COMING SOON!

My new novel, "Big Pink" will be out soon.
I'm just putting the final touches to it now.
Here is a brief excerpt from "Big Pink".

I was working security at one of the Grateful dead Concerts and everyone was totally stoned out of their minds. There were several young hippie girls sitting with their backs to a chain link fence while they waited to be admitted into the coliseum. On the other side of the fence was a really stoned guy urinating on them through the fence.  The girls were too stoned to know they were being pissed on and the guy was too stoned to even know he was pissing on them. Sometimes life is good.

The show was finally over and the crowd had mostly left the parking lot.  I was tired from standing up so long, so I was glad to sit down in my unmarked police car.  I drove out of the coliseum parking lot, past a few stragglers still standing by their cars talking. I turned left and headed back toward the police station.  My shift had ended thirty minutes ago and the department does not like to pay overtime. I was slouched down in the driver’s seat of the blue dodge as I stopped for a red light at the first traffic signal out of the parking lot.  There was very little traffic this time of the morning.  I was patiently waiting for the light to turn green, when a Cadillac pulled up beside me in the left turn lane and stopped, also waiting for the light to change.  I glanced over at it and noticed there were five black men in the car.  I figured they had just left the concert parking lot. 

Now in my opinion there are several different grades of stupid.  My stupidity scale goes from “mildly stupid” on up to “too stupid to breath”. Evidently the occupants of this Cadillac were in the “too stupid to breath” category. Since I was sitting low behind the steering wheel they could not see my police uniform. Evidently they were far too stupid to think that a white guy driving a blue dodge at 1:30AM, might just be a cop.

The two guys on the passenger side of the cadillac leaned out of the windows with their arms hanging out of the car.  Each one’s hand held a can of malt liquor and the guy in the front seat shouted out the window at me, “What you lookin’ at, you honkey, mother fucker?” Then when I appeared to ignore this threatening remark the guy hanging out of the back window threw his can of malt beverage and hit the side of my car.  I just sat there and ignored this as well.  My silence apparently gave them more ethnic courage and they all started hurling racial remarks and threats in my direction.  I guess, as in most instances like this, these guys were more show than go.  Just then the light changed to green and they started driving off, turning left on to the main four lane road in front of the coliseum.

I hesitated for a few seconds after they started driving away.  Reverently, I looked up at the stars in the sky and said, “Thank you, Jesus”, then I stepped on the accelerator pedal and drove off, following the Cadillac.  When I fell in behind them I saw several angry black faces looking at me through the back windshield.  I could not stop grinning as I reached out to the toggle switch on the dash and using my index finger I flamboyantly flipped on the blue lights in the grill of the unmarked police car.  I then enthusiastically hit the siren yelper a couple of times to be sure that I had their attention.

On cartoon Saturday, the Wiley coyote’s ears would slowly droop down right when he realized his plan had failed and the boulder was going to squish him instead of the road runner. I swear that is what happened to all those guys looking out of the rear windshield.  They, in unison, got a bewildered look on their faces and their ears appeared to slowly droop down.

Hard Luck Larry

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Hard Luck Larry

By William T. Moyer

Copyright © 2012 William T. Moyer

Smashwords Edition 

His wounds were nearly healed from the unfortunate beating he had suffered at the hands of an old blind man with his white cane in the bus station waiting room last month.  He was still getting a hard time about it from the other officers.  A sharp pain briefly crossed his forehead over his left eye. Larry rubbed the small lump on his forehead that was almost invisible now as he had a flashback of that embarrassing day. He had appeared in front of the magistrate with the seventy odd year old blind man in handcuffs to get a warrant for assaulting a police officer. He held the man’s white cane, the assault weapon, in his hand. It was to be turned in as evidence. The magistrate had asked him if he was serious about getting the warrant. His head had lumps in several places that were already starting to bruise. He was mad and said yes, he was sure. Now he wished he had just forgotten about it.

Larry had become the butt of many jokes in the police department that day, but he thought he was in the right on this arrest.  The old blind bastard had just been lucky with the first swing of the cane and with the kick to his groin. Larry wondered if the old guy really was blind or faking it.

Testifying in court had been even more embarrassing for him. He was forced by the grinning assistant District Attorney to tell about how he had been beaten about his head with a white cane by the old blind man.  The judge had not even tried to keep order in the courtroom.  The newspaper headline the next day had read “Justice is not blind”. The old blind man was released from custody with a warning by the judge. He was told not to come before the judge again for assaulting a police officer with his white cane.  He remembered the judge, his face contorted to keep from bursting out in laughter, ordering him to return the man’s white cane to him. The final embarrassment came as the old man was tapping his way to leave the courtroom. As he passed by Larry the old guy muttered under his breath, but loud enough for the entire courtroom to hear, “Asshole”. The courtroom was in tears from laughter...

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Kung Fu

Kung Fu

By William T. Moyer

Copyright 2012 William T. Moyer

Smashwords Edition

It was a payday Friday night with a full moon.  The kind of night that you know is going to be a wild one, especially when you are working second shift. I was working as a field training officer, just like Clark was to me several years ago.  Once a new officer graduates from sixteen weeks of Recruit School, where he learns all the basics, laws, self defense and firearms, then I get him for six weeks in the field.  When he rides with me for those six weeks, he will learn what the real world of policing is all about. I only train male recruits. I am not discriminating against women as trainees, it’s just that  my wife won’t let me train a woman officer. She’s seen what has happened to other male officers when they have trained a woman recruit. All sorts of marriage problems can and usually do happen.

My last trainee did not pass the six week training course. Hell, Joey only made it about two weeks. He was a nice guy and I hated to fail him with a bad review, but he had a drinking problem. The problem was that he was always drunk. This guy was buzzed all the time. At first I thought he was just stupid or something and then I caught him drinking vodka on duty.  I warned him once and then the second time I took him to the captain. I’m pretty easy going and I am certainly not perfect, but when my life is on the line I get pretty serious. The Captain put him with a different training officer and he failed him to. For a young guy he sure had some problems. My philosophy is that everyone has got problems, but mine are the only ones that are important.

My new trainee was little Larry Diller. he had been riding along with me for almost three weeks now and was doing pretty well in most situations. The problem with little Larry was that besides being rather small in stature, he was just not very assertive in some situations.  He was also way too sincere for my taste.  By sincere I mean he really cared about what people said and believed everything they told him.  Even when I was joking around he always thought I was being serious and I joked around a lot.  Every time I let him handle a situation on his own, he invariably got pushed around either verbally or physically.  Larry, to his credit, was not afraid and would jump in to any fray when it started. If I could just teach him how to take charge and be a little more intimidating, then there would not be the need for situations to escalate into violence.

I had tried to teach him proper police radio protocol according to me.  Proper police radio protocol according to me, is that whenever you use the police radio, you should never sound any way but real cool.  If ten people are shooting at you, when you key that mike, you had better sound like you are just checking out on your break at the doughnut shop.  There must be no stress whatsoever in your voice.  There was an unspoken cool contest going on in the department. Every officer was competing to see who can sound the calmest under pressure. Larry always sounded nervous on the radio even if we actually were checking out for a break.  Other officers had started making fun of my trainee and giving me a hard time about his radio voice. I was also getting tired of having to come to his rescue all the time. At this stage of his training he should be able to stand alone in most situations and if he can’t then at least sound cool when he calls for help...

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The Man With One White Shoe

The Man With one White Shoe

I needed a neck brace to help hold my head up. I was so sleepy that I felt numb all over. Most of the time on my job it is extremely boring.  During the long slow times I get so bored that it is hard for me to keep my eyes open while I drive.  I turned the wheel and drove down an empty street and my eyes just kept trying to slam shut. It would be so easy to give into the sleep, so very easy. I rolled the car window down and let the cold night air rush in to revive me. I started to feel a little better. This is the way it usually is on the long night shift. The first couple of hours are pretty interesting and then it slows down. The oncoming headlights began to blur together and I decided to turn into a brightly lit car dealership. After checking the salesmen’s office for signs of a break in, I poked along, up and down the long lines of cars, trucks and vans in an effort to defeat the creeping sleep. I decided to park my car in the middle of the brightly lit crowded acre of shiny vehicles, turned off my engine and stepped out into the brisk night air. The car dealership was closed at this hour or there would be car salesmen crawling all over me, telling me lies to try and sell me a car. I guessed that the temperature was about forty degrees, maybe upper thirties. I have learned that nothing works better as a stimulus than just getting off my butt and walking around for a while. Under the bright lights all the new cars looked like shiny gem stones. I looked at some of the window stickers and realized that they were all priced like rare jewels as well.  I was starting to feel like my old alert self once more, when I heard the crackle of my car radio.

A sexy woman’s voice was saying my call sign over and over. “Car 420, car 420”, I walked to the open car door, picked up the radio microphone and responded, “car 420, Washington and Main”. I was required to always answer a radio call with my location. The sexy voice momentarily ignored me and called for car 460. I heard car 460 respond with his location just as I had done. I figured that the dispatcher with the low sexy voice was going to send both of us on the same call or maybe she wanted to find out which one of us would be the closest to an address.  After another few seconds of silence there was a high pitched tone that denotes an emergency call. Then she came back on over the radio, “car 420 and car 460, 2618 East Florida Street, apartment 28A, a burglary in progress”. I immediately responded with 10-4 and then George in car 460 did the same. Everyone knows that 10-4 is the universal radio signal for acknowledgement of information. George waited for me to 10-4 before he did since I got the call first. That is what radio procedure specifies and I am big on radio procedure. Well, there goes my boredom. I was wide awake now.

I looked at my watch and it was 3:14 in the morning.  I figured that it would take me about 10 minutes to arrive in Morningside Homes and about 5 more to find the victim’s address in the housing project. I didn’t recognize the address, so it wasn’t an apartment where we got a lot of calls. Morningside Homes were a low income housing project not too far from my beat in the downtown area.  I knew from the location that George, in car 460 had given, that it would take about 5 minutes longer for him to get there than it would for me. I slid back into the front seat of my patrol car and started the engine. I put the gear shift into drive and slowly drove out of the car lot. As I drove out of the car lot and entered on to Washington Street, I flicked the toggle switch mounted on the dash that turned on my blue lights and then reached down under the dash to the center console and turned the knob to start the loud wail of my siren. When responding to a burglary in progress call procedure dictates to run in emergency mode with blue lights and siren on.  When we get near to the victim’s address, we turn off our sirens, so the burglar does not hear us coming. We don’t want to let the burglar know we are approaching and give him a chance to escape. I remember that I was thinking “maybe we can catch this one”, when the sexy dispatcher’s voice crackled over the radio again. “Car 420 and car 460 switch to F-3 for further information”. Man, she sounded sultry. I wonder what she looks like. Any woman’s voice on the radio at 3 in the morning sounds sexy, except of course for Ann Estoban’s voice, that sounds like slow motion chalk on a blackboard at anytime of the day or night.

I turned the frequency knob on my radio and switched to channel F-3 as directed.  Once George and I acknowledged being on frequency F-3 a very mature, calm and cool man’s voice said, car 420 and 460, be advised the victim is on the phone with us now and the suspect is still inside of her apartment. She says she can hear him moving around in the next room. She has locked herself in the bathroom until officers arrive. George and I both responded with 10-4 to acknowledge the information. Now if this bastard will just stay there for a few more minutes...

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The Flaming Marshmallow

Prologue:

"I had many adventures when I was young.  Running from the police, wild women, egging houses, breaking windows, getting away, getting caught, winning fights, losing fights, making out with girls, skipping school, sneaking out at night, discovering the joys of gunpowder, friends dying, friends moving away, getting stabbed, getting shot, summer camp for New York City troubled youths, more gunpowder, leeches, outhouses, falling in love, falling out of love, seeing tits for the first time, first striptease show at the fair, wilder women, getting thrown out of the Boy Scouts, being a kid alone in New York City, driving cars, smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, making money, going to night clubs and then I turned thirteen." 

The Flaming marshmallow

It was the night before my very first Boy Scout camping trip and I was so excited that I could hardly sleep. I had been camping for years now, but not on an official Boy Scout camping trip. I went over and over all of my official Boy Scout camping equipment, making sure for the one hundredth time that all was in order. Everything from my official Boy Scout eating utensil pack to my official Boy Scout poncho was packed perfectly in my official Boy Scout knapsack. I had even drawn a diagram of how things should be packed.

I had to mow a lot of lawns to earn enough money to buy my uniform and camping gear.

I had been a member of Boy Scout Troop #468 for over two months and although still classified as a tender foot, I knew I would progress through the ranks rapidly to become perhaps even an Eagle Scout one day. I had spent many hours studying my official Boy Scout handbook and I had memorized the Boy Scout oath, the Boy Scout Law, motto and slogan. I had studied how to camp, make a shelter out of tree limbs and how to build a camp fire. I was the perfect example of the Boy Scout Motto, “be prepared”; I knew I was totally prepared!

One of the two assistant scout leaders picked me up at 9 am the next morning.  I was the last one on his pick up list and the station wagon was crowded with five other boys.  We drove for three hours to the deep woods at Baden Lake, where we were going to pitch our camp.

I was prepared for everything, well except for a small fear that seemed to keep popping out of the recesses of my mind as we got closer to the woods. Way back when I was five or six years old,  my mom and some of her unusual friends had taken us to these very same woods on a day trip and picnic by the lake.  You must understand that no one ever watched out for me even when I was a little kid.  They just had grownup things to think about and they were having too much fun to watch after a five year old kid. Everyone was having a great time laughing and talking loudly.  I had never really seen a forest before except in black and white on the T.V. set. I was awestruck by all the green bushes and trees and decided to explore a bit.  I wandered off into the woods and soon realized that I was lost.  I remember panicking and crying when I discovered that I did not know which way led back to the others.  I had never been lost before and the woods seemed so large and scary. I wandered aimlessly in the wilderness for what seemed to me like a very long time. I cried and called out for my mother as I walked and ran through the great forest of doom, first I went in one direction and then I would go in another. No one heard my shouting and no one came to my rescue.  I guess all my actions in those woods so long ago were just general panic kind of stuff. 

I finally stumbled upon a paved two lane road and to me it was like Columbus discovering America only on a smaller scale. I figured that I had a fifty/fifty chance to reach civilization now that I had discovered the paved road.  I decided to go to the right so I turned and followed the winding little deserted road. I walked down the shoulder of the road, facing traffic as I had been trained to do in safety class at school, but no cars came by.  It wasn’t very long before I thought that I could hear people laughing and talking. As the voices got lauder I came to the very picnic area where my family was having their picnic lunch.  I was amazed that I had survived my ordeal in the wilderness and actually found my way back to what I thought was civilization. I wiped the tears from my eyes, stood up as tall as I could and walked into the joyous group of picnickers expecting to be welcomed back with sighs of relief that I had been found. 

It was sort of a letdown to find out that no one had even known that I had been lost or missing.  Everyone was having such a good time laughing and drinking that I decided to just keep the experience to myself and file the information away for future use. Looking back this was when I first discovered that it was almost like I was invisible, except when someone wanted me to do some menial task for them.

Evidently that past experience of fear and panic in the woods had made an indelible impression on my little mind. I told myself that I was just a kid back then, not a ten year old boy scout like I was now. I was not going to get lost in these woods this weekend.  I was prepared just like it said in the Boy Scout manual. I now carried in my official Boy Scout uniform pants pocket a map of the entire area where we were going camping and two compasses.  I thought it prudent to have a backup compass in case one stopped working. I knew that I was prepared, but some childhood fear kept gnawing at the back of my brain and my palms started sweating...

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The Rookie

The Rookie

In 1971, a police officer’s hands were not tied by all of the criminal rights, touchy-feely stuff that restricts police officers from doing their jobs today. The “Miranda Warning Law” was enacted when I was just a rookie and it was a big deal back then, but now it is just taken for granted. The “Miranda Warning Law” didn’t really affect what I did as long as I wasn’t trying to question a suspect and use what he said in court. Back then we had a lot of discretion in certain situations. If a criminal were to lead me on a high speed car chase and then suddenly pull the car over, to jump and run on foot from his more than likely stolen vehicle, it was at my discretion if I wanted to fire at least one shot at him, just to let him know that I was thinking about him.  This discretionary action usually persuaded the fleeing culprit to stop running and fall down on the ground trying to surrender, before he got killed.  If an officer did that nowadays, there would be tons of paper work, law suits and anger management classes. In the end he would probably face suspension or termination. It was a lot more fun being a cop in 1971.

My first day on the job and I was very nervous. I was sworn in, issued my uniform, given my badge #44 and given my very own standard issue Smith & Wesson .38 caliber revolver.  Not a bad weapon, but the one issued to me was old and worn. It must have been in use for twenty years or more. A .38 caliber bullet has very little penetration capability. The thing I liked best about my old .38 revolver was that it would not shoot through a car.  That sounds strange, but I learned early in my police career that the safest place to be, when involved in a shootout with bad guys, is behind your police car, preferably behind a tire. I also learned that you have a better chance of a fellow police officer shooting you than any criminal ever shooting you.  Since all the officers in the department were issued the same gun as I was, it was hard for any of them to shoot me if I was hiding behind a car. That is why I liked the lack of penetration of the department issued firearm.

Sergeant Gene Hunter took me under his wing from the very first day.  He was slim with graying temples, I figured about forty years old and a nice guy that really seemed to care about all the men on his squad. I had been through a long vetting process before being sworn in as a police officer. All the things I had ever been caught for were done while I was still a juvenile.  They didn’t count, so I passed the background check with flying colors. It seemed like the biggest hell raisers in high school and college turned out to be the best police officers. Sergeant Hunter asked me a lot of questions that first day. He was trying to see if I was cut out to be a police officer. I answered all of them just how I figured he wanted me to. I did not show any indecision in my answers and let him know that I fully intended to enforce the laws of North Carolina. I did not appear to be too “gung ho”, but just “gung ho” enough. I think I answered everything the way he wanted me to.

My second day on the job I showed up with paper and pens, because I was supposed to start the sixteen week police officer training school. That didn’t happen. I was surprised, when I was assigned to a training officer that I was to ride with for the next six weeks. To gain experience in the field, the Captain said.  The training officer part was supposed to come after the sixteen week classroom course. When I first started with the police department, Rev. Martin Luther King had recently been assassinated.  There was a lot going on at that time in our country.  Riots, looting, arsons, snipers and police ambushes all were quite common. The Greensboro Police department needed more bodies on the street and didn’t care if they were properly trained bodies or not. The rumor was that the department did not have enough officers in the field to handle the racial tensions they were expecting to develop. So the answer was to give me a gun and put me on the street, scary isn’t it? They put twenty six untrained new recruits on the street that day, with guns, to calm racial tensions, what a great plan. I did not know then, that it would be well over a year before I would ever get to attend the recruit training school.  I had to learn on the job by trial and error during that time of racial turmoil and violence.  Sure I made some mistakes, but my common sense and survival instincts saw me through. When I finally did get to go to recruit school for the sixteen week course, I already had a wealth of street knowledge to fall back on and I finished at the top of my class.

It is hard for me to describe Clark Roman, my new training officer.  Physically he was as tall as I was 6’1”, had a dark complexion, thick black hair, and a black mustache. He was a handsome guy. He was about thirty years old and had never been married.  He lived on a large farm that was left to him when his parents had passed away and owned his own airplane that he kept in a barn on his property.  He had been a police officer for six years now and I figured that he must know his job well to have been appointed as my training officer. Clark was, as I soon discovered, also the craziest son of a bitch I had ever met.  First impressions can sometimes be wrong.  Clark seemed like a conscientious, experienced officer that really had his act together.  This was my first impression of him and that impression lasted for a little less than one hour.

Clark was very detail oriented and it took us thirty minutes to check out the equipment in our patrol car that first morning. I was anxious to get out on the street and start policing. I wanted to put bank robbers in jail and stuff like that. Clark, however, had a long check list and we went over every item from first aid kit to the shotgun with great detail.  He took time to explain the importance of each item on the check list. When he was finally satisfied with the condition of all of the cars emergency equipment, he drove us up the concrete drive and out of the police parking underground. He got on the radio and told the dispatcher that we were on duty and we headed out to our zone.  A zone is what the police department liked to call a beat. There were four zones in the city and each zone was broken down into three sections. Our zone was zone four.  It encompassed the North West quarter of the city and also the downtown area. It was the nicest zone, full of pretty houses and nice people that liked the police. We got about two blocks from the police department before I began questioning my training officer’s sanity.

Clark insisted on driving the patrol car, which was alright with me, since I was nervous as hell anyway.  I just wanted to make a good impression, not make any stupid mistakes and do some crime fighting.  Clark had explained, as we left the parking garage, that driving the patrol car was not a right, but a privilege and that he would bestow this privilege upon me when he thought I was ready.

Rush hour traffic in downtown Greensboro was sort of heavy on that warm sunny morning. We had only driven two blocks, when Clark happened to glance over to his left and notice a very pretty young woman dressed in a business suit and high heels. She was apparently walking to her job on the wide Market Street sidewalk. Suddenly I was slammed against my seat belt shoulder strap so hard that it almost knocked the wind out of me.  Clark had stomped the patrol car’s brake pedal and came to a screeching halt in the middle of morning rush hour traffic. I could hear the screeching tires of the cars behind us as they slammed on their brakes to avoid hitting our police car. I fleetingly thought that Clark must have witnessed a violent crime in progress. All my senses were on edge and my adrenaline was pumping. Clark shouted something that I could not understand as he gestured toward the young business woman on the sidewalk about twenty feet from our car. It took a couple of seconds for what he was saying to sink in. “Look at that piece of ass! God she is fucking beautiful, I would love to fuck that”. I had trouble believing my ears. OK, I know that’s sort of guy talk and maybe it only seemed crazy to me since we were in a police car holding up morning rush hour traffic.  I remember thinking that maybe he was just a very horny guy and I figured I could overlook this trait for six weeks if I had to, except for what happened next.  As soon as he had shouted those words, he covered his eyes with his hands and started ranting a strange sort of prayer, “Oh Jesus, please forgive me, I didn’t know what I was saying. Oh Jesus, forgive me”.  I think he also began talking in tongues, because I couldn’t understand most of what he was saying.

OK, so maybe Clark was a real religious horny guy.  Maybe I could deal with that for six weeks, no problem.  Involuntarily, during his strange penance prayer, His right leg straightened as if it was controlled by some higher power and his foot pushed the accelerator pedal down and the patrol car burned rubber. The patrol car sped forward while Clark had his eyes covered with his hands as he sobbed begging for Jesus to forgive his indiscretion. My face must have been white as a sheet as I grabbed the steering wheel and tried to keep our car from crashing into any other car as he continued to rant in the early morning rush hour traffic. I remember thinking, “This has to be a test of some kind, nobody on the police department could be this crazy”. After a few close calls with other vehicles and my screaming at him to open his eyes, he started to regain his composure and took the wheel back with tears streaming down his cheeks.  To me the tears were what let me know that this was no surprise field training test or weird joke.  I realized this guy was actually crazy as a loon. Five minutes later it was as if none of it had happened. Needless to say I was wary of Clark from that day forward. Over the course of my six week field training session we had many insane adventures. Riding with him was like being in a mobile insane asylum.

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The Mummy Dick

The Mummy Dick

When I was nine years old my mother went on a pilgrimage for a year to find her artistic inner being.  My little brother got to stay with our Aunt Eliza and I was taken sixty miles north and dropped off at my grandparent’s house in Leakesville, North Carolina.  I never saw or heard from my mother or little brother during that entire year. At first I thought it was my fault, because I was such a disappointment.  I had failed the third grade. I just could not seem to grasp how to read and it wasn’t like anyone at home had the time to be involved in my academic curriculum. I later discovered that my failing the third grade had absolutely nothing to do with her decision.

Mom decided that the best way to get my mind off of being abandoned for the year was to have me circumcised the first day that I arrived at Granny and Papa’s house.  Why this procedure was not done right when I was born is still a mystery to me. Evidently the whole family just wanted to have a good laugh at my expense.  The smell of the “Ether” used as an anesthetic back then, to knock me out for the operation, is the only thing I remember about the surgery.  The nurse, with a surgical mask over her face, told to count backward from ten as she dripped the “Ether” on the thing covering my nose and mouth. When I hit nine I was out. I guess the operation was a success and I awoke from my strange “Ether” induced dreams to find that I had a mummy dick. That is the only way it can be described.  For a supposedly simple operation, I had tape and gauze covering my entire penis from tip to base, stem to stern, end to end.  I remember thinking while lying in the hospital bed before I was released, “quick, walk faster the mummy dick is coming”.

Mom began her sabbatical the day after I was released from the hospital. I vividly remember the effort of staggering out to the large front porch, walking with my feet wide apart and how she waved to me as if she were in a parade, out of the car window, as she drove away.  It was a full week before the smell of the “Ether” finally got out of my sinuses.

When you are a new born baby and have this circumcision procedure done it is quite simple and as an infant you would remember nothing about it. When you are nine or ten it is a little more complicated and you never forget the experience. The doctor and nurses had wrapped my entire little penis in gauze and white tape after the surgery.  It was totally covered except for a tiny hole at the tip so that I could pee. Now this tubular tape and gauze bandage was supposed to be changed each day for the first two weeks until my little penis was partially healed.  It would have been bad enough if my mother had been there to change the dressing, but for my eighty year old grandmother to have to perform this horrible, painful and embarrassing act each day for two weeks is more than most nine year old little boys could have endured.

The physical pain was secondary to the psychological damage I suffered. Each afternoon during the first two weeks of my new life at Granny and Papa’s house, I would stand in the bathroom with my pants around my ankles and submit to having the bandage changed by my little grandmother.  I am not talking about a band aid, you know.  I am talking about a full mummy dick bandage change that took what seemed like hours to complete. Each afternoon, with the help of my grandmother, my little penis did a strip tease and then had a brand new white overcoat put on it.  It is a wonder I did not just go gay right there!  I have not had a more embarrassing experience in my life...

When I was nine years old my mother went on a pilgrimage for a year to find her artistic inner being.  My little brother got to stay with our Aunt Eliza and I was taken sixty miles north and dropped off at my grandparent’s house in Leakesville, North Carolina.  I never saw or heard from my mother or little brother during that entire year. At first I thought it was my fault, because I was such a disappointment.  I had failed the third grade. I just could not seem to grasp how to read and it wasn’t like anyone at home had the time to be involved in my academic curriculum. I later discovered that my failing the third grade had absolutely nothing to do with her decision.

Mom decided that the best way to get my mind off of being abandoned for the year was to have me circumcised the first day that I arrived at Granny and Papa’s house.  Why this procedure was not done right when I was born is still a mystery to me. Evidently the whole family just wanted to have a good laugh at my expense.  The smell of the “Ether” used as an anesthetic back then, to knock me out for the operation, is the only thing I remember about the surgery.  The nurse, with a surgical mask over her face, told to count backward from ten as she dripped the “Ether” on the thing covering my nose and mouth. When I hit nine I was out. I guess the operation was a success and I awoke from my strange “Ether” induced dreams to find that I had a mummy dick. That is the only way it can be described.  For a supposedly simple operation, I had tape and gauze covering my entire penis from tip to base, stem to stern, end to end.  I remember thinking while lying in the hospital bed before I was released, “quick, walk faster the mummy dick is coming”.

Mom began her sabbatical the day after I was released from the hospital. I vividly remember the effort of staggering out to the large front porch, walking with my feet wide apart and how she waved to me as if she were in a parade, out of the car window, as she drove away.  It was a full week before the smell of the “Ether” finally got out of my sinuses.

When you are a new born baby and have this circumcision procedure done it is quite simple and as an infant you would remember nothing about it. When you are nine or ten it is a little more complicated and you never forget the experience. The doctor and nurses had wrapped my entire little penis in gauze and white tape after the surgery.  It was totally covered except for a tiny hole at the tip so that I could pee. Now this tubular tape and gauze bandage was supposed to be changed each day for the first two weeks until my little penis was partially healed.  It would have been bad enough if my mother had been there to change the dressing, but for my eighty year old grandmother to have to perform this horrible, painful and embarrassing act each day for two weeks is more than most nine year old little boys could have endured.

The physical pain was secondary to the psychological damage I suffered. Each afternoon during the first two weeks of my new life at Granny and Papa’s house, I would stand in the bathroom with my pants around my ankles and submit to having the bandage changed by my little grandmother.  I am not talking about a band aid, you know.  I am talking about a full mummy dick bandage change that took what seemed like hours to complete. Each afternoon, with the help of my grandmother, my little penis did a strip tease and then had a brand new white overcoat put on it.  It is a wonder I did not just go gay right there!  I have not had a more embarrassing experience in my life...

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Fritz

Fritz

Over the years I worked with a couple of police officers that were real psychopaths.  I met one of them in my annual “Racial Sensitivity Class". We were all required to take this class each year to make us more sensitive. The class lasted an entire day and consisted of different speakers, usually social workers and psychologists. There was also a great deal of audience participation.  Mainly the police department was covering its rear end just in case there should be any kind of racial incident. The department would be able to say that we all had “Racial Sensitivity” training. We all thought these classes were really dumb, especially the black officers that had to participate. They were a waste of time. Since we were getting paid for sitting around we didn’t mind too much. We pretended to pay attention and tried to keep from laughing at some of the stuff they told us.  One part of the course was when a black girl social worker would sit in a chair in the middle of the classroom and we all got in a line and had to walk by her and touch her afro. This was so we could see that her hair was really very soft and not rough or course like most white people think a black persons hair is. “Like we had never touched an afro before, what did they think we held on to while we handcuffed them?” 

Jim Ring was in this class with me. He was called “Ding Dong” by most of us.  He was one of those dangerous psychopaths or sociopaths, I get them confused, that made you wonder how he got by all the psychological tests to be hired. Jim was a very scary individual.  He was only 5’9” with a slight build and coke bottle glasses with heavy black frames, but he was the scariest guy I ever met.  Jim was very unpredictable.  I saw him pull his pistol in the police locker room, put it up to another officer’s head and cock it. He was just horsing around, but it was very scary.  He liked to use his gun to knock on doors and to knock on people’s heads. He was always using excessive force on some prisoner or when he was making an arrest, but the high ranking officers were so afraid of him that he got away with it. They were afraid that if they disciplined him that he might sneak into their house one night and kill them in their sleep. I once saw Jim push an old crippled guy in a wheel chair down a flight of stairs, because he wouldn’t tell him where his son was hiding. 

“Ding Dong’ had a very effective method for finding out information.  He would knock on the front door of a house with the butt of his pistol and when the person he wanted to get information from opened the door, he would knock him down with his pistol butt and ask the guy questions as he slammed the door repeatedly on the guys head. They not only always told Jim everything they knew, but from then on every time they saw him, they would tell him anything new they might have learned ...

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Big Pink

Big Pink

Donnie Bridger was a big guy. He listened to rock and roll on his car radio and snapped his fingers to the beat. I thought he was really cool when I was thirteen years old. He really fooled me.  I know, I thought I was too smart to be fooled too. I had met Donnie a couple of times when my mom and her girlfriends were entertaining all these unobtainable gay men in her basement apartment she rented out to the gay guy.

I remember, I was home alone one Saturday afternoon, I think I was ironing my clothes in the kitchen, when I heard a loud knocking on the front door.  It was Donnie looking for either Jim, the gay guy, or my mom and seemed desperate to find one of them.  He came inside and told me he needed to find one of them right away.  I explained that I had no idea where to find them, but he kept hanging around waiting for one of them to return.  He finally told me that he really needed some money fast and wanted Jim or my mom to loan him twenty five dollars.  After watching me iron for about an hour he decided to ask me if I had twenty five dollars.  He said, “I only need it until tomorrow and I will bring it back to you then. I promise”.  I usually don’t lend money, mainly because I don’t want anyone to know I have any. I figured Donnie was a cool guy, so I let him have the twenty five dollars as a one day loan.  I didn’t see him again for many years.  I really felt like a fool and tried to think of it as a learning experience.  What kind of asshole borrows money from a hard working little kid and then rips him off like that? Oh well, I didn’t complain or tell anyone.  I just filed it away in the back of my mind for when I got a little older and smarter.

The police radio dispatcher gave me a disturbance call at the “General Greene Grill”, a famous gay bar in the downtown area.  The “General Greene Grill” was named after the famous Revolutionary War hero that won the battle with Cornwallis. Our city of Greensboro was named after this famous general as well. The bar was on my beat in the downtown area. It was a minor trouble spot, so I always patrolled it, especially on second shift and I would occasionally walk through the bar just to let them know I was thinking about them.  It was particularly interesting on Halloween night with all the queen and princess costumes.  Whenever I would walk into the bar, all the guys would start kissing and fondling each other to see if they could gross me out. Little did they know that I was raised in an extremely artistic environment...

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The Wall

The Wall

I was twelve years old and I was making some real good money with my lawn mowing enterprise. After beer and cigarette expenses each week I had a lot of extra money to stash in my sock drawer. 

After Dr. Scott’s unexpected sudden demise, my mom was going through her “I have a lot of gay friends” period. Dr. Scott had bought us a great house on East Lake Drive across from Lake Daniel Park. It was a large house with a finished basement apartment.  Mom had insisted that they have the large upstairs attic area finished into a giant art studio. Dr. Scott almost always complied with her wishes. When it was finished it was actually a pretty cool attic, I have to admit. There was an inside staircase with a locking door and an outside entrance with a deck and steps down to the back driveway. High ceilings, a full bathroom and a lot of natural light made it perfect for an art studio. Mom would have visiting artists come in to teach and started her own business “The Attic Art Gallery”. Mom was a founding member of the “Petty Coat Painters” a group of middle aged women that liked to do artistic things in the community. They had monthly luncheons and meetings. Mom made money from art lesson commissions and art shows in her gallery. She had a lot of famous artists teach classes including John Brady and Marcus Blahov a famous portrait artist from New York City.

After Dr. Scott’s death she kicked the art thing up a couple of notches. Dr. Scott actually was a smart man after all.  He left everything in a trust to mom so she couldn’t run through the inheritance in one year. She had lifetime living rights to the house and a monthly allowance for expenses.  When mom died, all of Dr. Scott’s money and the house we lived in would go back to Dr. Scott’s real kids in Georgia.  Dr. Scott’s children were all older than my mom. They owned and operated the bank in Georgia that controlled the trust fund that Dr. Scott had set up.  Mom had to beg them for any extras she needed. I figured they were ripping her off somehow, but I wasn’t old enough or smart enough to figure it out. So I filed that information away for when I got a little older and smarter. When I did get older and smarter, I sued the bank owned by Dr Scott's relatives for violating their fiduciary responsibility and got a settlement of almost $100,000.

Mom rented the very cool basement apartment to a nice gay guy named Jim.  He was a very well dressed and fastidious homosexual that looked a lot like Rock Hudson and did not act very effeminate. Mom and her lady friends swooned over him and would spend hours partying with him on weekends.  It was pretty obvious to me what the situation was and I didn’t mind since it freed me up to do pretty much what I wanted to do.  Jim was a nice guy and was always friendly to me, the landlady’s kid.  I am sure they all thought I was clueless as to what was going on.  I have always tried to keep a low profile and act like I wasn’t aware of grownup things.  Mom and her girl friends, some married and some, would fawn over Jim and I am sure they thought they could make a romantic conquest.  I figured that they might as well have been searching for the Holy Grail. 

Jim had several gay male “friends” that came over to his apartment frequently.  Most were nice guys and some of them sort of surprised me.  They didn’t look or act gay. I was pretty wise to the ways of the world by then. One of Jim’s friends was a locally famous professional hockey player. Bobby, the hockey player, was really a pretty cool guy with a tooth missing in front.  He used to give me hockey tickets to all the Greensboro Generals Hockey teams home games and some friends and I would go to the Greensboro Coliseum to watch all the fights on the ice. For a gay guy Bobby sure could fight...

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The Stakeout

The Stakeout

When I came to work for third shift the sergeant told Dale and me to report to the Shift Commander, Captain Gibbons, in his office right after lineup.

We always held Lineup before starting each shift in the Patrol Division.  This was when we learned about anything of interest that had occurred on the previous shift and what to be on the lookout for during our shift.  The first thing we did in line up was of course to line up at attention. I was good at this since I did go to military school so I could graduate from school. The Sergeant would then inspect us to be sure our brass was polished and we had our badge and gun. Sometimes he would make us open the cylinder on our revolvers to be sure they were clean and loaded. Amazing as it sounds; every now and then someone would have forgotten to load their revolver or their bullets had turned green.

The most entertaining lineup I was ever privileged to participate in was when Trevor and Mary told the Sergeant that they wanted to make an announcement to the entire squad. Trevor and Mary were partners in the same squad car. Mary was one of the first female police officers ever hired by the department. Women were just starting to come out in the world and do jobs mostly performed by men. Things were very different back then. She and Trevor had been riding together for about six months now. She was very hot, especially in her uniform. There were two types of new women police officers. One type was scared to death, so they acted all tough and mean. The other type was not scared at all and did a very good job. Just as good as any man could do. Mary was like the first ones I mentioned. “Damn, she looked good in that uniform”. Trevor and Mary stood up in front of the squad and held hands as they announced that they were divorcing their spouses and going to marry each other. After the initial shock of the announcement, I thought that they had to be the dumbest two people in the entire police department...

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Fun With Winos

Fun With Winos

“It takes a sorry son of a bitch to arrest a man”

Wild Bill Hurley 1980

No one else wanted my beat in the downtown area, because it was mainly just dealing with winos. A wino is what we called, career alcoholics, that had reached the very bottom of the barrel. They drank “Richards Wild Irish Rose”, “Mad Dog 20-20” or some other brand of fortified cheap wine” and slept in abandoned buildings or cars. They begged for money or stole things to buy wine. Some were funny and some were mean. Some would kill another wino for his wine, money or just for fun. I liked messing with winos. When other beats were boring, I always had winos to mess with. I knew all the regulars like Wild Bill Hurley, Box Car Ruby, Clyde “Bionic Leg” Hall and Gay Ray Rachel. I had arrested them all, numerous times, for public drunkenness and many other crimes. Over the years I had been punched, kicked, vomited on and had them throw things at me. One rainy night my trainee, “killer Diller’, didn’t search Wild Bill as well as he should have. On the way to jail, Bill got mad and threw a small jar of instant coffee that he had hidden in his coat pocket against the Plexiglas shield and it got all over us in the front seat. When we got out of the car into the rain our white shirts percolated.  Box Car Ruby, a woman wino, came after me on the street one afternoon. She was as big as a box car and knocked both swinging doors off the hinges of Jim’s Lunch when she came after me. She charged  like a drunken bull with her teeth snarling and her finger nail claws swinging wildly. One good thump between her eyes with my night stick and she went down like a sack of potatoes. I never found out why she decided to attack me. Then there was Gay Ray Rachel, he was an ex professional boxer and he was flaming gay. Many people made the mistake of messing with him. He once told me that the only thing he liked better than having gay sex was kicking ass. I changed his words around some, but you get the picture...

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Summer Camp

Summer Camp

I was twelve years old and felt like I was thirty.  My mom was getting married again.  Wow! I was going to have a stepfather.  I wasn’t too worried about all the evil stepfather stories I had heard from my friends.  I stood a foot taller than Dr. Scott, Mom’s fiancy and out weighed him by about a hundred pounds.  Also, he was seventy years old. He was quite well off financially and was supposed to be very smart.  I wondered, “How smart can he be to be marrying my mom?”  He was the retired dean of the “Women’s College of Georgia”, so I guess he had a lot of book sense, but marrying my mom?  He had been very nice to my brother and me and we had orders from mom to be on our best behavior whenever he was around. Dr.Scott, that is what I called him, not father or dad, just Dr. Scott.  It just seems right somehow.  Dr. Scott looked like what a College Dean should look like.  He had a little mustache, smoked a pipe and wore a hat with a brim almost all the time. 

I was not only getting a new daddy, but I was also getting to go to summer camp way up in New Hampshire. It was a camp for troubled New York City youths and it lasted for the whole summer. I was such a lucky kid.

Mom’s plan, as I understood it, is that Dr.Scott was going to drive my mom and me to New Hampshire to this summer camp owned and operated by Dr. Scott’s rather peculiar sister. They planned to have a small wedding ceremony at the camp.  My brother was going to be staying with our Aunt Eliza for the summer. He never had to do anything he did not want to do. After the wedding,  the newlyweds were going on a summer long honeymoon to who knows where and leave me at the “West Side Story” summer camp.  Oh boy, I could hardly wait...

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Hello Dolly

Hello Dolly

 “Hello Dolly” was stuck in my head.  That song from the old musical had played over and over in my brain for five days now. It was like having the “hic ups” that will not go away. All of a sudden I would find myself humming it or I would start outright singing it as I patrolled. I tried everything to get rid of it. I tried singing a different song to drive it out, but it just would not leave. “How the hell did I know all the words to this damn song?” I am not gay and do not listen to musicals. I can’t remember the last time I actually heard the horrible song.  I figured that it must be a memory from my childhood or something. My mother used to play this kind of music, but I never really paid much attention to it. Maybe it had penetrated into my subconscious mind.

Lately I had been waking up in the middle of the night to find it going through my brain. “Well, Hellooo Dolly, Yes, Hellooo Dolly. It’s so nice to have you back where you belong.” “Oh God, I must be going insane.”

I had begun to notice little things, strange little things. I was in the grocery store couple of days ago, just walking around with the damn song going through my head. I remember I was looking at the cans of sweet baby peas, when an older guy with a white beard strolled by pushing his cart. As he passed I could hear him humming “Hello Dolly” to himself. It freaked me out. Is this the beginning of “The night of the living dead” or something?...

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First Flight

FIRST FLIGHT

I can vividly remember riding along in our ugly brown Buick with my mother. I guess I was about eleven years old. She told me when we left the house that we were on our way to what was going to be a great adventure. She would not even give me a hint as to where we were going, so I was a little dubious as to this being such a wonderful adventure. We rode in silence. I knew better than to ask mom any questions. It’s not that I wasn’t a little curious, but because I was afraid of what the answer might be.  The last time mom and I took off in the car alone on the way to a big adventure; she dropped me off to live with my grandparents for an entire year. My little brother was not along for this adventure, so I definitely had reservations about this being such a good thing.  Little Jimmy not being along was always a bad sign. Jimmy was never excluded from good surprises only from bad ones. I figured she had left little Jimmy with her sister, my aunt Eliza, who loved little Jimmy more than anything else in the world.  Sometimes when it comes to big surprises having a creative artistic mother can be more of a curse than a blessing.

Mom turned our ugly old Buick into the entrance to the airport. We had been to the airport several times in the past to watch airplanes take off and land for entertainment, but that was always at night and this was in broad daylight. As mom found a parking space, she finally told me what the big surprise was.  She leaned toward me with what was supposed to be an excited expression on her face and said, “Billy, I am going to take you on your very first airplane ride.”...

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The Bionic Man

The Bionic Man

Clyde Hall was a small man about five foot five inches in height and weighed in at about ninety pounds, after eating a big meal. He was a mean little bastard. I would call him a career “Wino”.  He had been a “Wino”, living on the streets, for the ten plus years I had known him. What Clyde lacked in size, he more than made up for in mean. Clyde was definitely in the top ten meanest people that I had ever met and I have met a few.  He was on the same level of mean as say “Box Car Ruby” and “Gay Ray Rachel”.  Any one of them would cut you up with a hawk bill knife or razor in a heartbeat, if they got half a chance...

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The Biscuit

 The Biscuit

  

My third shift meal break was scheduled for 3:30 in the morning and I was more than ready for it. It had been an unusually active Wednesday night on the “graveyard shift”, so I hadn’t had time to take a break since it started.  I had been on one stupid call after another all night.  Nothing had been very interesting, just the usual domestic complaints and a couple of fender-bender traffic accidents.

Now it was 3:20AM and I was as hungry as a starving wino. The radio traffic had finally quieted down some, so I headed toward the huddle house on High Point Road to get me a “Big Boy” breakfast.  I groaned aloud as my radio crackled and the dispatcher said, “Car 420, are you near to I-40?”  My stomach wanted me to lie, but my conscience would not let me. Thinking that the dispatcher must be psychic, I pressed the talk button and said, “Car 420, I just drove under I-40 on High Point Road”. After a brief pause, she told me to swing back on I-40 East bound and see if I can find a car off the road in the bushes. It should be between High point Road and Randleman Road.  I acknowledged with the obligatory 10-4 that probably sounded a little grumpy. I get grumpy when I’m hungry...

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