble at the Waterfront Hotel.  We drove over to check it out.  The man had left.  He’d also left a plate of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn smushed inside the little tray where the front desk clerk slides the keys from behind his glass booth.  The cops took down some information then left.  Outside, they shook their heads and laughed.  “You wouldn’t believe the shit we see.  This hotel is wear the survivors of the Titanic were put up.  Now it’s an SRO.  Single Room Occupancy.   Flea bag place for transients.  See that bent No Parking sign over there.  A jumper hit it with his head on his way down.  What a mess.”

A homeless guy overheard the officers talking. 

“Pigs.”

“What was that, sir?”

“Ghoul-iani’s storm troopers.”

“Have a good night, sir.”

We got back in the car.

“Douchebag.”

“Why didn’t you say anything back?”

“What for?  He was just expressing his opinion.”

“You know most citizens, me included, appreciate what you guys do.”

“Thanks, but it hardly ever feels like it.”

“You ever think about a career change?”

“We all think about it.  But not seriously.  Can’t really see myself doing anything else.”

“Besides, the money’s too good,” the second officer added.

They both laughed.

Another call came in and we were on our way.

Broadway Jim Sosnicky