On The Grind

Chapter 10

Haven Park Elementary was a long-abandoned sprawl of one-story stucco buildings badly in need of paint and repair. The exterior walls of the fifties-style structure served as canvas for endless amounts of gang graffiti. The rest of the property, including a half-sized athletic field with a baseball diamond and an old-style bow-truss gymnasium, was enclosed by a rusting chain-link fence.

I walked up to an ancient civil service employee who was sitting by the gated entrance to the school reading a Mexican comic book. "I'm a new police officer. Looking for Arnie Bale," I told him.

"Got some ID?" he asked.

I showed him my driver's license. He wrote my name on a sheet.

"To the right, up the stairs. The equipment building is that one over there that says Tuck the Police' on it."

"Interesting sentiment."

"Taggers. We clean it off. They spray it back on. Entertainment for everybody. Arnie should be inside."

Arnie Bale, when I found him, reminded me of my first junior high school baseball coach. A stringy brown-skinned guy who was all cords and muscles. He had an Adams apple the size of a prune. I couldn't take my eyes off the damn thing when he talked. Up and down, up and down — like a ball on a rubber band.

"You look like about a size forty regular," he said, giving me the once-over.

"Close enough."

"Here's the equipment list." He shoved a printed sheet of blue paper into my hand and said, "We got most of it. Some is out of stock, so check what I can't supply, and I'll reorder. Follow me."

He led me down a narrow hallway, opening one cupboard after another. He gave me a dark blue Haven Park patrol officer's uniform with the Haven Park Police Department seal emblazoned in white and gold on the right shoulder and a half moon patch that said FOREVER VIGILANT on the other. I received a gunbelt, a steel-blue Smith amp; Wesson. 38 with a four-inch barrel and two speed loaders, along with a Maglite, baton and shoulder radio rover. All standard issue. Then Arnie reached into a box and handed me a three-inch-long leather object with a wrist strap.

"What's this?" I asked, looking at the thing, which weighed about two pounds.

"Sap," Arnie said.

"You mean like to hit guys over the head with?"

"Yep."

"I don't think I've seen or heard about a police officer using a sap since the NAACP and the ACLU were formed."

"Yeah, well… I won't tell 'em if you won't."

"I really get to use this?"

"Part of our standard equipment package. Swing it in good health," he joked.

By the time I got to the end of the corridor, I was loaded up with gear. Arnie took me into the old elementary school locker room outfitted with benches that ran in front of rows of battered gray metal lockers. He showed me to an empty one and handed me a combination padlock.

"Set your own combination number. Our roll calls are in the gym. Then we walk the two blocks over to city hall to get our black-and-whites out of the police lot there."

"Okay."

"Put on your uniform. We don't supply shoes, but those you got on look fine. Meet me in my office when you're in harness."

He left me in the locker room. I dressed quickly. It felt a little funny because I hadn't been in street blue, except for police funerals, since I last rode Patrol in L. A. over ten years ago. It felt strange to be harnessing up for a street tour, as if my life hadn't progressed much since those early days on the LAPD. Arnie had a good eye for sizes and everything fit pretty well.

When I finished dressing I found him in an old coach's office located inside a wire cage. He was seated behind a scarred metal desk, and looked up at me as I entered.

"Shit fits you good," he said, proud of his guesses. Then he pulled out a black box from his desk drawer, opened it and handed me two gold metal uniform ornaments.

"Badge and hat piece," he said. "We're outta hats right now 'cause of the Fleetwood expansion. I got more lids coming in. You about a seven and six-eighths?"

"You're pretty good, Arnie."

"Yeah, I rock. Pin that on your shirt. Put the hat piece in your pocket till the new brims come in and get your ass outta here. Your training officer is gonna swing by in twenty minutes to pick you up. You can wait for him by the handball courts out front. Have a good one."

I threaded the badge through the metal eyelets on my uniform shirt and clipped it closed. Number 689. Pinned, tinned and ready to sap Mexicans.

When I went into the Los Angeles Police Academy in Elysian Park, it had taken me eight grueling months to earn my uniform and badge. This was a joke.

I exited the gymnasium and found the handball courts. There was an old wooden bench under a leafless elm, so I sat in the meager shade from the dying tree and waited. I wasn't sure exactly what to expect, so I decided to follow the advice on my left shoulder and be forever vigilant.