Graduation

Well we made it through. The Jefferson County Sheriff’s Citizen’s Academy wrapped up after twelve weeks. The final session was devoted to graduation, small talk, thanks and thumbs up.

Sheriff Boyer was out of town, in Jefferson City as a matter of fact, chairing some sort of governor-appointed commission. In nineteen years, this was only the second time the Sheriff was unable to attend a graduation.

In his place was a man we’ve grown to know and like/admire/respect, the under-sheriff, Lt. Col. Steven Meinberg. Intelligent and capable, he has an easy smile and a big, broad (though not necessarily deep) sense of humor, trying and most of the time succeeding in making us chuckle every few minutes. The primary target of his joking this night was his insistence that the full session he gave on the department’s budget and funding, was by far the most interesting of them all. Yeah, right, numbers and math, charts and graphs, compared to the canine unit, war stories from narc, a tour of the jail and 911 center, trying out the driving and firing range simulators, ride-alongs, SERT (SWAT) team demos, traffic and DWI systems demos, etc. Yeah hard for any of that to compare to two hours of accounting and funding source breakdowns.

It was indeed interesting, at least to me, a taxpayer, to know where all the money comes from and how it is apportioned. It could have been dull, easily, if given by a typical bean-counter. Meinberg is not even close. He’s a fully qualified and experienced law enforcement professional who still spends time in a cruiser on the county’s roads. Just this past weekend he ended up in pursuit of an obviously impaired driver in a white van. The driver nearly caused at least four accidents, but would not pull over. Meinberg, with an instinct borne from many years of service, correctly assumed the driver was making a break for his home. Once there, if the scenario followed a familiar script, the driver would pull into his garage or try to get into his house before the cop could catch up to him. Meinberg had already mentally played out the scenario and reluctantly planned on nosing his cruiser into the garage, right on the tail of the offender, to keep the garage door from closing. Either that or if there was no garage in the plan, to pull in as quickly as possible behind the van and block the path to the front door.

He lucked out, the driver indeed pulled into his driveway, but did not make a mad dash to the door, he just sat there as Meinberg pulled in and walked up to him. The man surrendered then and there, all the fight and flee gone from him.

This adventure from the second highest ranking member of the sixth largest police force in the state of Missouri. No typical politician nor bureaucrat, this guy.

When time came to receive our certificates, Meinberg summoned the photographer to take grip-and-grin photos of us individually receiving our sheepskins. There was a little trouble at first for the photog, lighting, glare, something technical, so he took a few practice shots, adjusted the flash a few times, until he was finally happy with the result. One attending deputy quipped that the problem was that the photographer, a member of the department’s forensics investigation team, was simply unaccustomed to taking pictures of living people.

I gripped and grinned when called upon, near the head of the class, at least alphabetically. The colonel handed me my certificate along with a small but heavy and well crafted deputy’s badge, the very pin that the department wears on their hats. Each of us got one, an unexpected but not insignificant trophy. I will mount it prominently somewhere, or maybe, as Angel suggested, get a tiny leather billfold for it that I can whip out of my pocket and flash at people authoritatively, like cops do on TV.

Once we were all certificated, we snuggled together closely for a group photo. One lady in the group, Christy, volunteered to hold the graduation sheet-cake. No one else wanted to since the cake needed to be held at a drastic angle to show up correctly in the photo. Christy showed no fear though and held it well.

The cake had been provided by a group of volunteers, The Sheriff’s Alumni Volunteer Echelon (SAVE).

SAVE is a group of more than forty former graduates of the Citizen’s Academy. They volunteer their time and resources to assist the Sheriff’s department where they can. Jerry, the group’s president spends Tuesdays assisting with sex offender registration. All registered offenders are required to show up, in person at the department monthly or bi-monthly. Jerry mans the desk on those days, checking ID’s and logging the ten to fifteen  that show up during that day. It’s a mostly clerical, non-confrontational task, Jerry’s service frees up Sheriff’s resources to attend to more demanding tasks.

One lady in the group loans her seamstress skills and sewing machine to the department stitching up jail uniforms, extending their usefulness. Other members head up sessions between convicted DUI offenders and victims/families of DUI caused casualties. Judges frequently mandate these shock-sessions for offenders. Once again, it’s a service well fit for a volunteer organization, freeing up the sheriff’s staff.

SAVE members also assist during emergency drills and training exercises, primarily as victims, but also for clerical work as well also turning up at sobriety checkpoints. They also man child fingerprint booths at fairs and community events and even call recent victims of crimes to gather any follow-up information the victim may have since the crime was first reported.

All of these were great to hear about, but what really stuck with me when I first heard about it a few weeks back, was what SAVE did for the dogs.

The canine units are adequately funded to perform their jobs, but only to a certain point. There just was never any money available to provide ballistic vests for the dogs. SAVE heard about this, stepped up, raised some money and turned it over to the department. Before long, every dog had its own official, department-badged ballistic vest. The vest covers the dog’s chest and belly, significantly reducing the exposed areas vulnerable to gunshot. (See them here)

After the photos were all taken, a couple of dozen SAVE members came in and started passing out cake and membership applications. I took one. I don’t know exactly what I will be able to do with the limited free time I have available, but I knew I wanted to be part of it. They asked for a prorated membership fee of five dollars. The groups’ normal annual fee is twelve dollars, but since their year starts in May, they reduced it for us for the part-year remaining. I made out a check, for twenty five dollars.

When I handed it over they pointed out my mistake. I told them it was not a mistake, it was a donation. I mentioned the dog vests and how that act of decency and humanity had impressed me. They somewhat reluctantly took the money, thanked me and I felt pretty good about it.

I’m nothing if not a bit self-serving. Being a member of SAVE also entitles me to a couple of ride-alongs per year. More adventures, more stories. If the community gets some of my spare time and labor in return, all the better.

Self serving as this is, I would not bother, I would not participate if I did not think that the need was there. I sat in all those sessions as at least a moderate skeptic, listening, watching, waiting for cracks in the veneer to show up. I looked for fraud, waste and abuse. Sure everything was presented in a positive light and we were only shown what the department wanted to show us. But I looked deeper, I looked into the words, hearts and minds of the dozens of deputies that we came across. I won’t say that the department is perfect, there’s a few rough edges, but the deputies themselves were to a person, proud dutiful and professional. Every one of them we met, from the Sheriff, his staff, the commanders to the road warriors to the corrections officers, seemed to love their job. No one in the department is getting rich, I probably get paid twice or more what the average deputy does, and I’m not even in the habit of actively seeking out trouble and jumping boldly into the middle of it. Like teachers and soldiers, this is as much a calling as a career. You have to be willing to work long hours, weekends and holidays, in dangerous or merely miserable conditions, and not be too picky about how much you actually get paid for it.

From what I can tell, the department is on the up and up, stretching and spending it’s limited taxpayer-provided dollars as best as can be expected, focusing on the community’s needs as best they can.

I highly recommend the Citizen's Academy to all who can possibly attend. You will learn a lot of stuff about local law enforcement, you will be impressed with one thing or many things , I guaranty it. Sure it's a time commitment, but it's also an education. It's a chance to meet and get to know several of the county's finest. They are a terrific bunch of folks, friendly, respectful and professional. Hat's off to all of them.

To the Sheriff and his staff, and especially Col. Meinberg and my personal ride –along chauffeur Deputy Virgil Sieberg, I wish to extend a sincere and deep thanks for a truly great experience. I very  much look forward to working with you in the future, gathering and chronicling a few stories along the way.

Part Two: First Contact.

I let Ted step out first. As he approached the people I could tell he was sizing up the situation. I know I certainly was. I stepped out but stayed by the cruiser, ever ready to duck and wet myself should the situation get ugly.

The woman spoke first, there was bitterness in her voice, something about her ex coming to pick up his clothes and his phone. She pointed to a laundry basket filled with jeans and shirts.

“And he made threats?” Asked Ted, eyes still darting around, taking it all in.

“Not him, his new girlfriend, the bitch he’s with did!” She shouted.

“And he hasn’t shown up yet?”

“They were about to, they were right behind you when you pulled in, didn’t you see them take off after you turned in?”

More words were exchanged, ID’s were requested and gathered. At first the young woman claimed not to have one, but Ted didn’t let her off with those words alone. Eventually he had a stack in his hands. He looked up at me and motioned for me to approach. I wasn’t prepared for that, I was doing fine being mysterious and invisible. I did as he asked though and he handed me the ID’s. “Hang on to these.” He said. I did. The group looked at me suspiciously. They couldn’t quite make out my presence. Here I was, un-introduced, obviously trusted and respected by the deputy, dressed in loose, faded jeans, a cheap button-down shirt and cheap, well-worn sneakers. Ted made no effort to explain my presence. I got a kick out of that and upon returning to the cruiser, leaned back casually on it with my hands in my pockets, as if I belonged there  and was just part of the process. This was a tactic that I repeated a few more times during the shift. It seemed to work for Ted as well.

The two men returned to yanking on the fender, Ted instructed the woman to call her ex.

Some heated, indecipherable words were exchanged, Ted took the phone.

“Do you know who I am?” He called into the phone in a very no-nonsense manner, he paused and repeated the question.

“Yes you do, You were right behind me when I pulled in to the driveway, then you sped off.” He used a voice that firmly established the pecking order for the whole matter.

“Here’s what you are going to do, you are going to turn right around and head back here, all of you, nobody leaves the car, all of you. Do you understand?”

Pause, repeat.

A moment later a dark blue Escort nosed into the driveway, female driver, no one else in the vehicle. This did not please Ted. He stepped up to the vehicle and started a stern lecture on the reasons for his displeasure. “I specifically told you that no one was to leave the vehicle, now where are the others?”

She replied, though I couldn’t hear the explanation/answer. He pointed down the road and came towards the cruiser. I was still holding the stack of ID’s. “Let’s go.” He instructed me. I complied immediately.

He warned the others to stay put. One of the young men painted a rigid, defiant look on his face, but it went away quickly when Ted stared him down.

“I’m going to bring them back here, all of them. There will be no trouble when we get back, none whatsoever, is that understood?”

At first some reluctance, but it too soon faded. Tensions were growing, lines in the sand were being considered. The general behavior of the men gave me the impression that there might be some recreational chemicals at work, words were a bit slurred, eyes that didn’t quite focus, delays in reactions. I didn’t like this, and we were about to pour some more gas onto these smoldering cinders.

I was immediately impressed with Ted’s total control. I recognized some of the practiced and well-honed skills and methods. He was in charge of this group and would not hesitate to thump some ears if not quickly and properly obeyed. He would not let any of them steer the events of the evening.

He climbed into the car and in a single fluid motion backed out, turned around and sped down the road toward the nearby convenience store.

We were very quickly on the bumper of the Escort. She nosed it into a parking spot, Ted pulled the cruiser in diagonally behind her, within inches of her bumper, blocking it in. Standing nearby was a couple, a tall, fit man, maybe thirty, and a tall, mostly thin blonde female, twenty-ish, wearing very tight jeans, a transparent patterned top, and a gold nose stud. She looked like she could have been, might have been pretty a couple of years ago. Both her and the man did not seem at all pleased to see us roll in. Ted jumped out of the car and warned the man against doing what he looked as though he was thinking of doing, running away.

Ted instructed the driver to stay put, then instructed the ex and the blonde to plant their butts against the car, one near the front, one near the back.

The blonde immediately started in with the lip. She had attitude and a vicious angry streak in her. The man on the other hand, seemed irked, but stayed pretty quiet. ID’s were requested, the blonde griped about that as well. This was simply not a happy young woman. Both only reluctantly handed over their cards. Ted came over to me and requested the ID’s I was already holding. While staring the couple down he radioed in all the information. The blonde continued to sporadically taunt him, but Ted had already told them he wasn’t getting sucked into a discussion about what the deal was with this group and the other, he didn’t care. He was working to make a solution to the drama, not caring a whit as to how it had gotten this far, and who called who, what.

Slowly the radio crackled and brought back details of the people. Ted had mentioned to me in the car that he was upset, but not surprised, that the two had bailed out when they saw him earlier. “Outstanding warrants, I’ll bet money on it. Why else would they bail?”

He knocked that forecast right out of the park. Blondie had two, one form Herky (Herculaneum) that she admitted to, one from Pevely which she denied. One had to do with her being over a thousand dollars behind in her child support payments. Yeah, somewhere in the county there was a former mate of hers that was deemed a more-fit parent than this precious princess.

The male, the original lady’s ex, had just recently been released from prison, I never heard what had landed him there, and was on parole. Some parolees apparently don’t like to be stopped or confronted by cops.

All the other ID’s proved clean, or at least clean enough. Ted instructed Blondie to turn around, which she did assuming the frisk position without even being asked. He cuffed her then did a quick pat-down. Ex loudly objected, telling Ted that it was illegal for a male officer to pat down a female. Ted just laughed, because it isn’t.

This meant that I’d lost my front seat. After Ted carefully inserted Blondie into the seat, I shifted things around the in the back. We’d learned this in class too. In cruisers without cages between front and back, as most of the department's are, the deputies put their detainees in the front, so as to be able to keep a closer eye on them.

I squeezed in behind the driver's seat, between file folders and equipment boxes. Ted had already instructed the remaining couple, the ex and the female driver, to head back to the trailer.

They followed obediently. Ted had established himself as undeniable pack leader. Once back at the home, he choreographed the exchange. Blondie dropped the 'bitch!'-bomb loudly and immediately upon seeing the woman on the stoop. Ted put a stop to that a couple of times. The Ex got his basket of clothes and his cell phone. Before he let them go, Ted dealt out the ID cards and sternly warned them all that this was the end of it, that the group in the car were not to come back for any reason whatsoever, and that the group at the house would not call, seek out or in any way intimidate the others. “This is now over, completely over!” followed with a warning about what would happen if he got another call about them.  Something to the effect of, “You’ll all go to jail and we’ll leave it to the slow-moving lawyers to sort it out.”

We returned to the cruiser. The Escort scooted on down the road and we headed toward the jail in Hillsboro. Blondie was not completely out of steam, even telling Ted how sorry he’d be when she called her uncle, the Sheriff.  She tried this brilliant tactic a couple of times. Ted just shut her down.

“Call whoever you like ma’am. I’m sure your uncle, the sheriff, will be pleased to know that I’m doing my job.”

She shut up for most of the rest of the trip.
 Arriving at the jail, we drove up to the intercom in front of the sally port. Ted pushed the button. There was no response, so he pushed it again, waited a few seconds, then again. When that didn’t work he treated it like a slow elevator call, punching it repeatedly. I knew that inside the booking control area, a klaxon-like buzzer was sounding with every push. I’d toured the jail (Yikes!) a few weeks earlier.

The sally port is like an attached garage. It’s a secured and protected entryway. Once inside, the heavy garage door closes behind the cruiser before any other doors are opened. This is no prison, but it certainly utilizes many of the same protocols in a slightly smaller building. There are several points in the jail where certain doors must be closed before others are opened.

On the ramp up to the holding entryway were a set of keyed, locked strongboxes like bus stations once had. Ted hooked Blondie’s cuffs to a pipe on the wall, opened one of the lockers, put his Glock and a few other potential weapons into the box, closed it, locked it, pocketed the key.

The Heavy steel door buzzed and slid open to a short hallway, at the end of which was another door and a walk-through metal detector.

Here he took a basket and instructed Blondie to empty her pockets and any place else that held stuff and place the items in the basket. She did so, still angry, but only that.

The next door opened, a corrections officer took the basket, tagged it and signed it in. Blondie was led to a wall just outside the fortified and thick-windowed control area and cuffed to another rail above a bench seat.

Also chained to the wall was a pale, redheaded young man waiting on booking. He didn’t seem angry, in fact he was quite cordial.

As one of the CO’s passed him he paused. “Kincaid, you’re back already?” 

The young man smiled. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“You forget to show up in court again?”

“Yeah.”

The CO’s and Ted exchanged insults and greetings. Paperwork was filled in, one form required Ted to sit down across a table from the cinched blonde. “What’s your city of birth?” He asked.

“Whatever.”

“Is ‘Whatever’ in Missouri or Illinois?”

“Whatever!” She shouted.

“Where were you born ma’am?”

“Here! Right Here!” was her angry, shrill reply.

“You were born in the Jefferson County Jail?”

“Whatever!”

Apparently this marked the end of the conversation.  Ted got up, handed over the forms, and we left her there, still fuming, to the mercy of the experts at booking forms, the CO’s. They would continue the process once those in line ahead of her were done. She’d lost her only chance at a reasonably quick turn-around. Sometimes kids, it’s all about attitude.

I felt a little for the young folks. Not so much for the felon and his new, bitter girlfriend, but for young folks in general. These kids were already behaving used up, burnt out, torn down. They all seemed bitter and spiteful. I could tell they’d had it tough, like lady luck never even cast a thin shadow on their threshold. I don’t know where they came from or what exactly what made them so bitter so young. I’ve seen it before though, and if I could figure out how to fix it I’d certainly try. These were certainly not life’s lottery winners; they had something, or many things going against them early. It appeared a couple of them had given up completely on becoming average citizens. Instead they seemed hell bent on head-butting life with all their fury, clueless or uncaring about the fact that nobody ever wins the fight that way. I know bitterness and hatred can be a powerful, addictive intoxicant. It’s also a lousy, self-feeding, miserable way to live.

There were no more calls for that group for the rest of the shift.

(To be continued)        Go to Part Three

Part One; The Ride-Along.

          It was a warm, clear, beautiful Saturday evening. The ride-along was scheduled to start at the beginning of the overnight shift, six P.M.  I had arrived a few minutes early. I walked in to the small, cluttered office of the Sheriff’s Department South Zone HQ located on the campus of Jefferson Community College in Hillsboro. There were a few desks outfitted with several-year-old computers with CRT monitors, walls lined with file cabinets and shelves. At the desk placarded ‘Watch Commander’ sat a young deputy filing out some paperwork, stapling the forms to a thicker stack, stuffing them into an outbox.

I introduced myself as the ride-along, he wrote my name into a logbook. I already felt like I was in the way. Not because of anything the deputy said or did, but simply because that’s how I normally feel in new situations.

He made a phone call, I couldn’t make out the entire conversation, but I knew it was in my regard. He told someone would be with me shortly. I thanked him and stayed out of the way, looking at maps, posters and artwork on the wall. A large framed Frederic Remington (or Remington-like) print was the centerpiece of one wall. It depicted cavalry soldiers on horseback, some bandaged, riding behind the squad’s officer and accompanied by a western-clad civilian man holding a small girl. I never got close enough to the print to confirm my interpretation of it, nor the actual artist, though I imagined that the soldiers depicted had just raided and rescued the girl from local savages (using the vernacular popularized in John Wayne movies) and returned her to her distraught father.

I pondered the intention of that since I really had nothing else to ponder about at the time. Perhaps the significance was the notion of uniformed men riding out and helping civilians, as the Sheriff’s Deputies are sworn to do.

The radio was full of chatter, it sounded like the East Zone was having a busy evening. In fact they were. A phone call came in, it was the East Zone supervisor requesting general assistance from the South Zone supervisor. There was only so much they could do though, there were only three deputies scheduled for this shift in the south.

Another deputy soon arrived and chatted outside, out of my earshot, with the one who had been at the desk. The new guy came towards me and stuck out his hand in a tentative manner, I suspected that my appearance was somewhat unexpected. Either a bureaucratic SNAFU, or merely a memo overlooked or forgotten.

“It looks like you’ll be riding along with me.” He said and formed a smile. He was a big guy, tall, thick, but not ‘fat’, just big. His hair was close-cut, high and tight, frosted with age-appropriate gray. His skin was healthy-tanned and the bottom of a complex tattoo extended barely below his left sleeve. His brown uniform was creased and sharp. His shoes clear of scuffs, the uniform seemed tailored to his fit. His smokey-bear hat (Officially a ‘Campaign Cover’, colloquially also known as a scout hat, drill sergeant’s hat, or a lemon squeezer) tilted at an imposing angle, a pair of glasses hung from his neck. I got the impression that I was in the presence of a true, seasoned professional. I briefly suffered minor flashbacks of my drill instructor from basic training. I made note of his name and stood by as he looked through some papers, sorted gear, and rearranged the stuff in his cruiser. He called me over to the back of the car. “Can you stop someone if you have to?” He asked me as the trunk popped open. I looked in as he pointed toward the pump-action, twelve gauge shotgun. “If I have to, sure.” I answered trying to appear much more confident than I actually was.  He showed me how to pop open the trunk from the outside and told me something I’d already learned at the academy.

“There’s only three of us on duty tonight, getting backup can sometimes be problematic. If things get really ugly, even though you are not trained for it, you could find yourself in a position as the only person available to help get me out of a really nasty situation.”

I’d heard this before, and also knew it only very, very rarely came to that. I crossed my mental fingers and nodded.

He then popped open the passenger door of the brown Malibu. Cops have to carry a lot of stuff. Attached to the center console was a swivel pedestal that held a metal-encased (field-hardened) laptop. In order to be out of the driver’s way, yet readily accessible to him, the swivel positioned the computer halfway across and above the passenger’s seat. I would be pretty much be sitting under it. In the back I noticed that even more equipment lined the floor and the seats. Hanging from the center of the back seat was a pocketed attachment that held forms and office supplies, lots of forms. At any point on patrol a deputy may be forty or so back-road miles away from the substation, so they, like astronauts and long-haul truckers, pretty much have to take the office with them. This is one of the reasons that cruisers tend to be full sized cars, Crown Vic’s preferably, because they are large, as well as being nearly indestructible. A police cruiser easily has to carry a couple hundred pounds of equipment and supplies to accommodate just about any potential situation. I squeezed myself into the co-pilot position and strapped in. The radio and the scanner were clicking with static and stoic voices, competing for attention. After a couple of checks and short conversations with the supervisor, the deputy climbed in, also squeezing and shifting.

He looked uncomfortable.

Ted is a big guy. Six foot two or three, and muscled. Between the Malibu’s mid-size features, less than ideal leg and seat room, and a utility belt that would make the Caped Crusader jealous, the fit was rather tight.

He adjusted his mirrors, checked some switches, adjusted the squawking radios, then cleared the cruiser for duty with an efficient “One-oh-two, in service.” Call on the microphone. The Malibu responded to his control and leaped out of the lot.

The initial conversations were direct and awkward. I’d thought about this beforehand and worked in some vital information about myself as quickly as I could. “My biggest concern is staying out of your way. I’ve not done this before, but I don’t want, at any point to be a liability.” He nodded and was hopefully comforted by that. I also worked in the part about being ex-military hoping that would make him less worried about the shotgun in the trunk that I, a complete stranger, now had full access to. I also tried to let him know that I was no one’s overzealous hero, and that my second priority after staying out of his way, was self-preservation. I avoided mentioning the ‘writer’ bit as I didn’t want him clamming up in fear that I was some left-wing, uber-pacifist investigative journalist, looking to catch the department in heavy-fisted, fascist activities. Besides, even though I signed up for the Citizen’s Academy because I wanted to learn more and write better about law enforcement, I was not on assignment, and not even sure I would be writing much, if anything about this ride-along. I figured that if it turned out that we got along and if something interesting happened I could always tell him later. He did see me taking notes though, I did not try to hide that.

We’d barely been on the road for a couple of moments when the first call came in. We roared south (at a safe and legal speed, no flashing lights, no sirens, just determination and urgency) as he responded to the call. My fears were instantly realized. A domestic situation, threats had been made.

On the way he turned up his scanner’s volume and leaned in to hear another call, the busy East Zone. I made out bits and pieces of it, his expression turned from attentiveness to something else, some form of tension, worry, anger, frustration. Somewhere around Arnold an eleven year-old girl had been reported missing. She’d left her house that morning and had not been heard from since. He swore, then apologized. I assured him that in my mind, swearing was perfectly appropriate in a case like that. “The dad just now got around to reporting it? She’s been gone form the house for nearly twelve hours and he’s just now getting worried?” He said to me. I knew that he was taking it a little personally and that didn’t bother me at all. He, like me had kids, I could tell. After a few minutes, and displaying a true mastery of multi-tasker driving, he pulled out his cell phone and made a call. He was obviously talking to another deputy, the subject was the missing girl. Ted offered advice, told him things to look for, things to ask. Sure enough, the deputy that took the missing-girl call had been trained for a while by Ted. During the course of the shift, several calls were exchanged between the deputies on duty, throughout the county. They kept in close touch and seemed to always know where the others were and what they were working on. Several times the phone would chime and buzz, he took every call, joked some,(“Hey Jim did you ever locate that missing horse? Should we meet down by the corral and form us up a posse?) offered advice and always offered to turn around and rush to assist if needed.

I was relieved and comforted to know that this was a real interactive team, not just a collection of lone, loose individuals.

As we hurled toward Highway 67, we chatted a bit, still rather stiff and sporadic, much like a conversation between strangers on a train or an elevator. I soon learned that he was a twelve-year veteran of the department, had once sought a career in the Marines, but due to a minor medical flaw, back or foot or something, had found himself forced out. He then joined the department for a while, but upon realizing that he was, based on hours worked vs. salary, only getting paid about five dollars an hour, left the department and started up some businesses here and there, but eventually found himself back in uniform. Despite the low pay and lousy shifts and hours, he really, really liked the work.

He asked about me, I told him that I was an IT consultant. As is almost always the case I had to explain that further. If I were a plumber, carpenter, pilot or warehouse worker it would be simpler. Most people have no idea what a systems administrator actually does, so I simplified it: “I sit in a comfortable cubicle all day and stare at computer screens looking for problems.” As is the case with a lot of people with more physical and outdoor based jobs do, he seemed to struggle to imagine himself strapped to a desk all day in some homogenized and generic office environment. He didn’t appear the least bit jealous.

As his eyes darted around, constantly on the lookout, constantly on the alert, we turned onto a frontage road above the highway. He slowed down and rechecked the address on his notepad, started scanning the sparsely spaced mailboxes. Up ahead was a solitary mobile home, somewhat isolated by rows of thick trees. Outside were three young men, two of whom were using a crowbar to pry the fender away from the front tire of a weathered and scuffed, fifteen year old mid-sized ford. Another young man, with a distant, unattached look in his eyes stood over a young woman, also twenty-ish who was sitting on the stoop leading up to the door of the fading trailer. At the top edge of the driveway sat a small black kitten that I was sure we were about to run over. In the scrappy, small yard two or three of the kitten’s siblings wandered about. As we pulled in the two men stepped away from the ford and aligned themselves with the couple on the steps. Butterflies awakened in my belly.

(To be continued)    Go To Part 2