On twelve-hour shifts, the official line is that the shift begins at seven am.; or seven p.m.
The unofficial line says that in order to provide continuous round-the-clock coverage, personnel are to be in the building by six-thirty. This is so officers can exchange certain information on cases that may overlap shift changes. If someone is five minutes late, well; they’re not really late...right? And the person they’re relieving gives them a blast of shit. It’s kind of an honour system. As for those who abused it, the day would come when their relief showed up a half hour late; usually when they had an important anniversary with the wife or girlfriend.
That usually got the message across.
Due to mutual consent, just like the shift workers in Chemical Alley, the Lennox Police actually changed shifts at six o’clock. In summer, on the day shift, you could be home in time for a late dinner, and have a few hours with the family. On night shift, you could be home in bed by about twenty minutes to seven. After six or seven hours of sleep, you could get up, run a few errands or cut the lawn. Have an early dinner and head in to work, although many officers skipped the meal at home. A lot of guys ate at seven or eight in the evening; after the rush of evening traffic incidents. Then you would have plenty of energy for the busy hours of the bar crowd. The routine might vary somewhat according to the season, or the circumstances. The arrangement worked pretty well, having evolved over more than a century and a half. Even the Romans had developed a kind of policing.
Sergeant Oberon arrived home at five minutes to seven. As shift supervisor he had more information, more dockets to discuss with his relief than a mere constable.
Even though it was a pretty quiet night and thank heaven for that.
He stripped off the uniform in jig time, and slung it into the laundry basket. He made a double scotch on the rocks and headed for the shower. Half the drink was gone before he had his socks and underwear off and the water running at the correct temperature.
He stepped into the shower and began to lather up his armpits, and rubbing the hot washcloth around his eyes. Then he tentatively reached out and picked up the drink. He gulped some. He soaped up thoroughly in the armpits, asshole, feet, et cetera. There was a little ledge on the end of the shower where the spigot head came out of the wall. Not too much spray there. Just a fine mist which wouldn’t hurt the drink if he didn’t splash shampoo around too much. With his head at a quarter-inch stubble stage of growth, he really didn’t need much shampoo.
“A little dab’ll do ya,” he sang softly.
A very old jingle, from an old-fashioned hair fixative. His dad used it. The song was a reminder of his dear old dad. Brylcreem, that was it.
“A little dab’ll do ya,” he sang again gently.
While the kids were off to university, his wife might still be sleeping.
The house was silent when he arrived, and at this stage of the marriage, he didn’t run into the bedroom and shout, ‘Honey, I’m home!’
A lot of cops got their heads shaved for charity. The Breast Cancer people were always a favourite cop charity. For a woman to lose a breast was a real tragedy. Any man could see that. Anyhow, he believed in good community relations, especially with the nicer people. The taxpayers and property owners who made this town what it was. Their blind, mindless self-absorption and natural diffidence ensured that they prefer not to ask too many questions.
After rinsing away the soap and shampoo, he took a gulp and then it was down to a quarter. There were times when a scotch tasted so good. Turning, he let the spray run on his neck, and shoulders, and then down the back.
He sucked back the last of the drink, and picked up his razor. To shave in the shower was a real timesaver. Really, you didn’t need shaving foam. Your whiskers and skin were all soft from the hot water. You didn’t need to rinse all the dead whiskers out of the sink.
The important thing was to rinse off carefully. A couple of tiny whisker-stubbles down your back or under your shirt collar would drive you nuts. Right in the middle of a high-speed chase, the thing would be itching and messing up your focus. It made it hard to shoot at a perp’s tires. You might come home with a big red welt, which could take a couple of days to clear up.
He stepped out and dried off, and slipped into his housecoat. He went looking for another drink. A few minutes of CNN, then it would be time to hop into bed. What a long, boring, surprisingly exhausting night. He grinned in sudden recollection of that Anderson kid.
“You’re not getting any younger, buddy.”
It wasn’t the first time Phillip Oberon ever told himself that!
His wife rolled over.
“Good morning, honey,” she said; and he kissed her on the cheek.
It was good to be home.
Chapter Forty-Seven
A head like a half-chewed caramel…
Core Values Page 46