Three Dee

Tommy Webber: Whatever, the one with the hologram. The wall of fire.

Gwen DeMarco: How the hell is Fred supposed to project a hologram?

Guy Fleegman: We're doing episode 81, Jason?

Jason Nesmith: It doesn't have to be a hologram, just a diversion.

Guy Fleegman: Jason, are we doing episode 81 or not?

Jason Nesmith: It's a rough plan, Guy, what does it matter if we're doing episode 81 or not?

Guy Fleegman: BECAUSE I DIED... IN EPISODE 81!

Galaxy Quest,1999.

The far-ranging work conversation somehow evolved to mention of Karen. Let me explain.
"It's made by Hazard 4," my work buddy said of the tactical gear bag he owned. "I think it's called the Evac Plan B."
"Awesome!" I replied. "That's exactly what Karen carried as a diaper bag."
"I used it as a diaper bag the first three months I owned it." He showed me how the interior could be customized, panels moved to and fro.
"Who's Karen?" another work friend asked.
"The main character in my first novel." Of course.
"You talk like she's real."
Seriously?

I first met Karen Sorenson in 2005, at an airshow. An airplane had crashed miles away from the airport. I read a report and, on the drive home with a very good friend began what became Out of Ideas, my first novel. I needed a main character.

I chose Karen.

Creating a character, I've discovered, is a series of stops and starts. The first dimension is a gender, a name, and an outline. Tall, attractive and athletic. Successful in everything but love. Cindy, Claudia.... Karen! Blonde? Why not.

A police officer, of course. In an unhappy marriage, working for a good sheriff's department that is a thousand miles from where she wants to be. Lonely. Longing.

I wrote nearly a hundred thousand words just with that. But she was still one-dimensional.

An especially gracious friend at work helped me with a woman's perspective on being tall. Another, a decade-long peer, filled in a lot of blanks about the challenges of being a woman in law enforcement. My wife endured hundreds of "Karen would do...." questions at the most inopportune times. Surreptitious eavesdropping on how police women talk to each other evolved into dialogue. 

A writing instructor with a keen eye for consistency, two writer friends.... A friend who unwittingly but then graciously lent me a name....

She is three dimensional, as though projected as a hologram.

"You talk about her like she's real," one of my valued coworkers said.

She is.

A Parking Space In My Heart

"Let's make a Ford and a Chevy that'll still last ten years, like they should.
The best of the free life is still yet to come, the good times ain't over for good." Are The Good Times Really Over, Merle Haggard, 1982.

Luis arrived in a battered pick up, his wife in the passenger seat. He emerged with a huge grin, firm handshake accenting his enthusiasm. Paperwork laid out, pen in hand....

The Malibu had been in our family for nearly ten years. It was the first major purchase of a young couple beginning a life together. She - money smart - found it economical, sensible and easy to drive. He - building an impressive career one block at a time - had reliable transportation with which to pursue financial security.

His talents were obvious. The companies that employed him always offered a car, and the Malibu sat. A casual conversation found a willing buyer - her Dad. The bargain wasn't hard, cash and keys exchanged hands. Dad insisted that daughter buy enchiladas and margs at the Rio. He'd spent his last cent on the "new" car.

Five years and fifty thousand flawless miles later it started to act up. The transmission no longer found high gear. No one puts a couple grand into a third car and so it sat again. Sat until Luis spotted it, left a card and brought cash. His friend, a mechanic, could drop in a tranny and give him a bigger car for his wife and infant child. Sob story, hard bargaining? A solid car in need of a bit of TLC for a young family is reason enough to sign the title away.

Outside, a parking space where the Malibu had been. She wasn't inanimate. She had safely carried the most important people in a man's life - children, wife - until the day she was called to serve someone else.

Getting used to having a parking space where the Malibu sat will take some time.

The Writer's Craft

"I get up each morning and dust off my wits,
open the paper and read the obits.
If I'm not there I know I'm not dead,
so I eat a good breakfast and go back to bed." Pete Seeger, Get Up and Go

Writers write. They come in all shapes, all sizes and all ability levels. Some are funny. Some melancholy. Some....

Walter Bruhl, Jr. has an obit worth reading, if only for two reasons. First, whoever wrote it (I suspect the late Mr. Bruhl may have had a hand in it) is a genius. Second - in lieu of flowers he requested a random act of kindness toward someone less fortunate. (HT Powerline). Done.

 I lift my University of Maine School of Law coffee cup to you, sir. I wish you fair winds, following seas and an attentive audience in heaven for your irreverent wit.

Wild Bill

"When I went in, I was eighteen. I thought it was all glory and you win lots of medals. You think you’re going to be the guy. Then you find out the cost is very great. Especially when you don’t see the kids you were with when you went in. Living with it can be hell. It’s like the devil presides in you. I knew what I signed up for, yes, and I would do it again. But the reality of war—words can’t begin to describe it.” SSgt William J. "Wild Bill" Guarnere.

Noting the passing of Bill Guarnere, member of Easy Company 101st Airborne Division during WWII. Sergeant Guarnere was like many of his contemporaries - enlisted in his teens, volunteered for demanding and dangerous assignments. He was wounded twice, the most severe requiring amputation of his right leg. He returned home, to South Philadelphia, and made a life doing odd jobs. He finally received a VA disability and retired.

In his later years he worked extensively on behalf of other veterans. Combat vets - men and women who have been under fire - have a particularly hard-earned credential. They understand the sacrifices made in the service of freedom. For Bill Guarnere and the many like him, WWII never really ended. They carried the scars, be they physical, emotional or mental, for the rest of their lives. 

We read about their exploits and celebrate them. He, on the other hand, called himself "just a small part" of the war. "Sometimes it makes me cry" this tough paratrooper admitted. Now he is at peace, joining his friend Babe Heffron again.

First Contact

"No plan survives first contact with the enemy." Helmuth Karl Bernhard Graf von Moltke


Sometimes, the best plan fails. In his book Field Command Sid Heal explains an important inevitable of police tactical planning - in the case of an armed adversary, the other side is often obsessed with foiling your mission, is actively seeking ways to prevail and will kill you if given the opportunity.


Yesterday in Phoenix (AZ) experienced, superbly-trained detectives from a fugitive-apprehension unit attempted to arrest a felon. There was a chase, a crash and a gun battle. Detective John Hobbs was hit, as was his partner. Detective Hobbs's wounds were grievous. Despite that he fought on, killing the suspect, a recently-released con wanted for an attempted murder. Later, he died of his injuries.

There is nothing low-risk about arresting armed, desperate people. Men and women who volunteer for this job know that fact up front and yet.... Often, this job is highly sought after, extremely competitive and attracts the best, brightest and most capable officers an organization fields. Why?

Putting violent people in prison saves innocent lives. 

Thank you for serving, Detective Hobbs. 

A Princess

Crazy sick. Once a decade sick. Hallucinations, lesser-evils choice sick. The first time in memory going-home-early sick. A day, maybe two, passing without memory sick.

Abandoning concentration, surfing the net. Political bantering (my old and very dear friend is hopeless) while Rhapsody streams music. Half listening...Ukraine is invaded by guys in green - no magazines in their guns? The Great Lakes are frozen solid. Maybe another cracker, some more Coke. Okay, that hurts.

Like a...what?

Sammy Johns was born in North Carolina, and lived most of his life there. He wrote a song - a fantasy, of sorts - about a Chevy van, a female hitchhiker and a one-night stand. Released in 1975, it sold 3.5 million copies. The sexual revolution was in full swing, love was free and every guy could envision the moment when a beautiful woman might.... That's why it sold 3.5 million copies.

"Like a princess she was laying there,
moonlight dancing off her hair.
She reached up and took me by the hand,
we made love in my Chevy Van,
and that's alright with me."

I was barely out of high school when the song was popular.

Huh. The years have not been kind. Sammy died at 66, having blown all the money on drugs and failed marriages. I don't envision the princess anymore - I've worked "The 'Fax" on bike patrol for too long. She has STDs, is drug-dependent and alone, barefoot because she'd fled her latest "job" with only her life to show for it.

The virus will run it's course. Right?

A Plan

"Everyone has a plan 'till they get punched in the mouth." Mike Tyson.

Spring is in the air. Four times in the last two weeks it was warm enough to work in a bike ride. My leg injury is virtually healed. Time to get motivated. Work out, and:

Plan A - eat right. Minimal trips to El Jimador, one celebratory marg on National Margarita day and...dessert? Ha! Watching my weight ties closely to enjoying the bike.

Plan B - contract acute gastroenteritis.

According to WebMD, stomach "flu" is a misnomer. The standard virus causing gastrointestinal distress in adults is norovirus, tiny pestilent asshole of cruise ship fame. Not associated with an influenza strain, it is characterized by all of the usual horrors of the 24 hour fits. The only benefit seems to be rapid weight loss.

My wife, helpful as always, has consulted Brown University for guidance. Clear broths, plain pasta and then grains as a way out of the abyss. "It may take up to two weeks for your bowels to recover." She is an astonishingly bright woman, capable researcher and soon-to-be PhD. I appreciate her guidance, but that last little bit we could have saved until later.

Friends who have endured this report that several weeks pass before they are back to normal. But.... It's supposed to be 68 this week! Okay - let's see if the little bastards can keep up.