9 or 10 at Rush Hour

 

This is a partial reprint from long ago.

In the mid-1970s I was directing traffic at one of the busiest intersections in downtown Houston, Walker Street at Bagby. It is a major freeway entrance to I-45 North.  Traffic was heavy from both streets trying to exit downtown during evening rush hour. Bagby street had traffic moving North and South while Walker was Westbound only. There was always heavy pedestrian traffic as well, it being next to City Hall and some large parking facilities.

My approach to working traffic was to let Walker run wild and fast to clear out as many vehicles as possible. When the lights would change it was important to let the pedestrian traffic cross; but only until their “Wait” sign lighted, at which time I was quite forceful in halting anyone from crossing while at the same time directing those drivers in the turning lanes to begin the mad dash to the freeway. I stood in between, much as a matador directs a bull fight, intimidating drivers to turn the steering wheel to accommodate traffic from both directions at the same time. It was challenging, maybe that word covers how I managed to stay alive each time the lights cycled and the process was repeated.

One day, a light and breezy mild afternoon with clear blue skies, I was in full swing directing traffic when a drop dead gorgeous young woman began to cross the street. You may recall the movie with Dudley Moore, “10”; perhaps I should rephrase that, the movie with Bo Derek, a young woman of exquisite form, perhaps beyond belief. The point being that most men have never seen a perfect 10; a few 7’s or 8’s that made them forget their names and maybe a 9 but they were too blown away to remember any of the details.

The young woman crossing the street at Bagby and Walker that afternoon was somewhere between a 9 and a 10. How do I know this; because I was temporarily removed from my mortal body, not a good thing to do while standing in the middle of moving traffic. I remember directing two columns of opposing traffic into each other, one from Walker Street and the other from Bagby. The only thing that kept everyone from having a terrific accident was luck; either that or the fact that all the male drivers had stopped observing my orchestrations, their attention diverted to something quite a bit more appealing. I caught myself, forcing my arms down, a sheepish grin on my face for having proven once again that I was a victim of hormonal influences.

A Right Way and A Wrong Way

 

It’s interesting how the mind works as you review various events that took place long ago. For instance, this past week or so I’ve been remembering things that happened when I was a Rookie Police Officer for the Houston Police Department back in the early 1970s. The other day I wrote about purchasing my sidearm pistol while still in the Police Academy.

That brought up some other memories. The first place I worked as a Rookie was the Beechnut Substation out on the southwest side of Houston.  They had me ride with several different veteran officers, each lending aspects of the job that would be valuable during my time as an officer.

One of the first senior officers I rode with out of Beechnut was Ricky Rice, who eventually got promoted to Sgt and, for all I know, may have gone on to become a Lt or Capt.  Anyway, Officer Rice knew I was uncomfortable wearing the blue uniform and all, so he went out of his way to explain things and simply be a nice guy.

Instead of taking a break to have lunch at some burger stand, Officer Rice welcomed me to join him at his apartment, meet his wife and grab a sandwich there.  Upon arriving at his apartment complex, we walked up some stairs to get to his unit.  He opened the door and was about to introduce me to his wife when I recognized her from being in my home room back in high school, Sharon Thomas; make that, Sharon Thomas Rice.

(The photo was scanned from my high school yearbook.)

“Hey, Sharon,” The look on Officer Rice’s face was hard to explain. Here I was a Rookie about to be introduced to his wife; but I already knew this lady, well enough to call her by name. So much for the introduction; I couldn’t tell you what kind of sandwiches were for lunch.

Then there was a different experience that same week while riding with another veteran officer; I won’t include his name, a little like the opening remarks on the old television series, Dragnet. “The story you are about to see is true, only the names have been changed to protect…”  Let’s just call him Ray, as good a name as any.

When it came time for lunch he drove to a fancy restaurant on Westheimer, Christies. If you’re familiar with this location, it would fall under the listing, expensive and far beyond the average fast food place cops would go for lunch.

I checked my wallet before getting out of the patrol vehicle.  I had around eighteen dollars, maybe enough to get a hamburger if that was even on the menu. Ray assured me that this was a friendly place for cops and was always free, opening the door for me to enter the restaurant.

This early in my experience as a Police Officer, I had yet to learn about ‘Dragging the Sack”.

We were seated quickly and handed menus. I glanced at the prices and knew I couldn’t afford anything on the front page.  I found hamburger listed in the children’s section of the menu and ordered that since it came with fries, all for fifteen dollars.

Ray, on the other hand, ordered half a dozen oysters, a fancy specialty dish and didn’t blink as the waiter took the order.  I figured out in my head that Ray had just ordered about fifty dollars in fancy food.  I felt out of place and didn’t want to be sitting there.

We ate and when it came time to leave the manager quietly approached Ray, lightly touching Ray’s shoulder as he spoke, “Ray, I can’t continue to give you any more free meals. This is the last time.”  The manager stepped back as Ray got up and tossed his napkin in the middle of the empty plate.

I was not prepared to hear Ray’s reply, “I hope you M------F-----rs get Robbed!”, spoken loud enough for anyone within a few tables to hear.

I thought to myself how it would have been nice, being a police officer for more than a whole week, getting fired wasn’t something I wanted as we exited Christies and got back on patrol.  Nothing ever happened, nothing. I don’t remember much from that day’s patrol work; but I never had to explain up the chain of command why I witnessed the event from that day.

I guess you could sum it up by saying, there’s a right way and a wrong way of going about your business as a Police Officer.  May you always choose to do it the right way.

Becoming a Police Officer was Getting Expensive

 

This morning while enjoying some of the postings on Facebook I ran across an offering on eBay where someone was selling printouts of Smith and Wesson pistols.  A memory jumped into my mind, one from back in 1972 when I was about to graduate from the Houston Police Department’s Academy.  I was about to become a police officer.

There were still a few weeks of training to go when they explained that we needed to decide which pistol or pistols we would purchase.  I hadn’t thought about that, naively believing the City of Houston Police Department supplied each officer with all the tools required. 

I should give a little background at this point regarding my financial status.  I’d been employed by Montgomery Ward as a salesperson in their Hardware and Electric department making minimum wage just prior to being accepted into the police academy.  I saw this opportunity as a major improvement financially.  Think about that for a moment; the chance to make almost six hundred dollars a month was going to be a major improvement for me.

Back to being asked to purchase a new Smith and Wesson duty pistol with my own money had me wondering, “Will they be asking for a down payment on a patrol car next?”  I gulped a couple of times and decided, since this was a ‘one time offer to purchase these pistols at cost’, I decided to purchase a Smith and Wesson Model 19, 357/38 duty pistol along with a Smith and Wesson Model 36, 38 caliber off duty pistol. 

I can’t recall offhand how much the total came to; but each pistol was over a hundred dollars, or about half of what I would make in take home pay that month. There may have been a partial payment required along with a way to take care of the rest via payroll deductions; this happened so long ago. 

A few years went by and I found it impossible to resist having a silver and gold butt plate made by Nelson Silvia’s, a rather impressive piece of jewelry that had my name and badge number engraved on it. Think of that fancy butt plate as a symbol of having graduated from Rookie to Seasoned police officer, similar, I imagine, to a ring ceremony for those about to graduate from college.

My house got burglarized while I was at work and one of the few items taken was my Smith and Wesson Model 19 pistol.  I happened to be enjoying the use of a Colt Commander 1911 as an alternative duty weapon and so the loss of the other pistol, while painful, didn’t affect my ability to work. 

I did eventually purchase a replacement revolver, a used Smith and Wesson Model 586, blue steel 357/38 from a police officer who didn’t consider revolvers a serious police officer’s weapon.  No need to get into that conversation; I obtained it for exactly one hundred dollars, a steal since he didn’t see its monetary value either.

Several more years went by, imagine that… I got a call from the Harris County Sheriff’s Department asking if I had ever reported a Smith and Wesson Model 19 pistol stolen and if so, had it ever been recovered.  Wow, they’d actually found my stolen pistol by the serial number entered into the original burglary report.

Turns out a member of their department had gone to the pistol range to qualify using that pistol.  I have no idea how he obtained it, don’t want to know either.  I explained that my insurance company had settled with me which meant the pistol now belonged to them.  A few phone calls later and my insurance company said I could keep the pistol for a nominal fee of one hundred dollars; done!

The pistol was returned to me, without the fancy butt plate; only two small holes in the pistol grips where it had been removed.  Whoever had stolen the pistol, or whoever purchased the pistol had removed the butt plate.  That’s the only thing I really wanted back, a stupid chunk of silver and gold that had my name and badge number on it.

To bring an end to this memory, there was a night security guard working out in the Spring Branch area where I patrolled.  He’d been promoted and asked me where he should go to get a good deal on a duty pistol, one he could afford.  I sold him my old Smith and Wesson Model 19 for exactly one hundred dollars. 

  

Officer McDonald Liked Slurpees

 

In the mid to late 80s I was a Field Training Officer (FTO) on night shift for the Houston Police Department.  It was about the only time I had a partner assigned to ride with while working night shift, and then it was a rookie police officer who may or may not understand the duties associated with wearing a blue uniform.

(Image courtesy of nbclosangeles dot com)

I had a basic rule when working with these rookie police officers, their having had three weeks of riding on day shift prior to coming over to night shift for continued training.  The first week was a chance for me to see how much they’d adjusted to being a police officer and so they were passengers in the patrol car doing reports and other regular duties.  Then on their second week of training I’d go out on a limb and see if they could drive.

Enter my chance to meet Officer McDonald.  He loved that police officers were given a free soda or Slurpee at the local 7-Eleven store each night.  He had his Slurpee with him during most of the shift and didn’t think it would interfere with his duties.

During his second week riding with me I let him take the wheel as we set up to catch a red light violation at one of my favorite intersections, Long Point at Hollister.  There’s a modest incline as part of the parking lot for whatever business is located at the southwest corner.  This position relative to the intersection gave a good view of any traffic while at the same time was far enough from the intersection to allow a relaxed setting for us.

After a short while sitting atop our perch, sure enough, a vehicle driving westbound on Long Point ran the red light by a couple of car lengths, plenty enough to justify pulling the driver over and issuing a traffic ticket.

“Let’s go”, I motioned with my hand, letting McDonald know it was time to put his police driving skills to use.

“Here, hold my Slurpee”, as he pushed the drink cup in my direction.  I tossed his Slurpee out the passenger window.

“You threw my Slurpee out the window?!”  McDonald couldn’t believe I’d tossed a perfectly good Slurpee out the window.

“You’re supposed to be paying attention to the driver of the vehicle that just ran a red light, not worrying about the Slurpee and I’m supposed to be making sure you get it done safely.  You can get another Slurpee later.

I suppose there are plenty of police officers who can drive in pursuit of a traffic violator while holding a hot cup of coffee, soda or even munch on a burger; but letting a rookie develop those skills wasn’t on the list.

To be fair, Officer McDonald turned out to be a fine police officer and I’m pretty sure he made it to retirement, in spite of my having destroyed his favorite Slurpee that night.

Going for a Ride

 

When it’s time to take the trash out to the dumpster, the moment the puppies hear the plastic trash bag being removed from the canister in the kitchen, their ears perk up. Then, once I take the keys for the truck off the hook, they know it’s time, they’re going for a ride. 

The puppies have linked the idea of going to the dumpster or mailbox as a chance to have fun; but only if I go in the truck.  If we place the kitchen trash bag behind the front seat of the car then they know the game is over, no going for a ride this time.

On the other hand, if they see me with the keys to the truck it doesn’t matter whether or not there’s a bag of trash going to the dumpster, it’s time to go for a ride, at least that’s the mindset of our puppies, even the newcomer, Harold has joined this group.

Harold doesn’t want to actually get in the truck, just that he can tag along as the truck eases its way to the dumpster or mailbox.  Max and Shadow will sit in the passenger seat until the truck arrives at the dumpster, a tad over half a mile.  As soon as the truck stops, Max jumps out while I unload the trash from the back of the truck.  Then Max waits to see if I’m going the last bit of the way over to our mailbox or, if not, if I’m headed back to the house.

Shadow likes to ride the whole way while Harold, being a younger version of a puppy, runs the whole time, trying to prove he’s the lead puppy on this job.  As soon as the mailbox has been checked I tell Max, “Let’s go home!”  Max heads back down the road towards home and Harold figures he better do the same, trying to overtake Max for the lead.

This is how it’s done, most of the time.  There’s a glitch in this system, one that presents itself when I want to go into town in the truck.  The puppies automatically think the truck only goes to the dumpster and mailbox; why else would I take the truck?

When they follow me all the way to the dumpster and mailbox; but I’m actually going somewhere else, I have to tell Max to head on home and then goose the engine so the truck leaves in the opposite direction so quickly that the puppies can’t keep up.  I do this until I’m well down the road, around the bend and out of sight.  This works, most of the time.

Today wasn’t most of the time as I later found out.

I headed toward Crockett to visit some friends from church.  Their property is almost all the way to Crockett, a good thirty minutes or so drive.  We visited for almost an hour before I headed back home.

I knew something was wrong as the truck pulled into our driveway.  Max was the only puppy waiting for me to park the truck.  Shadow and Harold were nowhere to be found; that’s not normal.  I gave them a little while to turn up; perhaps they spotted a squirrel or a rabbit and went chasing it off to the other side of the fence line. 

After a while an empty feeling landed in the pit of my stomach, maybe these two puppies didn’t follow Max home, maybe they tried to follow the truck as I sped off down the road.  That’s when I got in the truck and started driving around the area looking for two really stupid puppies, puppies who got lost and couldn’t find their way back home.

I made a large circle, driving down each of the county roads that all are connected spanning several miles; nothing.  I drove back to our property and there was Max, all alone still.  I glanced at the time and knew it was time to drive over to the Thornley’s for Family Home Dinner.  I put Max in the house so he wouldn’t try to follow as I’d be in the truck again.

I drove really slow, going down the same county road; but asking a road crew if they’d seen two puppies, giving them a brief description of how they both had a white blaze mark on their chests. It might have been a waste of time since it appeared the workers only spoke Spanish as they waved to me.

A little further I spotted one of our neighbors driving one of those sport vehicles, camouflage paint on what could easily have been a golf cart sized vehicle.  Before I could ask, he must have read my mind as he asked, “Are you looking for two black dogs, look like Pits?”

I was already nodding that I was as he pointed down the road a way, “They’ve been on our property by the pond for a long time, looked like they were exhausted”.  I figured it to be about  two miles from our property since it was right near where CR 358 intersects with CR 314.  That’s a busy place for a stupid and confused puppy to be wandering around. 

As soon as I drove a bit further, I saw both coming towards the truck.  There was a school bus coming at the same time and I could only hope the puppies wouldn’t dart out in front of the school bus once they recognized my truck.  Their tongues were hanging out and both of them were drenched in sweat from having run so much. 

Shadow jumped inside the truck, but Harold was still not sure how to react as he backed away. I turned the truck around, calling out the whole time, “Let’s go home, Harold, let’s go home!”

Harold is a young puppy, guessing he’s less than two.  He had enough energy to keep up with the truck as I carefully and slowly inched back home.  Harold kept up the whole way while Shadow was totally winded sitting on the passenger seat.  All the puppies are home now, Harold had enough energy to go chasing a rabbit that ducked under the cargo container.

I called the Thornley’s and let them know I’d be a little late; but that I had some brownies, a sort of tradition for our family to take when we go for Family Home Evening.  I didn’t mention to anyone that Shadow had stepped on the plate of brownies.  They were well protected within a gallon freezer bag and I didn’t see any damage. 

So, how was your day?