I was working in a bomb shelter, four floors underground. That was the hub of the Los Angeles Police Department communications center.
On this particular day, I was assigned to Foothill Division. A call for an additional officer came in as a psycho had barricaded himself in his home. According to his wife, he was unarmed.
Then came a call for backup, then a call for a police sergeant. I relayed all messages according to policy.
The next call was, "Shots fired. Officer down." Two cops had taken lead .
I guess it was three or four days later that I was told that there would be a meeting for all communications personnel involved in the shooting. "For what?" I asked.
I was informed that these meetings were standard operating policy - and mandatory.
So I end up in a "get in touch with your feelings" group of women. I didn't want to be there. I never seem to do well in those kind of settings.
There was a brief introduction, then each of us was supposed to talk about how this shooting had been a tramatic experience for us or some such shit. Unfortunately, I had picked the seat at the front of the room on the right side of the circle. I got to go first.
"Early in life, I chose to major in Business Administration rather than become a prize fighter. I didn't want to get my brains knocked out for a living. When I went into the army, I refused an offer to become a helicopter pilot. Hellicopter pilots had a life expectancy of three missions in Vietnam. I drive a car to work instead of riding a motorcycle because I know that the odds on getting here alive are better in a car.
These officers are adults and every day they are faced with a decision - hand in the badge and gun or roll the dice one more time and collect a paycheck at the end of the week.
It wasn't my fault they got shot. Hey, I sympathize with them. I feel bad for their families. But they're big boys and they knew the risks when the chose this career. I wish them a speedy recovery."
Next person to speak was Elizabeth M., an eleven year veteran of the department. First thing out of her mouth was, "I'm offended by what Chris just said."
Oh Jesus! Why did I ever think that I would make it through this day without getting beat up? Elizabeth went on for four or five minutes about what an insensitive piece of garbage I was.
Mary was the next to share. "I agree with Chris."
Then Karla. "I think Chris makes a lot of sense."
Then Karen backed me up and Elizabeth knew that she was outnumbered. Nobody actually told her that she was a rude and ignorant bitch, but I think she got the message.
Two weeks later, I quit my job.
