Youre Not A Cop Until You Taste Them To my fellow Officers, I know that these words will ring true. And to every civilian, I hope they will help you to understand us a little bit better. This is a time-honored story passed among policemen for decades. The source of the original text is unknown. At division headquarters, there was a vibrant charge in the air. Lots of laughing and joking among the new Officers, including me, hitting the streets for the very first time. After months of endless classes, paperwork, and lectures, we were finally done with the Police Academy and ready to join the ranks of our department. In the briefing room, there were rows upon rows of young cops with huge smiles and polished badges. We could barely sit still as we anxiously awaited our turn to be introduced, then given our beat assignment…our own portion of the city to “serve and protect.” It was then that he walked in. He was a statue of a man - 6 foot 3 inches tall, and 230 pounds of solid muscle. His thick black hair was streaked with highlights of gray, and his steel-grey eyes could put you on edge even when he wasn’t looking at you. He had a reputation for being the most awe-inspiring Officer to ever work our city. He was a man’s man, and a cop’s cop. He had been on the department for longer than anyone could remember, and those years of service had turned him into a legend. The new guys, the “rookies” as he always called us, both feared and respected him. When he spoke, even the most seasoned Officers paid attention. It was a privilege for a rookie to be around while he told his police stories about the old days. But we knew our place, and never interrupted for fear of being shooed away. He was respected and revered by all who knew him. After my first year on the department, I had still never heard him speak to any of the rookies for any length of time. Whenever he did speak to a rookie, all he would say was, “So, you want to be a policeman, do you hero? I’ll tell you what, when you can tell me what they taste like, then you can call yourself a real policeman.” I’d heard that phrase dozens of times. My buddies and I all had bets about “what they taste like” actually referred to. Some believed it referred to the taste of your own blood after a hard fight. Others thought it referred to the taste of sweat after a long day’s work. Being on the department for a year, I thought I knew just about everyone and everything. One afternoon, I mustered up my courage and walked up to him. He looked down at me, and I managed to speak. “You know, I think I’ve paid my dues. I’ve been in plenty of fights, made hundreds of arrests, and sweated my butt off just like everyone else. So what does that little saying of yours mean, anyway?” With that, he merely stated, “Well, seeing as how you’ve said and done it all, you tell me what it means, hero.” When I had no answer, he shook his head, snickered “damn rookies,” and walked away. The next evening was the worst ever. The night started out slow, but as the evening wore on, the calls became more frequent; the situations more dangerous. I made several minor arrests, but then I got into the kind of fight where the blood tastes like metal in your mouth. Fortunately, I was able to make the arrest without truly hurting the suspect or myself. After that, I was looking forward to just letting the shift wind down, and getting home to my family. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly midnight. Five more minutes and I would be on my way home. I don’t know if it was fatigue, or just my imagination, but as I drove down one of the streets on my beat, I thought I saw my daughter standing on someone else’s porch. I looked again. It was not my daughter, as I’d first thought, but a small child just about her age. She was four, maybe five years of age, and dressed in an oversized shirt that hung to her feet. She was clutching an old rag doll in her arms that looked older than I was. I immediately stopped my patrol car to see what she was doing outside her house, alone, at such an hour. When I approached, a wave of relief seemed to spread across her face. I had to laugh to myself, knowing that she was seeing the hero policeman come to save the day. I knelt down to her level, and asked what she was doing outside. She whispered softly in my ear. “My mommy and daddy just had a really big fight, and now mommy won’t wake up.” My mind started to reel. I could feel the veins in my forehead pounding, the echo of my heartbeat hammering in my ears. What should I do next? I called for backup, and then ran to the nearest window. As I looked inside, I saw a man standing over a woman with his hands covered in blood. Her blood. I kicked open the door, pushed the man aside, and checked for a pulse. I didn’t find one. I immediately cuffed the man, and began performing CPR on the woman. At that moment, I heard a small voice from behind me. “Mr. Policeman, please make my mommy wake up.” I gave her a small smile, then continued to perform CPR until my backup and medics arrived, but they told me it was too late. She was dead. I looked over at the man. In that instant, I felt that I could kill him. “I don’t know what happened” he said. “She was yelling at me to stop drinking, get the hell out, and go get a job, and I had just had enough. I just shoved her so she would leave me alone. She fell and hit her head.” As I walked the man out to the car in handcuffs, I again saw that little girl. In the five minutes that had passed, I had transformed from hero to monster. Not only was I unable to wake up her mommy, but now I was taking daddy away too. Before I left the scene, I thought I would talk to the little girl. To say what, I don’t know. Maybe just to tell her I was sorry about her mommy and daddy. To tell her everything would be alright, and that I cared. But as I approached, she turned away. I knew it was useless. By speaking, I could only make things worse. As I sat in the locker room at the station, I kept replaying the whole scenario over in my mind. Maybe if I would have reacted faster, or done something different, just maybe, that little girl would still have her mother. And even though it may sound selfish, I would still be the hero. It was then that I felt a large hand on my shoulder. And from behind me, I heard that booming voice ask that all too familiar question. “Well, hero, what do they taste like?” Before I could get mad, or shout out some sarcastic remark, I realized that all the pent up emotions had flooded to the surface. There was a steady stream of tears cascading down my face. It was at that moment that I realized what the answer to his question was: Tears. With that, he began to walk away, but suddenly stopped. “You know, there was nothing you could have done differently,” he said. “Sometimes you can do everything right, and still the outcome is the same. You may not be the hero you once thought you were, but now, son, you ARE a Police Officer.”
Posted on: Wed, 31 Dec 2014 00:28:20 +0000
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