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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