Jimmy was in a bad mood. I could tell someone was going to get their ass handed to them tonight. They’ll land up in Bellevue Hospital.....turbanized, you know, with their head wrapped up, punjab style. Who needs the aggravation? Who needs the paperwork?
This was our fourth midnight tour. The street scum have been getting more and more on Jimmy’s nerves. They’ve become increasingly ballsy since David Dinkins was elected Mayor of New York City.
“The City is going to shit!” When Jimmy goes on a rant like that I just laugh and sing “Come to New York and....Sink....with the Dink.” Jimmy does not laugh, he just hits me in my upper left arm with his heavy St. Joseph's college ring and calls me a dumb wop spaghetti bender. My wife continually asks me, “where do you get those bruises?”
She has stopped asking.
It seems the newly promoted asshole sergeant likes to pick on female cops. The word is he might be a colon cadet, who knows? Most midnight sergeants take the best looking available female cops as their drivers. Mr. Perfectly Pressed Uniform does not. He takes the spit shined young and muscular male rookies as drivers. Mr. Patrol Guide also avoids the Korean Whorehouse on Lexington Avenue like some poor flea bitten dog. The sergeants own retreat, no cops allowed anywhere near that place, only Sergeants!
What’s up with that, anyway?
So this hammerhead sergeant puts this cute broad rookie cop we don’t know on the East Fourteenth Street Midnight Foot Post. It’s drug city over there, about thirty mopes constantly hanging out doing stupid shit. There’s a pervert movie theater smack in the middle boasting sticky semen floors. Not to mention the other assorted questionable activities and locations abound therein.
We pull up and get her in the RMP. She says that this numb nuts sergeant told her he’ll be back in an hour and she had better clean up her post; he knowing she’ll have a hard time doing it, if she can at all.
It looks like she’s been crying.
“A CRYING COP!! JESUS CHRIST!!!!!”, Jimmy murmurs. I could see steam coming out his ears.
She IS crying. Tears running down her perfectly soft ebony skinned high cheekbones, her luscious lips quivering as the streetlight sparkled off the new shiny collar brass “13”s on her uniform. (But, no food stains on her tie yet.)
Every guy in the command will be trying to bruise that fine muffin before the donut spread hits her ass.
She is a lovely looking Ubangtress.
I tell her not to worry. We then get out of the RMP, she remains in the back seat, and we chase most of the skells away. We leave two harmless homeless guys and tell them they are deputized. They are assigned to keep the other skells off East Fourteenth Street as long as this broad cop is there. They are to tell all the other skells Lowlife will kick their asses for non-compliance.
Lowlife.....That’s us, we’re known on the police radio and on the street collectively as Lowlife.
Everyone knows us and hardly anybody fucks with us.
“We Lowlife” (in Eubonics grammar), As I usually say to perps who are unknowingly feisty. Then, all of the sudden, they amazingly fall in line, fearing for their own self preservation, when they realize who we are. If not, they immediately find out, usually the hard way. When I'm in a good mood, sometimes I ask if they have dental coverage, by then they usually figure out what is happening.
The sergeant returns later to find an uncharacteristically empty East Fourteenth Street. She salutes and tells him the conditions on her post have been corrected. He is amazed he can’t chew her out or write her up.
Jimmy says, “fuck him where he breathes, he’d probably like that anyway, that rectal ranger” Jimmy’s hoping the broad cop will let him do the same to her after work. If he succeeds, upon total erection before oral penetration I think she’ll just laugh, Jimmy being a victim of the Irish Curse. "Pequano Pinga" en Espanol, if you know what I mean. She's probably accustomed to a more ample portion of dick meat than Jimmy can deliver.
I now am concerned Jimmy needs something funny to lighten him up. He takes this cop shit too seriously. Anyway, as usual, he has to take his long, nice, healthy mid-tour dump. He prefers the bathroom at the Gramercy Park Hotel. This gives me time to contemplate a plan, a...street scenario. Jimmy can also settle down, and...take a load off his mind, so to speak.
As I sit in the Gramercy Park Hotel chef’s pantry eating an exquisitely rare prime roast beef sandwich, on warmed, but not toasted, french baguette with freshly made russian dressing, fresh cut hot and salty french fries along with an ice cold chocolate egg cream, all on the arm, of course, my Machiavellian mind now is engaged. How can I involve our bone smuggling sergeant, unknowingly, in an ethereal street kabuki while simultaneously ameliorating Jimmy’s angst?
So this is my plan: There’s a bunch of skievy hookers and assorted skells hanging out in Union Square Park by the fountain. I want to go there and mark their palms with a thick red magic marker (after giving them a quick toss.) Then tell them if and when later, other cops approach, they are to immediately show those cops their marked red palms. Naturally, we tell them they won’t be bothered anymore because they’ve already been “checked” by the police.
As we decide to implement said plan, Jimmy tells me "You're fuckin' crazy."
Well, maybe.....a little bit. I prefer creative. It’s kind of like again being the conceptional video and live performance artist I was in college. All the street is a stage, and all the skells merely players (Paraphrasing William Shakespeare).
We reconnoiter the park and get a hooker to phone over a bullshit drunk and disorderly job when all the other sectors are busy so the sergeant will be assigned to respond to the park.
Jimmy, looking through binoculars, is laughing his balls off as the sergeant gets out of his RMP. The hookers and skells immediately and eagerly surround him to proudly display their red marked palms.
The sergeant is agape and looks a bit pissed.
Fuck him. " I guess he got no sense of humor," Jimmy says.
Well, it’s almost time to go EOT (End of Tour), and I’m glad Jimmy has not tuned up some asshole tonight and we’ve avoided Bellevue Hospital. As we take a slow mope back to the station house, we see a twenty something year old male and female couple of the Caucasian persuasion in a heated discussion on the empty early morning street. The female franticly waves to us as she breaks from his grip.
This guy turns to the RMP and yells “FUCK YOU!!!!!” as the female runs away into the dark.
Jimmy stops the RMP, we get out, and approach this guy. Jimmy says sincerely, in a shockingly professional manner, mind you, “Excuse me sir, can we help you?”
This guy is a bit intoxicated. “Us Jersey guys ain’t afraid of you fuckin’ New York City cops, I can kick both your asses!”
We’ve heard it hundreds of times before from the New Jersey contingent of Bozos that descend on NYC. No big deal, it’s the beer balls talking. We always let them get it all out so they can walk away with their pride. No harm, no foul.
This ain’t no popularity contest.
Anyway, everyone hates cops. If you can't hate us, then who?
The Bozo gets right up in Jimmy’s face and yells “FUCK YOU!!!!” as he raises his hands to hit Jimmy.
I’ve seen this many times before with Jimmy, so I immediately say what I usually say: ”Uh,oh, I think you’re about to experience po-lice brutality first hand.”
I like the urban sound of po-lice .
The guy swings, he misses, and calmly Jimmy slams him strategically once with his lead filled slapper, as to avoid any blood or bruises. The Bozo goes right down, like a ten dollar hooker giving head.
I then fist pump, laugh and yell “BRUCE!!!!”
We leave Mr. Springsteen crying, after placing him sitting ass down in a trash basket, legs over one side arms over the other for his comfort. It is our responsibility to put white trash in its proper place. You know what they say, “A Cleaner New York is up to YOU!”
Bruce can sleep it off and reunite with his Jersey Miss when they figure out where their car is parked, if it hasn't already been towed.
I’m so proud of Jimmy’s self control, politely hitting Bruce only once and not out of rage or anger, but in response to attempted assault. I believe my Union Square Park intervention was responsible for Jimmy's restrained behavior.
I mentioned to Jimmy as we got out of the bag in the locker room that “he done a good deed tonight with Bruce Springsteen.” I told him I believe he’s learning not to take this cop shit so seriously. “We’re here to protect and serve while having fun in the greatest city in the world.” Then I laughingly broke out into singing “I Love New York.”
Jimmy unintelligently grumbled something allegedly funny and/or insulting about my wop mother and her hairy armpits, (stupidly forgetting my mom was Jewish and my dad was the spaghetti bender.) Stereotypical Shanty Irish Fuck that he is.
"That's it? You got no sense of humor, shit for brains," I Laughingly said.
Jimmy grumbled again and automatically punched me in the usual place with his St. Joseph's college ring. He then hurriedly left the locker room to intercept the Ubangtress cop, hoping for some quick morning pipeski.
Jimmy's luck, she’s probably a dyke.
Frankie Neptune observed the transition of his city from its past wild days in the later part of the last century to the present sterile bubble that is now New York City. His insights from over twenty years as a NYC Police Officer share a rather uniquely twisted view.
Visit his website to read more at www.notpcfiction.com