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.