"Someday, you will be old, and you will be slow, and you will be frail. Someone will ask you what you did in your day, in your prime, when you were young, and strong and fast. You will say you were a New York City fireman. When the day is done and the page is turned, that will be enough." Veteran NYC firefighter Pete Critsimilios addressing fire academy class.
I grew up in... That's sort of subject to definition. I told a person in conversation I grew up "Back East." That was apparently unsat, allegedly because that term suggests there is something superior about The East such that naming the actual state or city is unnecessary.
It was a him thing.
I was born in Philadelphia. We lived in the suburb of Southampton until I was nine, moving to Rochester, New York. College (Boston) in 1972, and finally Colorado in 1977. So, when I say I grew up "Back East" there is validity to that claim.
When Gary Christenson called to say, "Buy a gun" I knew I needed to get right on it. New York laws were complicated enough that owning a handgun involved applications and legal gymnastics and the cops... But, wasn't I going to be a cop?
Greenwood Village gave me a list of approved handguns - all revolvers - and I headed for the nearest gun store. I had to borrow the money from the credit union, since I was all of twenty-four and most of my disposable income went to skiing. But, I was going to work as a cop, and I went to buy a gun.
I found what I thought was just the right firearm - a Smith and Wesson Model 64, .38 cal in stainless steel. It felt comfortable in my hand, was solid and seemed like something a police officer might carry. It was $100, which I could afford. "Okay, I'll take it. What do you need from me?"
"A hundred dollars."
Wait...what? No waiting period, no approval from the local sheriff's department? Not even some kind of letter from Sergeant Christenson that I was being hired by them?
"Where are you from?" the guy asked.
"New York." Nobody can say I'm impervious to lived experience.
"Yeah, that explains it. Nope. Fill out this federal form that says you don't have an arrest record, give me the money and you leave with your new gun. Good luck at Greenwood."
The shock of buying a handgun like that was replaced by a new shock. I was getting into my car carrying a gun. I would soon start my new job (May 1, 1979) and I needed the gun to complete my... Wardrobe?
Bullets. I'd need bullets. But, what kind? When should I load it? Should I practice?
I didn't want to appear naive to my new co-workers, so I didn't ask the hundred questions on my mind. I didn't ask the day Gary and I went to a police supply store to get uniforms. I didn't ask when we went to the small headquarters tucked into the Denver Tech Center off I-25 and Belleview to fill out employment forms and get a bunch of hand-me-down gear. I didn't ask when I got the next shock.
All of the cop cars in the parking lot had shotguns mounted in vertical racks, accessible to the driver.
My handgun was one thing. I'd become somewhat familiar with how it worked. But, a shotgun? A shotgun is a brutish, no joke weapon. The slang - "Scattergun" - means more than scattering the shot contained in the shell. At close range, it scatters the target, too. I was about to climb into a patrol car that contained a shotgun, in case I needed to...shoot someone with it.
Shit had definitely gotten real.
I met my training officer, a guy named Tony who was also from "Back East." I met a guy named Sam, who didn't seem to think much of the fucking new guy. I met a sergeant named Rick, who was nice enough to lend me a holster.
And on my first day wearing the green and tan uniform I got into a police car and went to work.
Tony showed me how to work the car radio (there were no portables), in case something happened to him and I needed to call for help. He showed me how to work the unitrol, the gadget in the car that turned on the overheads and worked the siren. He showed me how to handcuff people, how to make a traffic stop.
Three weeks later, I was on my own - "Working solo." I went to the police academy - 8 weeks at the Colorado Law Enforcement Training Academy in Golden - later in the summer. Yes, you read that right. Three months after I put live ammunition in my handgun, and my shotgun, I received my first formal training. Small agency Colorado law enforcement, 1979.
Before you get the wrong idea, Colorado law has changed dramatically since then.
Many years later, working for the Lakewood Police Department, assigned to the Training Unit with supervisory responsibilities at the police academy, I would meet many police officers and sheriff's deputies on their first day. They were dressed in suits, they sat in a classroom. We spent the better part of the day (after the "Stars and Bars" had welcomed them to our little shop) establishing the pecking order.
They would meet hundreds of established cops over the next six months of academic and practical training, we told them. Each of their instructors had proven they could handle the street, could survive the hazards involved in policing a free society. Them? No matter who they were, no matter what they'd done - they would have to prove to us they were worthy before they ever put duty rounds (as opposed to practice rounds) in their guns, put on an agency uniform and called in service for field training.
POST standards require certain levels of formal training and certification before anyone can work solo as a cop. Firearms training is demanding. Practice scenarios, law classes... Six months being in classrooms, out on practice fields, always being evaluated, always being assessed. Then, generally sixteen weeks in field training. That's the Twenty-first Century, here in Colorado.
Forty-seven years ago I had been a cop for four months, three of which were live - I was in uniform, on duty. Two and a half of them I was alone in the police car. I was making $9800 a year at a small police department. I was twenty-four, in my prime. I was strong, and fast. I was a working police officer, awaiting certification at the completion of the academy.
I was sitting with a group of my peers, listening to a veteran officer talk to us informally after an academy run. We were interested in his perspective - what would our careers look like?
"Most of you will not complete careers in law enforcement," the guy said softly. "By the end of five years many of you will have concluded that it isn't for you. That's the usual progression. If you make it past five years...maybe you stay in, promote, do something meaningful. The rest will find another job. That's just the way it is."
That was the most important lesson of those early days. It wasn't a career for everyone. Even those of us in our early twenties, in our prime, at our strongest...
What would the next four years look like, and what conclusion would I draw.?
To be continued...
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