Things get narrow. And as my denial system is similar to a force of nature, I start to believe my own shit. Bad idea, each and every time.
I start to think that maybe this new profession was a way of 'giving back' to a community I more or less turned my back on. For all the foul shit I had done, this was a way of measuring out the scales.
Water seeks it's own level, too. I made arrests and felt fraudulant. I knew I was playing 'cop', and I seriously did not want any one getting injured, especially me. So I made up for the fear with going the other way.
They needed a 'first in', going into a potentially hostile room? I'm you're boy. First to arrive on scene. Ditto.
Took a first responder hostage negotiations course. Language. All about the relationship of the language to the given situation. Want to de-escalate, not kick it into an accidental blood bath, with a poorly phrased request.
I slammed it into overdrive. Full time 9-5 at the DA's office, eighteen hours a week on armed patrol, another twenty at a security job and early morning college classes downtown.
My plate was full. (As my last publisher so eloquently put it; "Get a bigger plate.")
The sleep was managed with a very strict, (fast) sleep schedule, to fit the whole thing into someone else's workweek.
Average Wednesday morning: Parking my car a couple blocks away from my class downtown. It's early, no one's out yet. I was the only one on the lot. Book bag, with .38, on the seat next to me; one foot out the drivers door, turning off the radio.
I turn to my left and meet a 9mm pressed against my temple.
The morning just got real...
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