PapaRomantic
Writing away...
- Joined
- Oct 1, 2016
- Posts
- 7,589
It was 6:15 p.m. as I backed my police cruiser out of the driveway. It wasn’t how I wanted to spend my day off, but at this stage in the game, I really had no choice. I knew that nobody ever went into police work for the salary. It was to answer a call, to fill a need – a need the community had for men and women like me; a need seated deep inside of me to protect and serve – the motto of my department and many others.
Except today’s work wasn’t on the schedule. It was one of those private gigs we officers have to pick up from time to time to help make ends meet. I knew that with the events in my life of the past few months, there would more than likely be many more of these private security evenings on my schedule. Living on a cop’s salary was tough on its’ own. Having to pay child support and alimony was making it nearly impossible just to survive.
I checked the assignment details again – a brand new art gallery downtown was having its grand opening. The last name of the owner was one I recognized – everyone knew that family as the one having the most “old money” in town. I knew exactly what tonight would be like – rich people fawning over each other, dressed to the nines, looking at art they really didn’t want, and all because of who the owner of the gallery was – well actually, who the owner’s parents were. My job would be to protect the wealthy people first, and the actual art second. And as I did my job, not one person would notice me, or acknowledge me, or thank me for my service. I would be no more than a fixture in the room, a necessary presence in a world that didn’t really want me there.
I sighed as I pulled onto the on-ramp for the beltway. The routine was always the same – meet with the owner 90 minutes before the gallery opened; examine the building, learning the entrances and exits, and identifying potential problem areas should someone be there that wasn’t invited. The net worth of the visitors in this new gallery this evening would combine to a number in the billions. That fact alone meant I could not treat this job lightly.
But another reason I needed to treat this job with diligence was the fact that I still had to take care of my own two kids – Susie was 9, and Joey was 7. Even though I don’t live with them, I still love them, of course, and I’m willing to work otherwise detestable jobs like this in order to continue to provide for their needs, even if that means working on days off. It was their happy faces that made it possible for me to survive evenings like the one coming up.
Two miles away from the downtown exit, my cell phone rang. It was Kristy, my now ex-wife, with her nightly call, pleading for me to come back to her. I could hear it now – “Joe, honey, please – I know we can work this out! I need you – the kids need you – can we at least get together and talk?” I wish we could work it out, to tell the truth, but that would mean me not being honest with myself. If my job as a cop required honesty, then my relationship required it as well….
Except today’s work wasn’t on the schedule. It was one of those private gigs we officers have to pick up from time to time to help make ends meet. I knew that with the events in my life of the past few months, there would more than likely be many more of these private security evenings on my schedule. Living on a cop’s salary was tough on its’ own. Having to pay child support and alimony was making it nearly impossible just to survive.
I checked the assignment details again – a brand new art gallery downtown was having its grand opening. The last name of the owner was one I recognized – everyone knew that family as the one having the most “old money” in town. I knew exactly what tonight would be like – rich people fawning over each other, dressed to the nines, looking at art they really didn’t want, and all because of who the owner of the gallery was – well actually, who the owner’s parents were. My job would be to protect the wealthy people first, and the actual art second. And as I did my job, not one person would notice me, or acknowledge me, or thank me for my service. I would be no more than a fixture in the room, a necessary presence in a world that didn’t really want me there.
I sighed as I pulled onto the on-ramp for the beltway. The routine was always the same – meet with the owner 90 minutes before the gallery opened; examine the building, learning the entrances and exits, and identifying potential problem areas should someone be there that wasn’t invited. The net worth of the visitors in this new gallery this evening would combine to a number in the billions. That fact alone meant I could not treat this job lightly.
But another reason I needed to treat this job with diligence was the fact that I still had to take care of my own two kids – Susie was 9, and Joey was 7. Even though I don’t live with them, I still love them, of course, and I’m willing to work otherwise detestable jobs like this in order to continue to provide for their needs, even if that means working on days off. It was their happy faces that made it possible for me to survive evenings like the one coming up.
Two miles away from the downtown exit, my cell phone rang. It was Kristy, my now ex-wife, with her nightly call, pleading for me to come back to her. I could hear it now – “Joe, honey, please – I know we can work this out! I need you – the kids need you – can we at least get together and talk?” I wish we could work it out, to tell the truth, but that would mean me not being honest with myself. If my job as a cop required honesty, then my relationship required it as well….