Friday, July 6, 2012


There's a whole lot of fighting that goes on where my husband is assigned; for those of you that are not assigned to urban areas, or some who mostly do highway patrol, you might be surprised to hear that my husband gets into a hands-on fight with people on a semi-regular basis.
It's the South Bronx, people.
Sometimes it's because the people he interacts with are emotionally disturbed (EDP's) and sometimes it's because they are hopped up on drugs. More often than not, it's a little bit of each. And the goal of the police is not to shoot someone. (Note to NYC newspapers: the NYPD does not actually WANT to shoot people!) The cops on the ground are expected to use whatever is in their arsenal: their wits, their fists, martial arts training, trickery, Mace, their get the picture.
This week has been nuts. Blame it on the heat. Blame it on the al-al-al-al-al-alcohol. Either way, this is the comment I heard at the end of tour last night:
"I feel like an American Gladiator!"
And after I laughed, I felt bad for him. He was drenched in sweat, his clothes were torn, and he had a bruise on his arm. And this, dear friends, is a typical Thursday.

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