I emerged through the back of city hall where my assigned post was supposed to be . Pretty daunting, since in my fifteen years on the job I’d never been sent there. What an insult. All those years of resistance and never banished to “y’egg central”. Somebody in rollcall must have fucked up. Anyway, I found the post soon enough. Some "nut" rookie was throwing nuts to the squirrels in the plaza.

-those guys over there, they were comin’right up to me, before ...-

Before what? Rejection? But he didn’t continue. He resumed feeding the squirrels that were stockpiling provisions for the coming winter, the inevitable.

Woodycrest’s the name. Renaldo, but you can call me Renny. I carry a badge. Only we refer to it as a “shield”. You never call it a badge. The shield can protect you, like, let’s say you’re driving home and you blow a red light, the cop pulling you over will instantly change his or her tune upon encountering the “tin” and let you go on your reckless and deranged way. Some cops like myself, always insist upon the ID card as well. Anyone can get a "tin", I want to see the "picture" card.

Without them, you're just another shnook and more likely than not to be on the receiving end of the business; a ticket or worse.

Sometimes you can “tin” your way in to a club and avoid that nuisance cover charge swindle. This is usually, or it used to be a casual understanding with the bouncers who will pull it out of the “favor” bank when on the verge of being arrested for assault. But most cops don’t go to trendy clubs; their hillbilly shopping mall sensability is too visilble and out of place.

But some do. Everyone’s looking for “strange” in some way or another.

In Chicago, they call the tin a “star”.
Now that’s weird.

I’d been sent to other places before so I didn’t mind. In my case, it was an occupational hazard. It’d be easier to disperse me out to a post where I’d have to contend with my own thoughts. Reflect. It was certainly better than being compelled to take police work seriously and write bullshit tickets to feed the city’s insatiable appetite for revenue. What nonsense. I would be spared such humiliation. For the time being at least.

The lieutenant, from all angles, seemed an affable type on the fast track up the ladder to success, gave me the post in the back since I had the most time on. My name perplexed him. Woodcrest, Woodward, Woodard. You name it, I’ve heard all the combinations. He settled on Wilson. Wilson? How’d he come up with that?

Anyway, he said I could split back to my command early instead of taking meal down there. This way I could sneak out of the station house and get an early blow. Since I was “detailed out” I wouldn’t be on the sign out sheet. Thank god there's civil service.

Wilson>Woodrow Wilson>Woodycrest. Now I get it.

So any griping was really out of the question. I had a colorful parade of pedestrians to watch and a fading copy of the “post” to keep me occupied. Did you know that “tears for fears” were back in therapy?

Of course you did. Didn’t it take them like ten years to release a follow up to their debut? Or was that “boston”.

I checked with the other cops but the only one worth the effort to engage was the “nature boy” over there. I suspected he’d keep me amused as well, even though his appearance revealed he couldn’t distinguish “tears for fears” from the “fleshtones” or “foriegner”. One of those eccentric guys you see on tv cop shows. You know, the “weird” guy who’ stands out a little from the other drones and used strictly for comic relief. Like on “ Barney Miller”, that perpetual insult to intelligence that’s every cop’s favorite show. If pressed for candor, they’d concede that it’s probably the most realistic depiction of the job going.

Well take it from me, that’s bull shit. It’s tv. The land of make believe. The guy’s gotta be a punching bag where he’s from. The total misfit. So I left the booth and the “post” behind for a few.

Hey, so what’s up with the squirrels? Did you hear about “tears for fears”?

He got up from his friendly crouch position. I noticed from his collar brass that he was from “south”. That’s midtown “south” precinct, over by the “garden”. I did a little time there back in the eighties. It was a busy shop that’d slowed down, like everywhere else.

The squirrels were doing allright, they’re pretty tame, used to handouts for the most part, he replied. I asked him about the “south”, threw around some names he might know, which he did. And no, he hadn’t heard about “tears for fears”. He’d never even heard of them.

What’s up with these kids today?

He told me he had about two years on. Then he told me he was leaving. Now you’re talkin’! Where’re ya’ goin’? FD? Suffolk? Nassau? (the Fire Dept., an infinitely easier job, Suffolk county long island; high pay, suburban, employee friendly, relatively clean working conditions, Nassau; again, long island, high pay, suburban, etc. etc.) Everyone’s always looking to leave, and if they do, they never come back.

Maybe the hair was the tip-off. Or should I say the mere presence of it. He didn’t sport the nazi chic look so popular with the rank and file these days, especially the “new jacks”. Where did that come from? Back in the day, all I ever heard was, “get a haircut, get a haircut...”. We’d taunt the collars with our hairlines. Long live the “mullet”, was proclaimed. Of course, the immortal mustache is sacred. The “Beefsteak Charlie” look. Fashion.

Now, it’s just “tickets”, what kind (you didn’t even have that discretion anymore, everything had to mean, “business”) to write and how many. As many as you want, just make sure you didn’t come in “short”. Otherwise you might wind up on paid tour of the city. If it’s Tuesday, this must be the Bronx. I was a “flyer”, well on my way to “exile”; “we have ways of making you talk”.

The “kid” said he had a degree in business or some other reckless discipline and couldn’t see sticking around for the rest of the charade. I commiserated with him and applauded his mettle. Yeah, five years tends to be everybody’s time limit. After that, you pretty much have to make the full committment. But why not be different this time? I said. Twenty years of purgatory and who knows what could happen? A depression could hit with only so many security and bartender jobs to go around. Then you’d have to cling to the job like a Bolshevik would a ration card. A life sentence!

All of sudden, I sensed a breach in the universe. You know, an interruption in the casual pace of an otherwise humdrum day. And sure as shit, out cames the “prince of darkness” himself, Guiliani. I discreetly threw away my cigarette and made a sideways invisible leg maneuver back to my post in the booth. It’s all in the legs. You keep your body motionless while the legs and feet do all the work. And don’t move your arms, that’s a dead give away.

Before they knew it, I was back on my post with a front row seat for the circus before me. It was late autumn, the afternoon, and the small plaza was occupied by a typical midday crowd. Mommies with toddlers, lunch break pedestrians, elderly retirees and one or two who would be referred to as homeless. One of which was sitting on the bench feeding nuts to the squirrels just as my new acquaintance had been. He felt the breach as well and in a salute to freedom of speech, the bill of rights and all that jazz, was compelled to act.

Now, “Rudy” kept a pretty constant security entourage of suits and ties; I mean “detectives”. That’s what that silly little emblem on the lapel is about, identity. But that’s secret, don’t tell anyone I told you so.

Typically, someone assigned to the mayor’s “security detail” would be what I’d call a “water walker”. In the subculture of the “job”, that’d be someone who used the “phone call” right away. Never did a “midnight” (12-8 am). Never worked the “chart”. Never worked a “fixer” outside on a dead still frigid night, counting the seconds/minutes/hours, no booth, no car, no joy. Never “walked”. Never denied a day off or suffered the assault of the “sign out ambush”. A clever tactic of management is that. If you worked the “chart”, you waited in a state of suspended animation until your days off finally rotated to the cherished “weekend” days of polite society. Then, usually on a Friday or it could be a Thursday if you had a three day “swing” (fri, sat, sun), the desk sergeant/ lieutenant would hold the sign out sheet
with a stack of notifications directing the unsuspecting to appear at such and such location on usually the most inconvenient day of the beloved weekend, that free time that you waited six weeks to roll back around to and you sheepishly take that sheet of paper and stick it in your pocket on your way to the locker room and just wonder why, why, why? And then you discover after subsequent assaults that there are only 3000 out of a standing army of 27000 fellow patrolmen (and women) that work the hideous “chart”. That means only 1500 maybe, are available to answer “jobs”; what you dear citizen, would refer to as “calling the police”. You throw the form in the back of your locker where another “assault” from just six weeks prior sits mocking you for your gullibly careless faith that the system will somehow spare you this insult to your years of service and you close the locker and wonder, wonder, wonder; where the hell is everybody?! Mind you, this is a city of eight million residents. 27000, but they need me!

Well, about 200 of them are in the mayor’s security detail. Indeed, they work in accordance with whatever whimsical detour his heart desires. And god knows what that freak could be up to when no one’s looking.

But they’re well compensated. At the expense of reiteration I shant barrel back to the indignities listed above since you can rest assured, these fallow members of Rudy’s personal SS are spared, and have been spared, virtually all of the above.

Pardon the digression, but I do feel that some subcultures must be clinically exposed in order to comprehend the magnitude of an alien universe.

Like an appearance of the Queen, out came the current public enemy. First the shock troops emerged to ensure the coast was clear. Then, without much fanfare except the sounds of conversational banter and shuffling shoes on pavement, the mayor appears. Surrounded by the entourage he’s hard to detect. Plus, he’s quite small. I think that may be a big part of his problem. Little guy syndrome. You know, the kid who was always picked on who’s now in a position of authority to settle scores. And boy, does he like to settle scores!

-Hey, Mr. Mayor!!-

Uh oh.

-Hey Rudy!!!!!!!-

It’s the homeless guy. The security guys all have a finger in one ear and are talking into their suit jackets. Rudy on the other hand, surrounded by this cordon is conversing with a confidante, a fellow public enemy. He smiles and continues with the group.

-Hey Rudy!!!! Whattayu’ doin’ pickin’ on the homeless for?!! What about the programs? -

He’s got Rudy’s attention and the parade comes to a halt. His confidante looks at him and the protesting citizen quizzically. The guy is getting louder and,.......now he has the pedestrians attention. They stop to watch the show.

You know what? Rudy Guiliani, mister law and order didn’t so much as acknowledge me as he walked by. I could have put a bullet through his head, he was that close. Imagine all the answered prayers if I did ?

I shook his hand once, I had to, he practically thrust it right at me when he was campaigning. At least I thought it was a hand, it sure looked like one until.....
I actually touched it. It grabbed my hand but it wasn’t the hearty, firm handshake you’d expect of a politician, it was..... like holding a dead fish, cold, scales and all. I felt like Christopher Walken in the “Dead Zone” and drew my appendage back a little more than reflexively. And there was that weird cheshire cat grin of his........Anyway;

-Affordable housing!!!! For the people!!!........Hey Roooooddeeeeeee!!!!!.....-

Now, the guy is standing up on the bench and Rudy can’t ignore him. It’s a showdown.
I watched the expression on his face. Complete disdain. I could read his thoughts- who does this fucking freak think he’s dealing with? I’m the fucking mayor now, not that fancy pants nigger. He’d take shit from you but I won’t! I’ll get my troops to bury you and the rest of your hobo friends so deep underneath the Tombs that you’ll never see the light of day!!!!! .-

With a look that could kill, he simply made a motion to one of the “SS”, who surrounded the guy instantly with two colleagues. A little bit of intense frisking with heated undertones was all I could hip to from my perch. Whatever they said to the guy, he sheepishly buttoned his lip along with the filthy overcoat he was wearing and slinked off. But not without looking back every couple of feet to see if he was still being watched.

Man, talk about entertainment!

The law and order types were making faces that revealed their thoughts; why don’t you beat the shit out him and teach him a lesson? Kick his ass!! Yeah, kick his ass!!!

Nonetheless, they looked on with approval when the shabby guy was confronted and effectively silenced . To Rudy, it was like kicking a pebble off to the side as he resumed the promenade to, where else? 1 Police Plaza, the headquarters building just across the street. I referred to it as “the Pentagon”.

I must confide to you, and reveal my age, which really isn’t that old, but it reminded me of an old comedy segment from “Monty Python’s Flying Circus”, a skit entitled “the Bishop”. In it, the Bishop is really just a grandstanding bully who gets by on the strength of his “holy” identity. In one scene, he’s walking down a London street with a goon squad of lower ranking priests or brothers I suppose, who push old ladies out of the way and rough up hippies.

I’d swear Rudy was playing “the Bishop”. It was uncanny. I told a couple of the younger guys who were in the same boat as me about my brilliant reference but they just shook their heads and humored what to them, seemed like a weird psychedelic comparison. They figured I was one of the those old pothead cranks, slackers they’re warned about in the academy. Probably did acid in the sixties, they’re told. Whenever you’d tell these new jacks about some flipped out unfair advantage the brass was taking of the rank and file they’d casually dismiss you as some sort “conspiracy” nut. It’s hard to argue with the latest “Reagan youth”. Likewise, the sort who’d argue what great things Guiliani’s doing for the city. Good things? He’s making the city look like Vegas. With lousy weather. Or worse yet, the Paramus mall. He’s destroyed the unions and made our job thirty times harder and for less pay. Maybe he’s the face of what’s to come.

Well, I think he’s only got two more years to go and then let history be the judge. This period of time will be likened to Mussolini’s Rome. A new mayor will come in and a “glasnost” will commence. Then Rudy and his inner circle will have to stand a “Nuremberg trial” for their sins. You’ll see, I’d tell them.

-Yeah, right-
A sceptical response, but one I always expected from “believers”. I guess they have no choice, they see it no other way. In black and white. No abstraction, just straight ahead. They’re right and I’m wrong. Maybe...

With my comedy set a washout, I bid the “skinheads” adieu and went to get my early blow as promised. I told them I was going back to my command, maybe do a few bongs and read the patrol guide by my strobe light. That got a good laugh. Redemption.

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