When I entered the store, the produce guy tossed me an orange. “Morning, Walt.”
You know you’ve become a ‘regular’ when the produce guy knows you by your first name.
I wandered down the aisle and an old fellow was standing behind a skillet. Little bits of something that he had fried were on a paper plate. They must have been there for a while because the grease was starting to congeal.
When I approached, the old guy flashed a big smile revealing a missing incisor. “Would you like to try one of our pork sausages?”
I really didn’t, but I couldn’t resist the pleading look on the old guy’s face. I figured it might make his day and hoped the thing wouldn’t kill me. I plopped it in my mouth and he watched me expectantly.
“Mmmmm, tasty,” I lied. “You been doing this long?”
“About ten years now --- ever since I retired.”
As I walked away, I tried to picture myself behind the greasy skillet hocking fried pig meat to passersby, and I got a cold chill.
I found the beets among the other canned vegetables and realized that I had a decision to make. Not only were there several different brands, but I also had to decide whether I wanted them sliced or whole. After a moment’s reflection, I realized that I probably wouldn’t eat them anyway, so I chose the one with the prettiest can.
I was about to head to the checkout when I thought I heard something faintly calling my name. I looked around, but saw no one. Then I spotted the Ding Dongs on the shelf. I couldn’t resist their siren call and soon I was at the register with at least one thing that I knew would be consumed.
While the girl was ringing me up, I noticed the old fellow sacking my purchases. I looked at his name tag.
“Hi, Mort. How long have you been sacking groceries?”
He thought for a minute, “Maybe eight years --- since I retired.”
As I headed to my car, I couldn’t help but wonder if that’s what the future had in store for me. I knew that I was going to have to do something or go stark raving mad.
I had just thrown my can of beets in the back seat when I heard a scream.
“NO! PLEASE, NO! SOMEBODY HELP ME!”
I looked for the source of the scream and saw an elderly woman struggling with a scruffy young man with long straggly hair.
She had been pushing her cart loaded with groceries with her purse slung over her arm. The kid had grabbed the purse, but the old woman wouldn’t let go.
I watched in horror as the kid slapped the woman across the face, knocking her to the ground. As she fell, he ripped the purse from her arm and took off across the parking lot.
I ran to her side, but the creep had already disappeared into an alley by the time I got there.
I helped the woman to her feet. Her mouth was bleeding from where he had struck her and her elbow was scraped where it had hit the pavement.
“My purse?” she mumbled.
“I’m afraid it’s gone,” I replied.
“I had just cashed my Social Security check,” she moaned. “It’s all I had to live on this month.”
I was on an emotional overload. I wanted to weep for the poor woman, but I was so angry I could hardly contain myself.
This was the most violent thing I had ever personally witnessed and I was appalled that someone could commit such a cruel act. The kid would probably get away scot-free.
I wanted to run after the kid and bring him to justice, but who was I kidding. He was long gone and there was nothing that I could do.
Then the old woman threw her arms around my neck and wept.
I held her until she stopped sobbing.
“Thank you, young man. You’ve helped me more than you know
Young man! I thought. I AM still a young man and I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend my remaining years sacking groceries!
I knew what I wanted to do, I just didn’t know how I was going to do it.
In the time it took to drive from the supermarket to my apartment building, my anger had turned to resolve.
As I thought about the heinous miscarriage of justice that I had witnessed, it occurred to me that Lady Justice is depicted as a woman, blindfolded, and holding a balance scale. Sometimes, like today, the scales are terribly out of balance and the blind lady needs a helping hand.
I wanted to help.
I pulled up in front of my three-story apartment building on Armour Boulevard. It was built in the late 1920’s and boasts all of the charm and elegance of that era. There are two apartments on each floor and a small efficiency unit in the basement. This being my home, I have very carefully chosen the tenants who now occupy the other six apartments.
My old friend, Willie Duncan, was sitting on the front steps.
Willie has been with me nearly twenty years now. I first met Willie while shopping for electrical supplies for one of my rentals. I was told Willie had a good supply of fixtures and I could find him at Twelfth and Garfield. I assumed that he had a storefront there, but as I drove up I saw a wiry little black guy sitting on the bumper of his car with the trunk popped open. It turned out that Willie was a petty thief and a con artist. He was very good at his trade. He was one of those guys that operated just under the radar. He picked his targets carefully and left no clues. He had never been arrested, never committed a violent crime, and his marks were almost always big companies covered by insurance. He never stole from the little guy.
At the time I met Willie, the life on the streets of Kansas City was in a period of transition. The gangbangers had moved in, and even the old pros like Willie wanted no part of that action.
After I purchased the ceiling fans that Willie had in his trunk, he wanted to know if I needed any help installing them. Coincidently, I was currently between maintenance men, so I hired Willie to do the work. He has been with me ever since. He has been my right-hand man. I couldn’t have operated my rentals without him. He could fix most anything mechanical, knew how to handle tools, and from his B&E days he had developed the skill of lock picking. That came in handy when a belligerent tenant changed a lock and wouldn’t share a key.
When I retired and sold the apartments, he retired too. He lives in the small efficiency unit in my basement. He’s got his little shop and gets his rent free for taking care of my remaining two buildings.
Willie didn’t have much schooling, but he is street smart. He could con with the best of them. His best act is to play the part of the ‘good ole boy’ black man that is usually depicted in movies of the prewar era. He could be Kingfish from Amos ‘n Andy, Step’n Fetchit, or a character right out of Song of the South.
On more than one occasion I’ve heard him lament, “Dese kids today don’t how to do no con. Dey thinks they all cool with their cornrows and dreadlocks and stuff stickin’ outta dere face. Dey ain’t gonna con no white dude with all dat. Dey just gonna scare the bejesus out of ‘em and dey gonna call the cops. You wanna con a white dude you gotta get der confidence. Ain’t no white dude gonna trust these young punks.”
And he was right.
I figured that Willie, given his history on the streets, might point me in the right direction.
“Morning, Willie.”
“Hey, Mr. Walt. How’s it hanging?”
I knew from past experience that was Willie’s way of asking, “How are you?”
“Willie, I’ve decided that I want to be a cop.”
After a moment’s reflection, he replied, “Dat’s cool, an’ I wanna be Sammy Davis, Jr., but I don’ think either one o’ them’s gonna happen.”
I had hoped for a more supportive response.
I sat down on the steps beside him and shared the details of my tragic encounter in the supermarket parking lot.
When I was finished, Willie thought for a moment. “I get it, Mr. Walt. Dere’s some bad stuff happenin’ out dere an’ you wanna do somethin’ about it, but a cop! I’se knowed a lot o’ cops over de years, but dey was all young guys. De police department’s got regulations --- stuff like you gotta be dis
tall an’ dis big, an’ mos’ important in your case, not too old. How you gonna get aroun’ all dat?”
Unfortunately, I didn’t have an answer.
As I headed up to my apartment, my excitement and resolve had been muted by the cold reality that I was just too old to do what I wanted to do.
When I reached the second floor landing, I had a thought.
My college mentor occupied apartment 2-A. I met Professor Leopold Skinner when I attended the University of Missouri, Kansas City. He was a professor of philosophy and psychology. We became fast friends. Upon his retirement he moved, at my insistence, into my building.
Even today, at the ripe old age of eighty-five, the professor is as vital and lucid as many men half his age. One of the things that endeared him to me was his practice of not answering questions directly. Rather, he would quote some ancient philosopher, usually Confucius, and somehow the answer was embedded in the quote, but you had to find it.
I figured that it wouldn’t hurt to run my idea by the Professor before I scrapped it entirely.
I knocked and the Professor answered right away. “Good morning, Walt. Always a pleasure to see you. Won’t you come in?”
After exchanging pleasantries, I shared my morning experience, my aspirations and my conversation with Willie.
“I really feel like I have something to give, but I just don’t know how to do it. I was so excited just a few hours ago, but now it just looks like a pipe dream.”
I could see the wheels turning in the old man’s head.
Finally, he replied, “Thomas Edison once observed that the reason most folks don’t recognize opportunity when it comes knocking is that it is often dressed in coveralls and looks like work. Edison knew that anything worthwhile never comes easily; if it were easy, anyone could do it. Because he persisted far beyond the point the average person would consider reasonable and rational, he produced inventions that even the most learned people of the day considered impossible. Great things are often achieved by people with an almost fanatical devotion to finding the solution to a problem. Flashes of inspiration alone are not enough to ensure success; they must be followed by determined, persistent action.”
“I’m not afraid of hard work,” I replied. “I’ve been doing that all of my life. I just don’t know where to start.”
“A wise man once said that a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.”
“I get that. But what is the first step?”
He reflected for a moment. “Sometimes, what you know isn’t as important as who you know. Give that some consideration.”
I thanked the Professor and as I headed to my third- floor apartment his words kept running through my mind. “Not what you know, but who do you know.”
So who did I know that might be able to help?
Then it hit me! Captain Duane Short! If anyone could help me, it would be him.
We were friends in high school. Both Dwayne and I were of the same physical proportions, slender but not skinny, wiry but not muscular. I was five feet, nine inches tall, and Dwayne was a mere five feet, six inches tall. Hence, the nickname, ‘Shorty’, was bestowed on him by our ever-compassionate classmates. While I have stayed basically the same throughout my life, Dwayne experienced a growth spurt in his senior year and is currently a robust six feet tall. Nevertheless, the nickname stuck.
None of the men in his command dare call him Shorty, at least to his face. That honor is reserved for those of us who knew him when he really was ‘Shorty’.
We remained friends over the years, and I had occasion to do Shorty some favors from time to time. While he could be tough as nails, he also had a compassionate side. I had received many calls from him looking for a place for some poor soul to live while trying to straighten out their life.
I wasted no time making the call.
At ten o’clock the next morning, I was sitting in my old friend’s office.
As soon as I saw him, I felt foolish. Shorty was my age and would soon be retiring from a distinguished career in law enforcement and there I sat, about to ask him how I could become a rookie cop.
I figured that I might as well tell him the whole story, so I related my previous day’s experiences.
I finished with the improbable statement, “Shorty, I really want to be a cop!”
To his credit, he didn’t laugh in my face, but I could see that he was struggling for an answer that would neither insult nor humiliate me.
“Walt, I’d love to help, but we have regulations --- procedures.”
“I understand all of that,” I replied, “but I’m only sixty-five. I’m in good health and I know this city like the back of my hand. I want to make a contribution. Are you telling me that there is absolutely no way that the department can use a person like me?”
He thought for a minute and said, “You really want to do this?”
“More than anything.”
“I may have a way. The department is putting together the Civilian Police Patrol, a program inviting citizen involvement. Certain handpicked civilians are selected for the program. While there are no age restrictions, the program was designed for young men and women who are interested in law enforcement. They must go through the academy and learn police procedure. Then they may be paired with an officer in a squad car. Technically, you’re not really a cop, but it’s pretty close.”
“I’ll take it,” I said.
I had just taken the first step in my thousand-mile journey.
CHAPTER 2
I discovered that the purpose of the CPP, the Civilian Police Patrol, was threefold: to involve the local community in law enforcement and invite cooperation and understanding, to find young adults who might become interested in a law enforcement career, and to add extra bodies in uniform to the streets without having to pay salaries from the tight city budget.
I don’t think a sixty-five-year-old gray-haired senior citizen was their demographic when they designed the program. However, because they didn’t anticipate that any old farts would apply, the restrictions were minimal. If you could walk upright and breathe and weren’t a convicted felon, you could apply.
‘Apply’ was the critical word here. As I said, most anyone could apply, but to be an accredited member of the CPP, one had to pass all of the entrance requirements of a normal police recruit. This involved a written exam, a physical, and an oral review board. This, of course, was designed to weed out the insincere, the uncommitted, the faint of heart, and old farts who didn’t know how to act their age.
The written exam was a piece of cake. I sailed through that with flying colors. Of the twenty-seven original applicants, sixteen of us passed and were scheduled for our physicals the next day. Elated by my exam success, I returned to my apartment. I wanted to get plenty of rest, and as my grandma used to say: “Get up early, bright-eyed, and bushy-tailed,” and be ready for my physical.
I arrived at the police academy at 8:00 a.m. sharp along with the fifteen other recruits. I’ve had a few physicals in my day, and I envisioned a kindly old doctor sitting down with me after a sweet young nurse had taken my temperature and blood pressure.
I couldn’t have been more wrong!
We were all herded into a locker room, assigned a locker, and told to strip down to our shorts.
No problem so far.
As I stood there in my skivvies, I noticed that the ambient temperature in the room was approaching that of a meat locker.
We were all standing around in our undies when the door opened and a uniformed officer entered. “All right, men,” he barked. “Form a single line, drop ‘em, and stand at attention.”
I hadn’t expected that!
I had to admit that I hadn’t been totally naked in a room full of men since my locker room days in high school, but what the hell. So I dropped them.
There’s a funny thing about guys and their manhood. There seems to be an inborn curiosity about how they stack up compared to the next guy. But it’s not polite to loo
k. You will see ten guys lined up side by side at the urinals at the ballpark, and if you watch closely they will always try to sneak a peek.
So there we were, sixteen guys, standing at attention, buck-naked, trying not to look at the fellow standing next to us.
About that time, it occurred to me that I was sixty-five years old. Body parts tend to shrink as you age. It’s a medical fact. I weigh all of 145 pounds, and I’m standing in a friggin’ meat locker. I couldn’t help but sneak a peek at the twenty-two-year-old stud standing next to me.
I wished that I hadn’t done that. I just hoped that they wouldn’t judge a guy’s spunk by the size of his junk.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, I also noted that I was the only one in line whose pubic hair was gray.
I was doing my best to remain calm and collected when the door flew open, and in stepped Nurse Ratchet. It had to be her. Straight out of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.
Just be calm and detached, I said to myself. It will soon be over.
I had almost convinced myself when I saw her snap on a pair of rubber gloves.
Now I’m not a prude, but invasive procedures like prostate exams, even when given by my kindly old doctor, are not high on my list of favorite things to do.
This couldn’t be good!
She stepped up to the first guy in line, looked in his eyes, ears, and mouth, and when she squatted down in front of him, I knew what was coming. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t bear to watch. A gasp of horror was heard all down the line when she barked, “Now turn your head and cough.”
Just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, she said, “Now turn around, bend over, and spread ‘em.”
Spread what? You’ve got to be kidding!
She wasn’t kidding.
I was the next to last guy in the line, so I got to wait and watch the humiliation as she proceeded down the line. After examining fourteen young, fit, nubile specimens of manhood, she came to me. Eyes, ears, throat. Then she bent down, and I held my breath as I awaited my fate. I looked down, and she was grinning from ear to ear. She looked up and gave me a wink. I guess I had made her day.
[Lady Justice 01] - Lady Justice Takes a C.R.A.P. Page 2