NEWSLETTER

Illustration by Christy Karacas

Police Academy Was a Fucking Blast!

The academy was great. From day one, I was laughing my ass off.

Before I went in, I didn’t really know any cops so I had no idea what to expect. I was 25, so I was a little bit older. I’d been living in my car at one point, because I’d been married once before and got divorced. Times were tough. So I think I appreciated having a job and benefits and everything more than some others.

The general atmosphere was paramilitary. In the hallways, you do what everyone calls “playing the game.” You act super professional. When you get into a classroom and the doors are shut, things get a little more relaxed.

I went through there with a great group of cadets—a real cast of characters, from the most militant Marines to guys that didn’t really give a shit about anything. There was one kid who I never saw again after the academy. His father and grandfather were both cops, but he was kind of a sad sack. He ended up taking the brunt of a lot of jokes.

One time we were at the range doing this excercise where you have your gun at your side, draw fast, and use only one hand. It’s so if you get shot in the arm and can only use one hand, you know how. You get your elbow back, right up against your side. So this kid shoots his weapon and all of a sudden we hear him screaming, “Aaahhh!” We look over and this guy has shot a hole right through his tie. He looked down, saw a hole in it, and thought he’d shot himself. He fucking freaked out. We were all pissing ourselves. How the hell do you manage to blow a hole through your own tie at an indoor range with no wind? And if you do blow a hole through your tie, how the hell do you jump to the conclusion that you’ve shot yourself? Hilarious.

So this poor kid comes up to me one day at the academy and goes, “Hey, I gotta talk to you. You ever had a hemorrhoid?” And I actually had before, so I was like, “Yeah, and if you don’t take care of them properly it isn’t any fun.” I told him to do himself a favor, go to the store, and get some Preparation H. I also told him to be careful, because if it’s really bad, the Prep H will soften everything up and then it will pop and BOOM—hemorrhoid blood everywhere.

So a few days later, we go into gym and he’s taking his pants off to change, and he starts screaming again, just like at the range with the tie. I come running over like, “What’s the matter?” I look down and his underwear is just completely covered in blood. I started dying laughing. I had to take a step back and just consider the entire scene. I’m standing in this disgusting old locker room with mold everywhere. There’s guys walking around all over, there’s cocks everywhere. And I’m standing here, laughing at this guy with bloody underwear. I tell him to relax and that it’ll heal up.

A few days later, the guy comes up to me again and says it won’t stop bleeding. So I tell him to go to the goddamned doctor. He says, “Yeah, I better. My mother packs me extra pairs of underwear. I’m ruining like three pairs a day.” I’m already kind of laughing, but I’m like, “Well, what are you doing, just throwing out the dirty ones?” He goes, “No, I put them in my bag. I don’t want anyone here to find them in the trash.”

So then later we’re in class and I’m sitting behind him and I realize “Wait a minute. This kid has bloody underwear in his bag right now.” I had a brown paper bag that I had kept my lunch in. So I slide my foot over his bag and carefully pull it back to me. I open it up and start shuffling through his bag and there it is—a bloody pair of tighty-whities. I pick them up, put them in this empty lunch bag of mine, and tie it shut.

Next, I grab another guy’s backpack, slide it over, open it up, and stuff this little package of bloody underwear right in there. Luckily, I chose one of my buddies who still lived at home with his mother.
He calls me up that Sunday morning and the first thing he says is, “Are you fucking kidding me?!” I play it innocent: “What?” He tells me that his mother had come running in that morning holding a bloody pair of underwear, screaming, asking him if he needed to go to the hospital. Classic.

MIKE PAWLEWEICZ

All About the Boroughs

In the academy, I got to know the different reputations of all the city’s patrol boroughs. It’s like this…

Manhattan South: is called PBMS, which stands for Patrol Borough Manhattan South. The running joke is that PBMS really means, “Please Babysit My Son.” It’s derided as a borough full of “hook” boys, placed there by uncle inspectors and daddy chiefs. It’s a nice post if you want to study for sergeant, but it’s boring as hell if you spent your time in the academy dreaming of car chases and foot pursuits.

Manhattan North: My home borough. It’s considered a good mix—busy enough to be interesting, but not so bad that you’re wallowing in despair.

There’s still plenty of ghetto here, but gentrification and good police work have made this borough a lot safer. We did such a good job that we can no longer afford to live in the neighborhoods we helped to clean up!

Bronx: The Bronx can make a valid argument for being the busiest, most dangerous borough. Brooklyn logs more homicides, but there are precincts in both boroughs that will make cops raise their eyebrows if you tell them you work there. I believe that the best police officers come from the busiest precincts.

Queens: Aside from a handful of tough precincts, Queens is typically derided as soft suburbs. Now, all of my dealings with Queens cops have been positive. I’m just telling you how they’re generally perceived. Ask a Manhattan cop what a “Queens Marine” is. You’re guaranteed to get a laugh. (Just don’t ask a Queens guy!)

Staten Island: Like Queens, the perception is that S.I. cops are soft. Personally, I don’t know one cop from Staten Island. I do know that of the last few cops killed in the line of duty, several were from out there.

Brooklyn South: The one thing I know about Brooklyn South is that it ain’t Brooklyn North.

Brooklyn North: These cops are universally admired. Brooklyn North guys tend to stick together and back each other up, and are not going to be rattled easily.

I mean, come on—these guys had to create a special gun court just for all their gun cases!

STEVE HUNTER


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