She's Havin' Second Thoughts - Again

Two months into the job and I was beginning to blend in real well with the vermin of the drug trade. I had the obligatory goatee and the hair was growing at record pace - beginning to flip up in the back, the old "DA" look. It was great. I could get up in the morning and not have to worry about what to wear. I had already stocked my locker with "throw down" clothes, extra shirts, jeans, boots, and just general stuff that I didn't wear off duty anymore. I never really trashed out, but I wasn't clean cut anymore, and I knew I was morphing into the culture by the way I was being received in public. I started noticing the extra "browsers" in department stores. Salespeople went to of their way to "help you find anything." I always spotted the "theft prevention" folks, the ones pretending to shop for everything that I was looking at too. So, while missing the unspoken respect of the general public, I knew I was finally achieving the look of a "scrote bag"; the endearing, affectionate term used by local law enforcement when describing a shit head. The sack of the scrotum - the neighbor of the sphincter. You get the idea...

I was in the office researching Poison's background a few days after the buy at the bar. I had identified her based on her association with Terry. "April"(real name) came from a very respectable family in the same town I lived in, as a matter of fact, her parents lived just three blocks from my house. April's father was a member of the Lion's Club and the Noon Optimist's Club, among other associations, plus, he was a succesfull business owner and avid supporter of the Police Department.

I was immersed in the computer screen when my attention was suddenly shattered by the vibration of the Motorola pager on my hip. Fresh batteries were a bitch! I saw the "code" to "call home asap." It had to be something; the Falconette was great about not paging me for "a loaf bread" and random menial stuff. I called the house and was promptly informed that my pre-schooler's teacher had called. "Mrs. McAnally said YOUR daughter is tackling the boys on the playground and calling them 'dirt bags'!" Falconette was pissed! "I've told you before; she hears every word you say and she loves to mimic you!" I had already been chastised before for taking my shirt off outside and spitting snuff in the flower beds. I didn't help matters any when I covered the phone to tell Thunder that everything was OK, that the page was just to tell me that my kid was "busting" her friends on the playground. "I'm sorry honey. Ahem. So... what did Mrs. Mac say?" I tried my best to be serious, but I kept picturing my kid in her tidy school clothes, throwing "little Johnny" to the ground and dropping a knee in his back. "She also said that YOUR daughter called Preston a scrote, and that when she asked YOUR daughter what she was doing, she said: "That's what my daddy does. He kicks the door to people's houses, and he goes in and takes their TVs and VCRs, and sometimes he goes to jail!"

I was in sheep dip; but somewhere along the way, I missed the part where I had become a single parent. Falconette was not happy, and she had started to cry; not a sad cry, but a mad, hurt, "I can't believe you've done this to me" kind of cry. She was pissed to the highest level of "pisstivity". "It's not that big of a deal!," I pitched a half-argued point, "Why are you so mad?" That's when the Falconette went off like Mt. St. Helens, "They think you're a fuckin' burglar! They're calling the Police!" Ouch! Falconette had used the "F" word. She hated that word, and anyone that used it in her presence. "Call 'em back and tell 'em I'm coming up there," I said, "I'll explain it to the staff and tell them that she's only playing out what she's heard me talk about when I come home. I'm gonna have to tell 'em all about the search warrants, busts and stuff, and hope they can relate." I dreaded going to the school and having to dumb-down the aspects of the job to present it in a politically correct manner that the staff would understand. "Well, you better hurry; they have her in the office and their bound to be asking her a million questions!" I wasn't laughing any more. "Hey," I said, defending myself and the little one, "she's just doing what she's been told. When I took the narc assignment we both told her she couldn't tell anyone that he her dad was policeman." Falconette responded with a shot to the gut, "Well... I'm not so sure I like your new job anymore..."

I arrived at the school less than five minutes after the phone call. I saw the School Resource Officer parking his car in the fire lane and walking to the main entrance. He had a designated parking space at the school, so I figured he would be leaving soon. I waited in my car for a few minutes because I didn't feel like explaining the whole thing to him and I didn't want to put him in the position of having to act like he didn't know me. Several more minutes passed but the officer was still inside the building, so I decided to go in to see what kind of reception "the burglar" was going to receive. I walked into the school office and saw the officer casually leaning in the principal's doorway. He turned when he heard me ask for Mrs. McAnally, and when he saw who the visitor was, he busted out laughing. "Oh no - it's you! Mr. P, you don't need me here - you're in good hands with this guy." The SRO and I exchanged jabs and he briefly explained that he had been called to the school to ID a real "crook". "They said a kid's dad was coming and that he sounded like he might be trouble. I'm glad it's only you... have fun explaining that to these people."

Mr. "P" came out of his office to meet me. I showed him my creds and gave him a brief run down of my assignment. Mr. P was relieved to hear my explanation but he was particularly interested in knowing why I went to jail all the time. "I sometimes go to jail along with the scro, uh, the defendants in an attempt to help protect my cover." He promised to tell only those that needed to know. He invited me into his office and that's when I saw the future - my kid. She was sitting on a padded bench with her feet swinging back and forth - dangling well above the floor. She was immersed in a "Dr. Suess" book and she wasn't at all bothered by all of the grown up stuff taking place outside. She didn't look up until she heard my voice; "Hey Punkin - you OK?" "DAAAAA-DEEEEEEEE! Look, Mr. P! It's my DAD!"

Ask me again why I do what I do.