On The Beat
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In the Fields Where We Dance |
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Written by Alex Teach
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Tuesday, 11 November 2008 22:27 |
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I backed my car up to the fence, so that I could jump over it from the top of the trunk.
I was standing there silently when I saw a white hat and a flash of blue shirt. He hadn’t seen me, because he was still piling up the equipment he would soon attempt to get over the same fence. He passed out of view; I gave him a moment, and scaled my car. I was no slender reed, but I also had no impulse control outside of a hunter’s basic instincts. I leapt, and hit the ground with one hand down.
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Youth and Energy v. Age and WIsdom |
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Written by Alex Teach
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Wednesday, 05 November 2008 14:19 |
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 I was running around the corner, being careful not to slide in the gravel as I went from paved sidewalk to graveled alleyway. Boots may appear universal in their applications, but running is clearly not one of those applications, and polyester is no more impressive a fashion statement than it is protection when grinding sideways against the ground. I wanted the arrest, but not the road rash that would go with it if I pushed my luck. I had time.
Street-level drug dealers are only a symptom of quality of life issues I prefer to address directly, rather than chasing every little pill pusher in sight, only to have him released before my shift ends. I have no desire to pursue them on foot any more than I wish to reduce my carbon footprint by selling my car and cycling to work, but Mr. Patten had been leaning into a car window this breezy summer evening dispensing narcotics to its driver when I cruised past. We had made eye contact as I witnessed the transaction. This wasn’t my “thing”, but when you do it in front of me? Well. There are Rules.
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Five Minutes: A Desk Job In East Chattanooga |
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Written by Alex Teach
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Wednesday, 29 October 2008 19:00 |
Finding beauty in a simple, small bullet
I sat down hard in the chair and reached up to pull the radio mic off my shoulder, dropping it on the desk in front of me. I logged into the network, and while Windows loaded, I reached below the buttons of my shirt and pulled the hidden zipper down and slipped the uniform shirt off, draping it around the back of my chair. I was finally able to pull the Velcro straps off my armor off with a sharp rip, and the instant relief was countered by the corpse-like smell it had concealed. There has never been any comparable sensation in going from the hot tightly-wrapped confines of Kevlar to the release of pressure and sensation of cool air on once hidden skin…better than the shock of cold beer on a sweltering day, or a blast of heat from a car’s dashboard vents on a cold day.
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The Healing Power of Whiskey & Ceiling Fans |
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Written by Alex Teach
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Wednesday, 22 October 2008 19:26 |
Whatever gets you through the night
They say time heals all wounds. In my experience, the only thing that has ever consistently “healed all wounds” is a stiff shot of bourbon, but perhaps that was just the broken part of me speaking. I assumed it was broken, anyway. At least some part of me still talked, and who was I to cast off its judgment?
I lay on my bed, one hand behind my head, the other resting on my chest, holding a cigarette with an inch of ash that was more anxious to fall than I was to consider sitting up. It was hot, the ceiling fan toiled ceaselessly, and I was grateful for it and the shadows it cast from the parking lot lights outside my apartment. I did my best thinking under a ceiling fan, and alternately, I did my best not to think at all the same way. The bourbon was within reach, and all was as well as it ever was.
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Everything That Is Wrong, Is Wrong With You |
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Written by Alex Teach
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Wednesday, 15 October 2008 19:40 |
A good car chase makes the man—doesn’t it?
 I was confused. I’d left my rookie somewhere between disjointed and unhinged, but I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why. He was quiet, sure, but his hands were shaking and his lips and eyes were curved upward in fright and disgust. He couldn’t lose the expression to save his life. Sweet God, it was a happy moment, a moment of victory, but he was sitting there like a cheap fright mask on a post-Halloween sale shelf. What was the matter with him? He should be exuberant!
Just moments before we were cresting a hill on Interstate 75 on the inside of a 160-degree curve chasing a drunk at what I felt was a moderate 95 miles per hour. Sure, we drifted a bit…but we hadn’t wrecked or anything, had we? I had things completely under control.
The suspect had been on an alcohol-and-theft-fuelled mission from an apartment complex near Lee Highway, where we’d interrupted him. He fled like a rat in a tampon factory. This was not unusual in the wee dark hours, but this time, a small gas grill tumbled from the rear window of his sedan, nearly striking my car, and I’d become incensed. Business was business, sure, but he’d thrown a perfectly good stainless-steel grill at my car, and there were Rules. My knuckles gripped the wheel tightly and my brow furrowed, because now…it was on.
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