You're Not Dead Until I say You're Dead!

** This is the continuing story of my adventures at the police academy after suffering a mid-life crisis in my forties. It's best to start at the beginning with the first post.

I wish I could say the next two days went as smoothly as the first, but they didn’t. I struggled with two of the scenarios, and completely failed one of them. In the one I failed, I was driving a patrol car and came upon a vehicle pulled to the side of the road, with its hood up, and a man standing with his head buried in the engine. I pulled over behind the vehicle, activated my emergency lights, and called dispatch with my location.

I approached the man, asking if I could help. He straightened up and began shooting at me with a cap gun. It sounded real and scarred the shit out of me. I stumbled back trying to remove my gun from my holster as the man continued firing. I probably took six bullets directly to the chest, when I turned to the instructor and said the fatal words, “I’m dead.”

All hell broke lose. Sgt. Dickens was standing to the side of my vehicle, and he blew a gasket.

“You are not dead, you never stop fighting. You’re a fucking loser Cadet Ivy, and I should kick your ass out of the academy right now.”

I stood frozen. I wanted to bury my head in the dirt and cry. Sgt. Dickens told me to get the fuck out of his site and I left. What a disaster. I didn’t fail the remedial but the mental damage was done. It wasn’t until I found out that three quarters of the class failed that specific practical, that I felt somewhat better. I’m surprised Sgt. Dickens had a voice left; apparently he yelled at all of us and threatened to kick everyone out.

I also missed a small gun while searching a suspect. The gun was on a chain around her neck, in her cleavage. I managed to grab the gun as she was pulling it out to shoot me, but I was pissed off at myself. I had performed a bad search on a female suspect of all things. After that incident, my searches were extremely thorough and I found two additional guns during the following scenarios. One was literally underneath a suspect’s penis. I found it, removed it and then washed my hands when the scenario was finished. I did find some satisfaction in shaking everyone’s hand before I was able to wash.

My last scenario on Friday was with simulated weapons (SIMs). A small group of us were waiting outside the driver’s track building and we were able to pick partners. Rocco was in the group so we partnered up. We then geared up with head, chest and groin protection. I could barely breathe in my face mask. We were also handed SIMs guns with rubber bullets. These guns fire and launch a rubber bullet and leave a colored chalk mark on what they shoot. We were also told it would be painful if we took a hit.

When it was our turn, we walked to the front of the building, and were told to enter the abandoned building to search for a trespassing vagrant. Rocco and I began the search. The building was dark and we used our flashlights. We had our guns drawn, looking and listening, although all I could hear was my loud, too fast breathing. We searched room by room. There was a small closet and Rocco opened the door as I peered inside. My gun came up and I began shouting commands. There was a man standing inside, next to a water heater. He had his weaponless hands, visibly crossed, in front of him. He put his hands up and complied as we talked him out of the closet. The scenario was over and so were the practical tests.

Rocco and I went back to the classroom and it took about an hour for everyone else to finish up. We were all telling each other what we had passed and failed. Every one of us made mistakes. We were all upset over the pop gun incident and no one felt as if they’d aced it. Donna had not returned and I didn’t find out how she did until we were released, she came in and sat down right before our scolding started.

Sgt. Dickens came into the room after we were all assembled. He was pissed off and stated there were forty three guns missed in searches. He asked everyone that missed a gun to stand up. Everyone stood. Some missed more than one. We were given forty three hill runs to be completed the following Monday.

The judges reviewed their scenarios, and the good job I did on the domestic violence tests was pointed out. Cadets having problems were to work with me if they felt they needed help. I could tell this pissed off Sgt. Dickens. I glimpsed his way as I was being praised and he never acknowledged me at all. Other cadets were praised for different scenarios and we would have been proud of ourselves if it wasn’t for the angry look on Sgt. Dickens’ face.

Donna and another cadet were called to the Sergeant’s office when we were given permission to leave for the weekend. I waited for Donna before taking off. She was crying when she entered the room.

She told me she shot the unarmed man in the closet with her SIMs gun. She was one of two cadets who fired. Sgt. Dickens told them they both needed to think long and hard over the weekend about being police officers. I consoled her and said Sgt. Dickens was an ass. We both packed our laundry and took off for our homes.

Donna called me that weekend and told me she was not returning. She was sorry to leave me alone, but she could not take it any more. Her mind was set.

My son also announced he had taken a job in Phoenix and would be moving out in two weeks. He barely spoke to me and refused to ask about the academy. I love him dearly but his attitude hurt. I didn’t know if he would ever see me as my own person and not just his mother. My daughters were both proud of me. Letty, my oldest had announced her wedding date a few weeks earlier. She already had an apartment of her own. Cassie, the youngest, was doing well in her first semester of college. She had left for Tucson when I left for the academy.

With Roger moving out, my house would finally have just my husband and me under the roof. In some ways this was a blessing but it was sad as well. My husband would be alone during my last six weeks at the academy. I worried about him. He said he would survive but was counting the days until my graduation. Now that I was at the academy, he never seemed to doubt I would succeed.

Driving back to the academy that Sunday was hard, and I had a heavy heart. My friend would not be there waiting for me. I cried for her and myself. I realized becoming a police officer was about inner strength and heart. I made the drive slowly not wanting to face my empty dorm room.            

Hell Week Begins!

** This is the continuing story of my adventures at the police academy after suffering a mid-life crisis in my forties. It's best to start at the beginning with the first post.

Our midterm was long and grueling. It took half the day. We all attended the previous evening’s study session and I had a review at my breakfast table that morning. For the first time two other tables were pushed closer and about half our class participated.

Everyone passed. Cadet Rodriguez actually did very well and was twenty-second in the class. I was ninth and not very happy. Our academic rankings were posted on the wall and I wanted more than anything to be in the top five. I guess I should have been satisfied with it being the only academy testing where I wasn’t in last place, but I wasn’t.

Tuesday was POPAT and our schedules showed no morning inspection, but we were to be at the training field at 0800. We double timed it over and our testing began.

Police Officers Physical Agility Test (POPAT), I’ll break the test down for you. It begins with running a ninety-nine yard obstacle course. You next move on to the six-foot fences, followed by the body drag and then when you’re good and tired you get to run four-hundred meters.

We had POPAT testing until lunch. The results would be available that evening. I didn’t know if I’d made it or not.

The rest of the day was spent on defensive tactics to help prepare us for the practical tests beginning the next day. We were made to stand with our arms at our sides, with an attacker twenty feet away holding a large rubber knife. As soon as the attacker starts running towards us, we draw our guns and fire (this is done by making the bang bang sound). We were all stabbed. Twenty-two feet is considered the safety zone for a suspect with a knife. Even when you know he’s going to be coming at you it’s almost impossible to pull your gun and fire at the twenty foot range. Twenty-two feet is not easy either but we all managed to do it. There is no room for error.

Speaking of being stabbed, I did not say “killed” for a reason. For the past eight weeks it was drilled into our psyche we would never die. No matter what happened we were to continue fighting. This mind set is what will save your life. People have died from non-life threatening gun shot wounds simply because they knew they’d been shot. The only acceptation to this rule had been our fight for our guns and the death letters written to family.

That evening we gathered in front of our dorms when we heard the results for POPAT were in. Cadet Clark made the announcement that all but one of us had passed. My heart sank.

“Cadet Chavez, can I speak with you in my room? All the rest of you did a good job, and scores will be posted tomorrow in our classroom.”

I’d passed. I couldn’t believe it. This was the one thing I’d been most worried about. If I was injured and could not complete the final POPAT this score would stand and I would graduate. I passed on my first try.

I waited for Rocco and we cried together. He missed the magic score by twenty-four points. He told me he needed to lose more weight and he was determined to pass. He wouldn’t be given the chance until a week before graduation. If he didn’t pass in week seventeen he would go home. It was heartbreaking. I told him we would work at POPAT every night and I was not graduating without him. We’d made that deal the first week at the academy.

Non-academy personnel began arriving that evening for the practical tests beginning th following morning. Some would be staying in empty dorm rooms. They were all police officers volunteering their time to help us train. They were nice and relaxed. It was strange after weeks of being treated like cadets. One told me I didn’t need to call him sir. It was impossible.  I said, “Thank you sir,” at Starbucks on my weekend splurge. I hoped if I made it through the academy, I would be given the opportunity to come back and help other cadets.

Wednesday morning it began. We were divided into different groups and placed in separate waiting areas. My first test was behind our classroom. I was given a police radio and dispatched to an unidentified man standing on our parade deck. I was told a neighbor called him in because she could see him out her front window and he was making her nervous.

I approached. The man had a large boom box in his hand. I identified myself and asked what he was doing in the area. The man simply stared at me. I asked him for some identification. He lay the boom box down and placed his hand in his pocket. I could see a bulge in the pocket and I asked him to keep his hands where I could see them.

He finally spoke, “Then how you spect me to give you identification?” (He even had the lingo)

I asked if I could pat him down for my safety and explained I just needed to feel the outside of his pockets for a weapon. He complied and I asked him to turn around, keeping his hands where I could see them and spread his legs apart. I stepped forward and performed the pat down. My hands were shaking. He had a large wallet in his front pocket and I asked if his identification was inside. He told me it was. I stepped back and asked him to retrieve his wallet. He gave me his identification and I told him a neighbor called because he was making her nervous.

He then told me he lived down the block and a friend was picking him up here, on the street corner. The scenario was ended. The two judges came forward and told me I did a good job. I was told I should have noticed the bulge in the pocket earlier but I passed and they liked the way I spoke to my suspect. This was meant to be a non-violent confrontation but it would have turned aggressive if my demeanor warranted change.

           

I was next sent to our dorm room meeting area. There was a television, couches and small kitchenette with a microwave and toaster oven. We didn’t enter this area often because the college kids used it to hang out. Several of my fellow cadets were present and we watched a movie (we were too nervous to really pay attention) while waiting for our names to be called. We were not allowed to talk about any scenarios we’d finished so none of us would know what to expect.

There were two scenarios taking place at this station. I was only able to complete the first before lunch. It was a man with a baseball bat threatening to kill his ex-wife, while he was pounding on her apartment door (an empty dorm room).

I drew my gun upon seeing the bat, and had to talk my suspect down from there. I made an arrest and placed him in handcuffs.

After the completion of the scenario I was asked why I drew my weapon. I explained my suspect had a bat and it was a deadly instrument. I was asked if I would have fired if he came towards me with the bat. I said yes and was given a pass on my second scenario.

It was time for lunch. I was excited but several cadets were upset and said they failed their morning practical tests. I couldn’t ask which ones they’d taken, but it made me more nervous about what might be ahead of me. I thought both my scenarios had been rather easy.   

After lunch, there was another domestic violence scenario at the dorm rooms. I passed it with flying colors. I’d finished the day and did not need to perform any remedial training. It had been a good day for me but too many cadets had failed scenarios and I knew I probably would not be as lucky on the second day.

I Died Because I Let The Bad Guy Take My Gun!

**This is the ongoing story of becoming a police officer in my forties and then becoming The Bad Luck Detective. It’s best to start with the first post.

Week six began. We sported our new polo shirts, and it was nice to breath without a tie around our necks. We could hear Class 96 being yelled at by their Sergeant, but Sgt. Dickens lowered his voice and pretended we were human. Inspection went smoothly and we were only given twenty pushups. We were not assigned a single hill run. We realized Class 96 would be spending a lot of time on the hill and our Sergeant wanted us to appear superior. It wouldn’t last, but that week we suffered very few punishments.

It was Monday morning and we sat down for our weekly test. Nine cadets did not pass. We lost two cadets the following day on retake. Cadet Rodriguez barely scrapped through. Out of the original thirty-five we had twenty-nine cadets remaining.

I was lucky the academics came easy for me. The physical and defensive tactics training did not. I had never been last at anything in my life. During my childhood, I was athletic and competitive. At the academy, I felt like a loser.

Wednesday morning we were marched to our rooms before class for a surprise room inspection. We were made to stand at attention outside our dorm rooms, with the door open. We could not enter the room before inspection began. When I opened our door I realized our radio was blaring. Donna began having a panic attack because she’d left it on. I looked around and couldn’t see our Sergeant or any class advisors. I ran inside the room and shut the radio off. As I came back out, Stg. Dickens rounded the corner and saw me. The yelling began. He asked what I was doing in the room and I told him the radio was left on. He asked if I understood the rules of dorm inspection. I told him I did and he then gave me ten personal hill runs and a ten page memo to write on following rules.

I was glad Donna had not spoken up. It would have landed us both in hot water. She had left the radio on, but I disobeyed orders and went into the room. Donna joined me for the hill runs that afternoon, and helped to correct my memo that night. She also shined my shoes because I was not able to lead the study group. It was wonderful to have such a good friend. We held each other up and kept each other going.

Thursday morning at defensive tactics we fought for our guns. We were each paired up with someone of similar body size. The only person available for me was Donna. We had one “blue gun” between us, and first one person got a grip on the gun and then the other, until our four hands were holding the gun on the ground. A whistle was blown and the fight began. The winner was the person able to take control of the gun, getting it away from the other person.

The other cadets formed a circle around the fighters and kept them on the mat. The only rule was there were no rules, anything went. The fights were brutal. Against all odds I beat Donna. After everyone was finished, we were divided into two groups, one group of winners and one of losers. The losers were given their punishment. They had to write a letter telling their family why they died at work that day. The letter had to be turned in the following morning to our squad leaders. We were told they would actually be mailed to family members.

Later that afternoon, we noticed some unusual activity in the hallway, outside our classroom door. The leader from squad six and our class leader, Cadet Clark, were called to Sgt. Dickens’ office. About twenty minutes later Cadet Clark came back into the room and collected squad leader six’s classroom materials. We never saw the squad leader again and a new one was chosen for squad six. The rumor would later circulate that the unfortunate cadet was caught lying on his police application, and when his background was closely examined, the lie came out. He would never again be eligible to apply as a police officer in the state of Arizona. We were now down to twenty-eight cadets.

That evening Donna typed her letter. This was psychological torture for her. Donna had a six year old daughter at home and addressed the letter to her. She cried for hours and I had a hard time getting her out of her funk. The letters were never sent to family members, but it was a hard lesson whether you won or lost.

Friday was uneventful and I headed home to spend time with my husband. He was lonely without me, and I managed to pull myself out of a pain induced coma, and take a day trip with him on Saturday. I cleaned my house on Sunday morning and then headed back to the academy at noon for some much needed study time. It was now the beginning of week seven, and the first, of a two week driving course. Our classroom time was cut in half and we headed to the driving track.

Before the training I thought I was a good driver, but I learned an entirely new way of approaching driving situations at the academy. I never considered the difficulties of driving, turning the stirring wheel, and holding a microphone in your hand, while trying to speak into it, without getting everything twisted up. The training was very intensive, like everything else at the academy, but it was fun as well.

The phrase “stopping on a dime” had to have been invented by cops. We learned to stop, swerve and make “J” turns, while being shot at with paintball guns. Our windows had to be down so we could actually be hit if we didn’t do what we were shown. It was fun, exciting and for some cadets painful.

Driving made the two weeks speed by (pun intended), but it didn’t stop our anxiety over the approaching ninth week. We were facing our three hundred question midterm test, and also our first practical tests; where we would be put in pretend scenarios with play actors. This was all “do or die” testing. If we didn’t pass the midterm we would be sent home. If we didn’t pass the practical tests we would be sent home. Oh yeah, we also had our first official POPAT agility test. We would be given two times to pass POPAT, the first was week nine, and then a final time one week before graduation.

I stayed at the academy that weekend, practiced POPAT, studied, and applied ice packs. The stress continued to build.

I Don't Know Snot!

**This is the ongoing story of becoming a police officer in my forties and then becoming The Bad Luck Detective. It’s best to start with the first post.

I had called my chiropractor’s office when leaving the academy on Friday. They made a special appointment for me the next day. My body was readjusted and I was told I needed more fluids. I was given a water additive to replenish my body from all the sweating. It tasted terrible but I was willing to do anything to feel better.

Donna arrived for Sunday night study session. I was relieved to see her. This was the beginning of week five and on Monday morning Sgt. Dickens failed to show up for inspection and we stood around scratching our heads until it was time for class.

Tuesday morning we were presented with our Guidon. This is a flag representing our academy and class. Sgt. Dickens made quite a production and we all took pride in the presentation. The flag was yellow with PAFRA and class number 95 in large black letters. A cadet was chosen to be our flag bearer and it was quite an honor. He would carry it at all times including PT and DT. Our flag was to be the symbol of our pride. Nothing was to happen to it or we would be punished like no punishment we had yet seen. We were told we needed a class slogan by the end of the week.

Our first slogan was rejected by the Sergeant as being inadequate. We spent every available minute trying to come up with something suitable. Friday morning when called to attention for morning inspection, we belted it out.

“Class ninety five is the best by far. We smoke all the rest like a cheap cigar. Uh”

Sgt. Dickens approved and the slogan was officially added to our drills.

Our academy polo shirts and workout clothing had arrived and were passed out. We were told to wear the workout and academy shirts on Monday morning. Class ninety six would be starting on Sunday, and would be moving into available dorms, and using the classroom beside ours. We were told to stay away from them. We had our new polo’s and the new cadets would be in white shirts and ties. It was nice to be us for a change.

The day wasn’t over it was time for OC gas (o-chlorobenzylidene malononitrile) better known as tear gas. The “red shirts” came in directly after lunch. There were three of them. We learned to identify red shirts with pain beginning that day. It started as a lot of fun. They blew things up and taught us about making bombs. We were able to play with plastic explosive. One of the cadets made a penis and it became a contest to see who could make the best one (academy humor at it’s best). We were also shown videos of crowd control and actual mob scenes with police intervention.

We were then marched outside and taken about a mile out into the desert. We were issued side-handle batons and learned “hands on” crowd control. We split into two groups with one side being the “out of control” crowd, and the other being the officers. It was a great learning experience, and the psychology behind crowd control is fascinating.

The time had arrived. We were run in a slow jog for a mile, to open our pores (this made the gas burn more on our bodies). We were then lined up in our squads, but instead of being spread out, we were told to stand shoulder to shoulder. It had been explained the cans of tear gas would reach over 1400 degrees in temperature and we were not to touch them. We were also told we had to keep formation until a whistle was blown or we would start over.

The cans were tossed around us. We tried holding our breath but it was impossible. Water was poring from our eyes and breathing was unbearable. I felt someone at my feet and I grabbed their shoulders and held on. We could not break our formation. I thought we would all die before that whistle was finally blown.

The shrill noise sounded and we all ran away from the gas. We were coughing, choking, and throwing up. Everyone had snot and saliva running down their face. This was not a pretty site but we had done it. It took about ten minutes for our breathing to return to normal. The amount of mucus we expelled was amazing. Our skin was on fire. We were marched back to the classroom.

Sgt. Dickens came in.

“I am so fucking proud of you! This is what I’ve been waiting for. You are a team. You are Class 95. You are my Class and you should be proud of yourselves.”

It was great; we were all smiling and laughing. We were proud. In that moment I felt I could take on the world. We’d had a day of learning about crown mentality and here we were, our skin burning, our lungs scorched, with noses running with snot, and we felt as if we had achieved great success. On that day our Sergeant could have led us anywhere, and told us to do anything, and we would have followed.

I didn’t drive back to Small Town that weekend. My husband was away on a business trip and it was easier to stay on campus and relax. I ate dinner in the cafeteria Sunday evening with a few fellow cadets. Class 96 was marched in, and we saw the same looks on their faces that we’d had on ours, that first day. It sucked to be them.

I Have An Egg Head!

**This is the ongoing story of becoming a police officer in my forties and then becoming The Bad Luck Detective. It’s best to start with the first post.

I went home that weekend and finally broke down and told my husband everything going on at the academy. He was sympathetic and gave me a fantastic full body massage that night. He agreed with my plan for my return. He even helped me out.

I arrived at the study session Sunday night with a shaved head. Thank you Demi Moore and J.I. Jane, you were my inspiration! Sgt. Dickens could point out anything he wanted at Monday morning inspection, but he would never again be given the chance to complain about my hair touching my collar. I loved my hair, and so did my husband, but I was determined to finish what I started, and if sacrificing my hair would help; it was a small price to pay. I just wish I was one of those women that looked good this way. I looked like an egg with a nose.

I made it over the six-foot wall that morning at physical training (PT), and was so excited I forgot to run the twenty-five yards to complete the event. It didn’t matter, the entire class was cheering, and Sgt. Listberg gave me a huge hug. Everyone said it was because I was ten pounds lighter without my hair.

Sgt. Dickens never batted an eye at my shaved head. He only found a piece of hair (not mine) on my back pocket and gave us ten pushups. I knew I wasn’t out of the woods but it was nice to have some of the pressure off. My roommate became the next target.

If we wanted to communicate with our advisors we had to write a memo. We were given light blue paper, told to print in all capital letters and we could not scratch out or erase anything. The blue paper showed the erase lines. Misspelled words were another no no. When fished with our memo it was to be given to our squad leader and he in turn gave it to our class leader. Both would review and correct, giving it back if they found any problems.

Donna decided she was sick and tired of Sgt. Dickens and squad advisors coming into the classroom and monitoring us when we needed to be concentrating on school work. If an infraction was seen during class we were pulled outside on the next break and given pushups. We all held our breath when one of our superiors came into the room. Donna was right, it made it hard to concentrate.  

Donna wrote this in a memo. It was then given to her squad leader and next to the class leader, it was then turned in. The next morning was the reprisal.  

During morning inspection Donna was asked to step front and center. She was then asked if she wrote the memo. It had her name on it but I guess Sgt. Dickens was making a point. Her squad leader was called up next, and asked if he read the memo, and if he agreed with Donna’s analysis. He stated he did and yes he agreed. Cadet Clark, the class leader was called next. He also stated he agreed. Sgt. Dickens asked if anyone disagreed with Cadet Chavez. Not one person raised their hand.

“The entire group of you is nothing but a class of fucking babies. I’m embarrassed to be your Sergeant. I’m embarrassed you think you can be police officers. Not Fair (his voice was screaming at this point) not fair! I’ll show you “not fair.” You will all turn in a ten page memo by tomorrow morning on what is not fair in life. You will proceed with one hundred pushups this morning and twenty hill runs after class to give you a start on your memos. One of us will now be in the classroom at all times and you will learn what fair is all about. Cadet Higgins you may lead the class in pushups.”

It began. If we stopped or got out of sync, Sgt. Dickens was in our face. We all struggled through, but it was a hell of a morning. During class we weren’t just pulled out during break we were pulled out of classroom time and told to do more pushups. The pushup club did not exist that day.   

After our classroom torture was finished, we headed to the hill. When our hill runs were accomplished, we headed back to our dorms to begin writing our memos. I didn’t go to bed until 0230. Donna cried for hours. She felt horrible about the entire class being punished for her memo. I tried to explain to her that Sgt. Dickens was psyching her out and she had to pull through.

We turned in our memos before breakfast to our squad leaders. Some were returned, and cadets spent breakfast rewriting the page which had mistakes. We all remembered our old grade school trick of writing in large print, this helped. The memos were eventually turned into the Sergeant, but our classroom time continued to be hell that week. I lost count of pushups.

Our calendar showed Wednesday was expandable baton training and we were told to bring them to morning PT. There was no inspection and we spent the day learning the in and outs of beating someone with a baton. My biggest fear was getting mine taken away and being beat with it, but we learned techniques for keeping the bad guy from accomplishing this. I also learned why we did so many pushups. I could barely hold the baton by the end of the day and I’m sure I wouldn’t have made it just three weeks before. After that day we were given permission to carry our batons on our duty belts.   

Donna was talking about not returning after the weekend. I made her promise she would be back, but I had my doubts. Sgt. Dickens was singling her out during inspection and she could do nothing right. The psychological abuse was terrible but for some reason I think my age played a huge factor in it not affecting me as much as younger cadets. It was the physical requirements I was feeling, and my body was breaking down. My back was killing me, my joints were unbearably painful and my muscles cramped continually. My age had caught up with me.

Friday finally came and we left for the weekend. I called Donna several times and she said she would return. I wouldn’t believe it until I could actually see her.

I Hate Birds!

**This is the ongoing story of becoming a police officer in my forties and then becoming The Bad Luck Detective. It’s best to start with the first post.

My weekend consisted of lazing around my house and doing nothing. It didn’t matter that the house was a mess. I used ace bandages to keep icepacks on my arms and legs. My husband took me out to dinner on Saturday night, and I drank a couple of margaritas, and finally felt better. I didn’t tell him about what I was facing the following week. I made the entire academy experience sound like a lark. He was glad I was doing so well.

I left at two in the afternoon, and made it back to campus for study group. My class adviser had the short straw that week, and he was in the classroom ready to prepare us for the test. His name was Corporal Tsisonnee, pronounced Tis-on-knee. He was quiet and had not interacted much with the class. I needed advise, and decided to speak with him after we were finished.

He told me he had been informed of my transgression the previous Friday. He asked what I was going to do about it. I told him I needed to change Sgt. Dickens’ mind, and somehow redeem myself. Corporal Tsisonnee told me it would be hard, and it would take a lot of heart.

There was that phrase again. Sgt. Spears from STPD had used it as well. Corporal Tsisonnee said he believed in me, and I could succeed if I truly wanted to. I left feeling better.

The following morning no one was looking at me. Word had spread, and I was not a person you wanted to be seen with. Rocco and Donna were my only allies. I think everyone else was surprised I’d returned.

For PT we headed out to the POPAT training field. We were taken through the obstacle course, and got to drag the dummy. It wasn’t easy. Next we headed to the fences. The chain link was not a problem because you could get a toe hold in the fencing. The wall was a nightmare. There were five of us that couldn’t make it over. Rocco was one, though Donna made it over on her first try. Rocco and I decided we would head back out that evening and work on it some more. 

Morning inspection was a nightmare. My shoes were perfect but not according to Sgt. Dickens. He stepped on my toe, and then complained I had dust on my boot. He also complained about my hair wisps touching my collar. It didn’t stop there. He gave the entire class twenty pushups for each infraction I had. He watched me like a hawk, and I managed to pull through the punishments.

During our first week we were given school identification cards. We attached them to our shirt pockets because we were still carrying around our duty belts. We were told if we lost a badge it would be like losing our police badge and the punishments would be endless. A cadet reported his missing badge to our class leader, and Cadet Clark reported it to the sergeant. We were told to report to the running track at lunch.

I only missed five of eighty-five questions on our Monday test, and had the forth highest score in the class. It was a relief, but I was more worried about what was in front of us during lunch. We double timed to the track and saw Sgt. Dickens waiting for us. There was a flock of large black birds on the football field, and Sgt. Dickens told us one of the birds had our badge. We started chasing the birds. Sgt. Dickens then shouted we needed to be begging the birds to give us back the badge.

We started begging loudly saying, “Here birdy birdy, give us back our badge please.”

We ran across the field and through campus following those damned birds. The college kids got a real kick out of us yelling at the birds. This went on throughout the entire lunch hour. We were then told the birds had left it on the hill at the water tower and we could look after class. Starving and dehydrated we headed back to the classroom.      

We ran the hill that day until we couldn’t see straight. I think the only reason we were allowed to stop was that several cadets looked as if they would pass out. When everyone left, I stayed behind to do my ten punishment hills. Cadet Clark told me he had to stay and monitor me. A young Cadet by the name of Rodriguez stayed behind as well. He told me he didn’t want me to do the hill alone, and he ran by my side. As we ran, he told me about himself. I was incapable of speech at this point, and every breath was a struggle. Cadet Rodriguez was twenty years old, and would be turning twenty-one in a few weeks. He’d worked at a county jail, and had waited until he was old enough to attend the police academy. He said he admired me for coming when I was so old. I didn’t take offense, I was so happy to have someone with me. He chatted the entire time. I had no food in my system to throw up, but I did spit up some foul tasting liquid.

Cadet Rodriguez told me he was struggling with the weekly classroom tests, and asked if I would tutor him. He said he would shine my shoes nightly, if I was willing to help. We made a deal. After the run we went back to my room, retrieved my boots and notes, and went to Rodriguez’ room. His roommates were busy shining their boots and said they wanted to participate as well. My boots were passed around. As the weeks went by we fit about eight cadets nightly in that small room and I also had a study group at my breakfast table on Monday mornings before our test.     

The next day I began the pushup club. During every break I worked on my pushups. We added one pushup daily and I kept track of out totals for the entire day. Including our morning punishment we did 843 pushups that week. The club began with Rocco and me but soon we had about ten cadets joining us. I don’t think they needed to do the pushups but our efforts were being noticed by the Sgt. and advisors. Anything that made us look good was on the agenda, because we were told repeatedly we were pieces of shit, and not fit to wear a badge.  

We were finally given permission to wear our duty belts. We were also issued “blue guns” and told to practice our draw. Blue guns are hard rubber imitation firearms matching our department issue gun. Thank god I had gone out shooting before the academy, and knew what kind of gun I had. It was nice to wear our belts, and not carry them everywhere although a set of handcuffs, a flashlight and blue gun were the only gear we had.

By the end of the week my fellow cadets were treating me normally, but Sgt. Dickens was not happy. On Friday I was given an additional ten hill runs for dropping a piece of paper on the floor in the hallway.

We only had five hills to run as a group, and the entire class ran my ten with me. As I ran, there was a litany going off in my head; I will never call Dickface Dickless again, I will never call Dickface Dickless again, and on it went. This recitation would probably come out at the worst time and I was doing myself more harm than good by saying it, but it got me up those hills when I didn’t think I would make it.

This had been a hell of a week but I had survived and I only had fifteen more to go.

Is Dickless A Bad Word?

**This is the ongoing story of becoming a police officer in my forties and then becoming The Bad Luck Detective. It’s best to start with the first post.

After more torture at morning PT, we went to breakfast, had inspection, and sat down for our first test. Bubble sheets again. It was a multiple choice test, but for every question there were at least two possible answers. I felt I had done well though, and we were able to leave the room when we finished. I was the third one out the door. Cadet Clark our classroom leader, who we had elected the previous week, was the first to finish. There was a machine for grading in the secretary’s office outside the classroom. When approximately ten tests were turned in, they were gathered and run through the machine. My test was handed back and I only missed three out of eighty six. It was a good feeling.

We all managed to pass but there were quite a few scores in the seventies. We were told this was the easiest test we would be given and we needed to study harder. Class began and we managed to make it through the day. We had eight hill runs after class and they were easier than the week before.

Each squad had been given a package of stencils and one black marker earlier that day. We were told we needed to stencil our last names on the back of our white physical training (PT) t-shirts. It was a disaster. Mistakes were made left and right by the male cadets and t-shirts were thrown in the garbage. When it was my turn to stencil I had no problems. It was easy. I wasn’t a housewife and homemaker for nothing. Word got out. It was decided I would stencil while cadets shined my boots. What a trade off.

The next morning for the first time Sgt. Dickens said, “Nice boots cadet.”

We could carry a backpack for our binders and classroom supplies. I carried everything but the kitchen’s sink in mine. Ibuprofen, Kleenex, band aides, sun block and chemical icepacks were only a few of the items. The word also got out on this. Cadets raided my supplies endlessly and I earned the name Momma Ivy. I think we nicknamed everyone. We were proud of those names and it was our own way of making us a family.

Tuesday and Thursday mornings were Defensive Tactics (DT). We had Sgt. Tillman for our instructor. He was in his late forties, in fantastic shape, and basically kicked the shit out of us. We were hit, knocked down and handcuffed until our wrists were raw. I had bruises everywhere and icepacks were my best friend. My roommate and I bought a small refrigerator for our room and I was able to keep the packs frozen. It was cheaper than the chemical packs though I carried those for emergencies.

During the first and second weeks of DT we learned how to fall. We were tested on falling forward from a standing position, turning our heads to the side (so we didn’t break our nose), and landing just on our palms and toes. It’s hard not to use your knees to break your fall, and some of the cadets had difficulty but we all passed.

We began learning pain compliance techniques; wrist locks and joint control. The painful part for us was practicing on each other. We learned proper search techniques. I learned men like to hide things in their “junk.” This means I had to search their “packages” thoroughly. The male cadets had a harder time searching the women than we did the men. We all had to get over our mental rebellion and learn to grope each other.

My arms were twisted and I was thrown to the ground too many times to count. I would limp to my room after DT, take some Ibuprofen, apply ice packs while changing my cloths and then head to breakfast. Rocco and I began skipping dinner, eating a power bar and working out. We were barely keeping up in PT and our POPAT training was beginning the following week. By the end of my second week I had lost ten pounds and Rocco lost twenty-three.

My roommate Donna and I were becoming good friends as well. She had been in the army for ten years and worked at a grocery store before coming to the police academy. She was thirty-two and wanted a better life for her son. She was single and her mother was keeping her son while she attended the academy. She told me she didn’t really like the military but dreamed of being a police officer. She was getting her asthma under control and had moved to the middle of the pack when running. Once a week we did a personal best run and did not run together. I was proud of Donna but this put me dead last. Rocco finished about a quarter mile in front of me and everyone else was able to cool down until I crossed the finish line. I was then given two minutes to rest before hitting the weight room. PT was my worst nightmare.

I was also struggling with my pushup. Sgt. Dickless, I mean Dickens, had pin pointed me as a weak link for his class. He seemed to spend more time on my morning inspection than on other cadets. He loved giving us all pushups for my infractions. I didn’t get his exclusive attention but it was apparent he had it out for me.

The entire class referred to Sgt. Dickens as Sgt. Dickless when we were out of his hearing. It became second nature to call him by his nickname. I was also incorporating the “F” word in my vocabulary. It seemed to be how every cadet talked and it was becoming just another word. I never swore a lot before the academy but the only way to describe a hill run was to call it a “fucking” hill run. No other word did it justice.

Sgt. Dickens decided I was doing improper pushups and not going down far enough. He told the class he was adding five hill runs everyday until I could do them correctly. The class was pissed and I was getting angry glances. Class leader Clark said he would help me out that evening. He showed me a proper pushup and I could barely complete ten. If Sgt. Dickless was going to be watching me the entire class was in trouble. I added pushups to my nightly workout routine.

That week we did five extra hill runs everyday with Sgt. Dickless screaming at the bottom about whose fault it was. We were again released on Friday at 1600 hours. We all trudged to the bottom of the water tower and began running upward. We finished and cadets began heading to the dorms to collect their things for the weekend.

I was walking with Rocco and said, “Sgt. Dickless is a fucked up piece of shit.”

I had no idea Sgt. Dickens was behind me. I was grabbed by my arm and spun around.

“I will see you immediately in my office!”

Rocco gave me a look of complete terror and I gave him a small push in the direction of the dorms. I went to the office. This was like being in grade school all over. I was forty years old and being sent to the office. I swore I would not cry.

Sgt. Dickens was staring at his computer and waited about five minutes before speaking to me. I knew this drill. I’d used it on my own children.

His voice was low when he finally spoke, “Why are you here Cadet Ivy?”

Before I could answer he went on, “You can’t run, you’re overweight, too old and you are not cut out to be a police officer. Is this a joke to you? Will your social club give you a certificate if you complete two weeks of the academy? How about make it easy on everyone by going home today and not coming back on Monday. Let me add this, if you come back on Monday I will make your life a living hell.”

I looked him straight in the eye. “I became a police officer because I can do the job. I apologize for my lack of respect today but I will be back on Monday.”

He shook his head and told me I would have ten personal hill runs on Monday. He then dismissed me. I didn’t cry until I was in my car and heading home. I had made the worst enemy possible.            

  

Are We In Hell?

**This is the ongoing story of becoming a police officer in my forties and then becoming The Bad Luck Detective. It’s best to start with the first post.

Day two began at 0430 hours, a squad leader knocked on our door the previous evening to inform us we needed to meet before physical training (PT), and try to straighten up our marching and formations. Some of us also needed to learn a few more basic commands.

We were in front of the dorms at 0445. It was already warm. We lined up and the space beside me was noticeably empty. Another cadet asked where my partner was. I explained what happened the evening before. Everyone moved down one spot.

Stacy was one of two cadets to skip out the first day. The other was a male cadet from squad three. It was at this point that I swore to myself I would complete the academy. I had never given up on anything and I wouldn’t begin now. I was not a quitter.

We marched and learned things like: about face, quarter turn, marching while turning a corner, and standing at attention with our toes pointing out so the Sergeant could stand between our feet and inspect us up close and personal.

It was time to march to PT. As much as I would come to dread our early morning workouts, the marching was great. We marched and sang to cadence. One of the cadets fresh out of the military knew every cadence imaginable. They were funny, entertaining and inspiring. Our voices rang across the campus.

Sgt. Dickens was waiting when we arrived. The yelling began and we were introduced to our PT instructor Sgt. Listberg. He turned out to be a great guy but we weren’t aware of this on the first day. After warm ups we went on our first run. Sgt. Listberg told us it would be the last mile we ever ran at the academy. He was correct. Wednesday we ran two miles.

It soon became apparent I was a slow runner and I was put in front to keep the pace. Another female, Cadet Higgins was put in front beside me as well. She ended up dropping back due to her asthma and barely finished the mile run. I finished but could tell my pace did not offer a challenge to the other cadets. I knew I had work to do.

We were then taken into the weight room and put through Sgt. Listberg’s idea of a power workout. There were thirty-one torture stations set up. The only good thing Sgt. Listberg did was turn on some great 70’s rock and roll. Every sixty seconds he blew his whistle and we moved to another station. Arms, legs, wrists, butts and thighs were all worked out. After this we were taken to the gym bleachers and made to jump with both feet together to the top, where we ran back down and began jumping again. This went on until the end of class. Do you have any idea how your teeth clack when you land on both feet? My head was killing me. We double timed it back to our dorms, changed into our shirts and ties, and headed to breakfast.

Eating was again a difficult task. God forbid we spilled anything on our white ironed shirts, it would mean changing before inspection. I did manage to get some food in my mouth using my shaking arms and hands. The three female cadets sat together and a few male cadets joined us. Our “clicks” were already forming. Cadet Chavez sat next to me. He was obviously as stressed as I was. I found out he was an emergency medical technician sent to the academy in order to be part of a SWAT team. He was twenty-seven years old, fifty pounds overweight and worried about what he’d gotten himself into. He was told the academy would be a piece of cake, but he was having doubts. I agreed and we made a pact to complete the academy and help each other out. We weren’t such an unlikely friendship, we were both in over our heads and both needed to lose weight. It felt great to have a friend and he was also in squad five along with me. We would suffer together.

Our first inspection was horrible. Sgt. Dickens along with all six squad advisers were in attendance to find something wrong. Our ties were the improper length, our shoes were not shined to high gloss, we had lint on our black pants, and several of the guys did not have a close enough shave due to shaving the night before and not this morning. In all we were given eighty pushups and six hill runs. The pushups were done on the spot and the hill runs would be executed after class. I found out why we practiced a duck stance that morning. Sgt. Dickens placed one foot between my boots, put his face an inch from mine and began the inspection from the top of my head down to my toes. I know my last OBGYN appointment was not this thorough.

It was a relief to enter our classroom and begin learning. The first two hours every Monday would be with Lieutenant Griffin for report writing. He talked and told stories more than he taught us report writing but we enjoyed him tremendously. Our binders were explained to us. A schedule was located in the front of the first binder and encompassed the entire eighteen weeks of the academy. Our lesson plans were outlined, which explained the four inch thickness of the binders. We were told we would get a break every hour but most importantly we were not to fall asleep in class. We could stand up in the back of the room but there would be hell to pay if one of us was caught sleeping.

Our first lesson was on the history of policing. Robert Peel created the first organized police unit called “Bobbies” in 1929. He was our founding father and his ideas lived on today, in modern policing.

We were given a lunch break and then went back to the classroom. Sgt. Dickens stuck his head in and did some yelling on a regular basis but learning was the focus. We had different instructors for different lecture modules. My brain wanted to explode by the end of that first day in class. I actually wish it had, because waiting for us were our six hill runs we’d earned at morning inspection.

We double timed it over to the bottom of the hill which consisted of a quarter mile dirt path which curved back and forth up to a water tower. It was steep, rocky and looked like a nightmare. We started up. I was the second to last person to the top on the first run. We were all going at our own pace. It was 109 degrees outside. We had water bottles at the bottom and took drinks between runs. One of my roommates slipped and fell. She twisted her knee and sat out the last few trips to the top.

We hadn’t noticed but Sgt. Dickens showed up as I was taking my last hill run.

“What the hell are you doing?” He yelled at the cadets at the bottom waiting for us stragglers to finish.

“Are you individuals or a team? I want your punishment done as a unit. Start over and get it right this time.”

Before reaching the halfway point Higgins, Chavez and me turned around and went back for our classmates. We formed two lines and ran six more hill runs together. We were then released for the day. I was too tired to eat and went back to my room. I ironed my shirt for the following day, tried to shine my shoes but fell asleep. I slept until 0430 hours the next day, woke up, and did it all again. We were give 110 pushups at morning inspection and ten hill runs. I could barely move my arms during class and taking notes was excruciating. I thought Friday would never come. I was gigged for my boots every day. Our class could do nothing right.

My thinking began to change that week. I had always respected the police but my admiration was growing for them as well. We were constantly under stress. It was explained it was similar to what it would be like as an officer on a patrol shift. Being a police officer was stressful as well as deadly and if we couldn’t handle it we needed to leave. It was not shameful to decide this was not right for you. It was smart.                      

I struggled with my decision to become a police officer on a whim. Did I have what it would take? Could I handle the stress?

Friday finally came and we were released at 1600 hours. I was too tired to make the drive home. I called my husband and begged his forgiveness. I spent the weekend working on my shoes, typing my notes and organizing my binders. Sunday evening at 2000 hours we had a study group in our classroom. All but two cadets showed up. The two missing didn’t show up for PT on Monday morning as well. They had decided being a police officer was not right for them. My roommate with the hurt knee was one of the two not returning. I was down to one bunkmate. The bathroom schedule became much easier.

Cadet Donna Higgins, Rocco Chavez and I were becoming a team. We were the slowest, most un-police like cadets at the academy and we bonded. We weren’t treated badly by other cadets but we knew they didn’t think we would make it. Our first classroom test was the next day. If we didn’t pass, the decision to stay would be taken out of our hands.    

Will My Arms Fall Off?

**This is the ongoing story of becoming a police officer in my forties and then becoming The Bad Luck Detective. It’s best to start with the first post.

After receiving our binders Sgt. Dickens reviewed the class rules. We would be spending eight hours a day in the classroom. Everything we learned throughout the week would be covered in a test on Monday mornings. We were expected to get a seventy percent or higher. If not, we would be given one retake. If we did not pass the retake with a seventy percent we would be sent home immediately.

We were expected to pass POPAT (Police Officers Physical Aptitude Test).

A 99 yard obstacle course

Body Drag – Lift and drag a 165 lb. lifelike dummy 32 feet

500 Yard Run

Chain Link Fence – Run 5 yards, go over fence and run an additional 25 yards

Solid Fence Climb – Run 5 yards, go over solid fence and run an additional 25 yards

The nightmare six-foot fence was now on the table. Each event was timed and higher points were given for lower times. The minimum passing score was 384. Men and women were scored equally. Age did not matter. If we scored a 383 we were going home. I think I liked the Cooper Test better. Oh yeah, we had to pass the Cooper Test as well.

There would be no fraternizing with college men or women including each other. If caught we would be sent home. We would tell the truth at all times, if we were caught in any lie we would be sent home. We would attend every class. If we missed more than three class days, we would be sent home. There were so many “you will be sent home rules” it’s hard to remember them all.

We would keep our dorm rooms spotless and have a dorm inspection weekly. All home work would be turned in on time. Our notebooks would be inspected weekly. We would be given daily uniform inspections. We were to be outside on the back classroom deck at 0745 each morning and inspection ready. Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays we would meet in the gym at 0530 hours for Physical Training (PT). On Tuesday and Thursdays we would meet at the same time for Defensive Tactics (DT). These classes would last an hour and a half, giving us 45-minutes to eat breakfast, change into our uniform of the day and arrive for inspection on the deck. Infractions would be severally punished. Punishment hill runs (whatever that was) would take place after class at 1700 hours daily. We were not to leave campus unless we had permission.  There was an absolute ban on cell phones during the day.

After this set of rules and instructions were yelled out, we were marched to the gym. It was time to learn a few military formations and some of the terminology. Sgt. Dickens continued to yell and we eventually got it. It was hot in the gym; I don’t think the college had turned on the air conditioner. I'm pretty sure we were dying. Eventually the first cadet dropped. He passed out in a dead faint. An ambulance was called and we got a break. There were two water fountains and we took turns getting water and wetting our heads and necks. No one spoke; we were all being watched closely.

The "lucky" cadet was taken to the hospital about 15-minutes later. We were told it was time for our first inspection. We lined up by squad. This would be our formation throughout the academy. Squad one would place their right arm towards the person beside them with their fingertips touching the shoulder. The rest of us would then line up behind the person in front of us.

We were shown how to stand at attentions and then at ease with our hands behind our backs and one palm crossing the other. We were told to stand without locking our legs or we would also be taking a trip to the hospital. 

The two Sergeants and their helpers (a.k.a. our squad advisers) began going person to person and finding something wrong. My hair was barely staying up and I could feel it touching the back of my neck.

I could sense someone close behind me and then the back of my hair was tugged, hard.

“Sgt. Dickens, it appears we have a bird’s nest in squad five.” It was yelled into my ear.

I couldn’t help it I giggled. This was something I did when nervous and was a habit I’d had all my life. I broke the habit that day.

“Cadet, are you laughing? Do you find this funny? Give me twenty pushups now. As a matter of fact, I want the entire class to give me twenty pushups. Quarter right turn, assume pushup position. Begin.”

We were so tired. Someone stopped doing pushups at the count of fourteen and we had to start again. The inspection continued and when finished we had done a total of 94 pushups. My arms wanted to fall off.

After inspection, we were shown the location of our dorms at the eastern end of the campus. We were then marched to the cafeteria. I don’t even remember eating. Not a word was spoken. The Sergeants and advisors sat at their own table. We huddled together miserably at whatever empty seat we came to first. It was 1800 hours. We had only been at it for five hours. This sucked.

I tried to eat. I could barely lift my fork to my mouth. I ate very little. After about twenty-minutes we resumed our formation outside. We double timed it back to the dorms. I was thankful I didn’t eat much. We were finally released for the day, and told to be at the gym at 0530 hours.

Getting our room assignments, unpacking, and arranging the shower schedules were done next. There were a total of four women. Our dorm was tiny with two bunk beds. We decided to switch ever two weeks so we each took turns on the top bunk. We would share one bathroom.  

After getting situated, Stacy left the room with her cell phone in hand. She came back an hour later and said she was going back to Montana. She left. I never heard from her again. This really sucked!

Being Late Will Get You Fired!

This is a continuing story and should be started from the beginning...

Over the next three weeks Stacy and I thought we got our first experience at being police officers. We were issued wallet police badges to take to the academy and we were also issued our batons, handcuffs and firearms. Guns, this was one thing I hadn’t thought about. I had never shot a gun before. It looked huge. It was a .40 caliber Glock 35. I was told it had an extra long barrel and was great for target shooting.

Problem! It barely fit my hand. We were taken to the range and given instructions. I screamed on my first shot, the gun practically jumped out of my hands. Sgt. Shultz looked like he wanted to scream. He was patient but I pushed him to his limit. He told me if I made it far enough, the academy would straighten out my problems. Of course, Stacy did an excellent job.

The night before I left, Norman gave me a party. He invited Veronica and a few of my closest friends. They made me a cake and wished me well. My daughters were both in attendance but Roger made his excuses and stayed away. Everyone wanted to know if I was nervous. By this point I was past nervous and had gone straight to petrified.

Stacy and I left first thing in the morning. We stayed in a hotel that night and were expected to be at the academy at 1300 hours. Our hair had to be up and off our collar; we wore white dress shirts with black ties, black pants and black shoes. We had to carry our duty belts minus the guns and gear. We left out suitcases in our police issued unmarked vehicle and went inside. There were about thirty people standing around dressed like us. I only saw two other women.

Everything was going well until a military drill sergeant arrived, though he was wearing a police uniform. He was short, squat and had a loud voice.

“What are you doing?” He bellowed, “Get in formation NOW, NOW, NOW!”

He had several “helpers” with him. They were yelling as well. We began lining up and were told to count off. The first five people got it right but number six missed his turn.

“What the hell is your problem? Did you learn to count in kindergarten? Start over and this time get it right.”

We made it to twenty-two.

Stacy blew it. Her eyes were huge and I thought she would cry. After more yelling we started over. This time we made it. There were thirty-five of us. Next, we were marched outside. The weather was expected to be 115 degrees that day. I think it was 120 at the moment. Our stiff white shirts and ties were drenched with sweat within five minutes. About half the cadets didn’t bring their duty belts with them and the rest of us were made to stand at attention while they were given five minutes to run out to their cars.

Placed in two lines by numbers, we were marched around the campus. PAFRA was located on a college campus. Students would not be arriving for another week. We would have the place to ourselves for now. We ran “double time” in the heat while the library, gym and cafeteria were pointed out. We ended about ten minutes later at the far west end of campus. Our classroom was stadium style. There were six rows and I was the third person in row five. Stacy was next to me and a male cadet was first in our row. We would become squad five. There were seven cadets on our row.

We were told we had one minute to get a drink of water and were sent to the fountain by squads. No one did more than wet his or her lips.

I was getting my heart rate under control, when the back door at the top corner of the room flew open. A metal garbage can was kicked down the classroom stairs and our class Sergeant stormed in. I thought the other guy was the sergeant but soon discovered my error. The new sergeant made the other look like a pansy.

“On your feet, I’m Sergeant Dickens and you will stand when I enter a room. You will address me as sir.” He had our attention.  “Don’t eyeball me; you will look through me and not at me. Do you understand?”

“Yes Sir,” It came out weak. I wondered what the hell he meant. Through me not at me, I guess I would be learning.

“What did you say? Is everybody here capable of saying yes sir? Or maybe you don’t understand. Do you understand?”

“Yes Sir,” It was louder this time.

“If you have military experience I want you front and center immediately.” About ten guys started for the front of the room. “I didn’t tell you to walk. For the love of God, get down here now.” Their pace picked up.

Squad leaders were appointed and all sent back to their seats. Some seat shuffling went on as the squad leaders took the far right seats in each row. We were in luck, our squad leader already had the correct seat. Next, we were told to come forward when our names were called and given a name plate on yellow cardstock paper along with two large white paper filled binders.

Before my name was called, a young man dresses like us, looked into the room. One of the Sergeant’s helpers noticed him. “Who are you?” She asked.

“Mike Todd.” He answered.

“And what are you doing here Mike Todd?”

“I’m supposed to be in this class.”

“What time were you told to be here?”

“1300 hours.”

“What time is it?”

Mike looked at his watch and said, “1342 hours.”

“And you think you can come in late? Does this look like kindergarten? Sergeant Dickens, this fine young man is late.”

Sergeant Dickens walked over to Mike and got in his face. “Are you eyeballing me Mr. Todd?”

“No sir.”

“You were eyeballing me and now you’re a liar as well as late. You have no business being here get out! Go back and tell your department you were late. See how they like it. Now get the hell out of my room.”

Mike left. We never saw him again.