Dinner with the parents, sex with Jen, then start on the second course (Procedures of the Justice System) which is done before lunch the next Thursday, including time for run and shower. A big 98 on this exam, and I am halfway done on my eighth day. I have a thought that maybe they track when and where you go through the stuff, and it might look like I am letting the videos run while I'm asleep, but no LAPD version of Fog Dude has appeared to question me or my methods.
Spend Friday in a blizzard flying to Denver, scared that I might get snowed in at Denver International and miss my first day of hands on training, but it works out, and I am at the LAPD facility on Manchester bright and early, 8 a.m., Saturday morning.
There are 12 people in my class, seven of whom are retired police from somewhere else, four ex-military. I am the sheep in the wolf pack, the butt of jokes from the second I first open my mouth. We spend the morning discussing the role of police in society with Captain Armstrong, have cheap sandwiches for lunch, and then change into LAPD t shirts and shorts we are provided. I take those to be the consolation prize for people who wash out.
Four training days, each afternoon spent learning self defense and non-lethal weapons training. The syllabus I read last night says we get to learn techniques at the "non-lethal end" of the department's use of force list, no firearms or hidden inner light training.
The training room is just a big open space, burnt orange walls with some red striping, the floor padded and covered in fake leather, lots of windows up high providing natural light. There are 12 people standing in the room when we get there, dressed as we are, 11 male officers of various shapes, sizes, and ages, and one young female officer, black hair tied tight behind her head, cute. We stand like we're at a junior high dance, the 12 of us against one wall, the 12 of them on the other.
Just as I begin to think it's a rumble, Captain Armstrong and another man, both dressed like the rest of us, come walking in.
"I'm Sergeant Lopez, but you can call me ‘Lope'," he starts while walking into the center of the room. "These 12," he is now centered between us, looking at the trainees, but pointing at the far wall, "will eventually be paired with each of you as your first on duty assignments. They get to pick based on their seniority. Your job is to impress them. The better you do your job, the more interesting job you will get when you're done here." Incentives. I like it.
They introduce themselves. The first four are homicide detectives, the next three narcotics, three more in robbery, one in SWAT, and the young woman patrols the exciting corridors of Los Angeles International Airport. I want, I need, the first seven guys. All I have to do is pound on the old guys in our group, and I should be a shoo-in.
Lope is shorter than me, but wider with arms twice the circumference of mine. He announces that we are starting with holds, ways to control another person without hurting them. He, of course, points at me, and wiggles a finger. I walk over and he motions for me to turn around. He explains a hold, using me as the crash test dummy, then pairs us up with a veteran officer each, and announces that they will put us in the hold, and we should try to escape.
One of the narcotics detectives locks me, and I can't get away. The two ex-special forces guys do, but they are the only ones, and one of them broke away from a woman half his size. Now it's our turn, and we do a decent job of locking the trainers, though I'm pretty sure an actual bad guy would have tried harder. We keep on with various holds for an hour, and then we turn to some basic self-defense.
Escaping an assailant comes first. My narcotics detective makes a comment about my needing a jet to get away from him, I say something stupid about donuts, he grabs me from behind, and I manage to flip him over on his back. My guess is he is not going to pick me. We repeat the process without the remarks, and he ends up on his back a second time.
We work for two more hours, I more than keep up my end. I handle the instructors, and out distance the older guys in the group. Everything's good, except my detective friend won't let it go. The last drill is another hold. He says something to his narc buddies, then comes over to be my partner without being assigned. I reach for the hold, but he ducks my arms, comes up hard with an elbow to my eye, and spins me to the floor. Twenty two people are laughing at me, all except Lope, the airport chick, and the Captain.
I can feel my eye swelling already. I put my hand over it, and nod to Lope, who jerks his head toward the bathroom. It's a one person operation, a sink and toilet only, with a lock. Perfect. I lock the door, reach inside myself, and just as I flip the light switch with my hand, I speak a magic word, "asshole." The light from me and the light from the fluorescent mix, hiding anything that might escape under the door. He is there, perfect black eyes staring into the mirror. I wait as long as I think is normal, then squeeze the light, and walk as myself back into the training room. My eye feels fine.
"Gonna have a nice shiner tomorrow," my former partner jokes.
"Still gonna be better looking than you." Should have kept my mouth shut, but don't really know how.
Armstrong sends us home.
I do something I haven't done in a couple weeks, drive down to Anaheim after dark and fly my course through downtown, then out into the desert, back over the hill to Magic Mountain, and then over the valley and out into the Pacific. Running works, but flying is way better. I center myself, thinking about nothing, not quite perfect because I get that "I'm watching you" feeling in downtown, and it stays with me through much of the flight. Fog Dude has got to let it go.
The morning of day 2 is a staged crime scene, and we work with real investigators to gather fake evidence. This should be a ride at Disneyland, people would pay a lot of money to spend time with these guys, learning technique and listening to stories.
The afternoon turns into beat on Simon, only this time it's physical, not verbal. My buddy is pissed that I show no sign of our physical encounter yesterday, and goes out of his way to change that, including a baton to the arm when Lope isn't looking and Armstrong is out of the room. The other trainees figure out that they can go harder on me than on each other too, and I have to make two trips to the men's room to fix myself up.
When we're done, I take myself out for Sunday dinner at the Fish House by home, then settle in to start on course number three (Criminal Investigations), which turns out to be easy after this morning's exercise. Thursday I'm scoring 100 on my exam, and deciding not to start right away on class number four, just enjoy tomorrow's trip to Kona.
I start the final course (Patrol Procedure and Community Relations) when I get back, and even with a lot of Jen time, I complete that test (disappointing 99) Thursday morning. My 10 to 12 day estimate turned into 21, but after this weekend, I will have completed all my requirements.
Saturday morning we do a fake crime scene on our own, with the real technician shadowing and grading us. Saturday afternoon is beat on Simon, part 3, with two robbery detectives pretending that somehow I was holding a knife with my eye, not my hand. Doesn't matter, because I can deal with the damage, and I am, at least in my mind, holding my own with everyone but the two special forces guys and Lope, including the former police officers, who perhaps have been off the street too long (or not on it long enough).
I've been careful not to make any more donut jokes, but I don't think I've managed to mend any fences. I have to hope one of the homicide detectives likes me, because there is no chance I'm going to narcotics or robbery, though maybe it would help if I would just let them blacken my eye.
The last morning of training is role playing, from witness interviews to confronting a domestic violence offender. Then it's off to part four of beat on Simon, which is a test on everything we've supposedly learned. I've learned that the bathroom is my best friend, in addition to a number of techniques I hope to be applying in the near future. The useful information I've learned in the past three weeks is beyond what I thought was possible, but the psych eval analysis is also correct. I don't know what I'm going to do with it, or what my long term plan is. So I'm relying on Captain Amos: start small, have patience. I refuse to call myself grasshopper.
Armstrong eventually dismisses the trainers, leaving him alone with the 12 of us. No pep talk, no fakery, just the straight truth. I like that.
"You've all passed. The officers will pair up with you tonight. When you finish your course work, we'll bring you back in and get you out on assignment. Whatever that is, you have to put in 200 hours before you can ask for a transfer, so grin and bear it if it's unbearable. See you all soon." And, with that, he left us.
The retired police officers head off for celebration dinner, as do the ex-military men. None of them invite the pilot. He doesn't care. I head home, happy with what I've accomplished. Jen is waiting inside my apartment, naked, holding a graduation cake. I definitely made the right decision not to try and get a dinner invite with the other trainees. How cool is it that she thinks it's stupid, and still supports me?
Next morning Ms. Mankat, who's dressed in an Indian outfit for Halloween (the day, not my cat) that makes her look stunning, demands a synopsis of my accomplishments, and she seems suitably impressed that I finished everything so quickly (the training that is, not my sex with Jen). In fact, I skip the part with the naked girlfriend.
Matt is my captain today, and he gets a mouthed "fuck you" out of Taylor when he walks away after trying to say good morning to her. I give her a smile, a brief laugh, and a compliment on her outfit.
We head on out to the gate, Matt goes to get an orange juice, I stop into the LAPD office, intent on gloating. The sergeant who tried to talk me out of joining is not there, another one is. His eyes narrow when he sees me.
"You're the pilot who finished the reserve program in record time." I just nod in response. "I've heard a lot about you. Hope we get the chance to work together. Sam Johnson." He offers me his hand, and I shake it best I can.
"Simon Packer. Thanks. I'm off to Hawai'i, just decided to stick my head in and say hello." My reply is not what I'm thinking, but I'm not sure what I'm thinking. How does he know a lot about me? Did they keep the officer who gave me the forms informed, even though I mailed them in? Curious. Not likely we'd work together, unless we got assigned the same holiday duty.
He laughs. "If you don't want the entire LAPD asking you for favors, I'd keep that Hawai'i stuff under my hat."
"Thanks for the advice." I give him another nod, and back out of the room. Matt is waiting for me with an OJ (no LAPD reference there, is there? OJ...), and we head off to our gate.
"You really join the police?" Matt's voice is intense.
"Yeah. I know everyone seems to think it's crazy." Matt apparently doesn't, because he's slapping my back.
"Pilot and police officer? The chicks are going to be lining up. Made me think about signing up."
"Not why I did it." We've reached the gate, and fortunately have to go our separate ways. The walk around is bad, the wind is howling, and it's started to rain, but it's still better than hanging with him.
Take off is normal, but the weather remains stormy, and traffic is heavy, so we spend an intense first half hour fighting through and around the storm clouds, while obeying various ATC commands for different altitudes and directions than we normally fly. Finally, we get far enough off the coast, and high enough up that we can relax, though it's bumpy enough we leave the seatbelt sign on.
Matt gives me a blow by blow of the date for the next hour, which almost did come to blows. I'd throw him out of the window, but that might damage the aircraft. I envy where his hands have been, but how they got there is beyond belief. Truly deserves more than a "fuck you," yet the only thing that seems to bother him is not getting further.
The last three hours are smooth, as is my landing. All the flying with Captain Amos has had a positive effect on me in more ways than one. A year ago they changed the dispatch system, giving the first officers like me a standardized schedule, and keeping us with a small number of captains, rather than rotating us with everyone. It's been both the best of times, and the worst.
In Kona, I turn down Matt's offer to go snorkeling, and instead head off to golf with a couple flight attendants who have been taking lessons from Captain Amos. At least half the Kona flight crews have been golfing with him, and God knows what else. That old fart stills has a trick or two up his sleeve with women. Who knew?
As we get back into Kona town, my cel phone rings my new ring tone. "Look, up in the sky, it's a bird, it's a plane, it's a frog." It's Armstrong's office, wanting to set up an appointment ASAP, and we work out a first thing Wednesday meeting. I should have told them I'd be there in 30 minutes, after all, it's only 2,500 miles.
The whole crew goes to a Halloween luau at the Sheraton, and swim with the manta rays. Despite my suggestions, none of them eats Matt (I mean the manta rays). After midnight, checking first to be sure no pain in the ass old people are watching, I come back over and really swim with the rays. They don't seem to mind, and show me a few sights off shore.
