More Maloney Baloney

You could join the force as a cadet at the age of eighteen but as soon as

you turned twenty-one you automatically became a full-fledged constable.

By that time you would normally have attended Police College and received

the firearms training that would allow you to carry a service revolver.

As it happened I was injured and in the hospital when it was time for

me to take the training. So while I waited for the next class, I was sent to one

of toughest divisions in the city unarmed and untrained. That’s where I

met Maloney; I sure appreciated having him around; he was a lot better

weapon than my gun would have been.

Even though I didn’t have a gun I still had to comply with the uniform

regulations and wear my full Sam Browne with holster and ammunition

pouch. There was a problem with this arrangement because it meant that

when I sat down the empty holster would fold over and crack the leather. If I

was one of the old hands this wouldn’t have made much difference but I was

due to attend the next class at the college and that meant my kit would have

to be in perfect condition. I remembered the trouble I got into with Sgt. Saul,

the drill instructor, during cadet training and I didn’t want a repeat

performance.

I solved the problem of the folding holster by fashioning a supporting

frame out of an old coat hanger. It was roughly the shape of the holster and

fit neatly inside to hold its shape. One day, when I was sitting in the

guardroom with Maloney, me touching up my leather, I pulled the wire

frame out and he said, “What’s with the sling shot?” I hadn’t thought of it

before but it did look just like a little slingshot.

“Gimme dat ,” he said and whipped it out of my hand. He pulled open

a desk drawer, found some rubber bands and strung them across the frame.

“There ya go,” he said, “Now you’re armed.”

One thing led to another and soon we were taking turns firing tiny bits

of folded paper at the framed photograph of Commissioner Bick that hung

on the wall of the lunchroom. As time went on, whenever things got boring

in the station the big Irishman would insist that I haul out my sling shot and

we would have another go at the Commissioner. Because of his frequent

requests I got in the habit of keeping a good supply of paper wads in my

ammunition pouch.

Maloney and I were out on patrol in scout car on the late shift when

the radio lit up with a call reporting an armed robbery. As the dispatcher

described the person responsible we realized that we were already looking at

a man who fit the description perfectly.

We had noticed him jogging along the sidewalk beside us and now, as

we sped up to get a better look, he took off in full flight. Maloney was at the

wheel and I was riding shotgun, inappropriate somehow since I didn’t have

one. We overtook him easily but he suddenly dodged into a narrow alley

where the car couldn’t follow. Maloney hit the brakes and shouted for me to

chase the man on foot while he drove around the block to try and cut him

off.

I was out of the car like a shot and as I started up the alley I heard

Maloney shouting; “Wait, I forgot you don’t have----.” It was too late. I had

the scent and there was no stopping me. I lost sight of the man momentarily

as he turned into a large service lane but as I rounded the corner, I could see

that the distance was closing and that it wouldn’t be long before I caught up

with him. When I was almost up to him he swung to his right into another

alley. Just then my boot hit something and I tripped and stumbled forward.

When I regained my balance and turned the corner I could see that we were

in a short dead end alley blocked at the far end by a twelve-foot high chain

link fence. My man had climbed almost to the top and his feet were just out

reach when I arrived at the bottom of the fence and made a mad grab for

them. My boots weren’t made for climbing and he was about to get away so

I went to plan B. “Stop or blow your bloody brains out,” I growled in my

best ‘Dirty Harry’ voice.

Wow! It worked and from the way he smelt when he let go and

dropped in front of me, I had literally scared the shit out of him. “Keep your

hands on the fence and spread 'em,” I said and then started to search him.

The scout car’s headlights illuminated us both as Maloney swung into the

lane behind me. When I heard the big guy open his door and start puffing his

way towards us, I leaned forward and hissed into the bad guy’s ear, “Turn

around slowly and don’t try anything. I’ve got you covered.” When Maloney

got to me I was standing with my fully loaded slingshot pointed at the bad

guy. “Jeezuz !”, said Maloney. “Jeezuz!” said the bad guy.

Small Fry

Being one of the smallest guys on the job I was like a magnet for every

thug that wanted to have a go at assaulting a policeman. In the past I had

always adhered to the policy that “It’s a poor set of feet the lets your nose

get in trouble” but I couldn’t run away anymore. I relied heavily on my gift

of the gab but when that failed I would have to mix it up as best I could.

These encounters left me stiff and bruised and cost the city a lot of money

replacing torn uniforms. Whenever Maloney arrived to find me struggling

away with some big guy he would give me a wink and then fire my assailant

into the back of the wagon saying “Why don’t you pick on somebody your

own size?’

I was alone late one night, walking the beat on King St. in the heart of

the city. It was a drizzly fall night and I had stopped in the shelter of a

doorway to update my memo book.

It was well past bar closing time and the city was shutting down. An

empty streetcar pulled up and opened its doors at a stop directly in front of

me. I stepped forward and exchanged a few words with a tired looking

conductor who was heading to the barn at the end of his shift, then backed

into the doorway to finish my writing. I stayed put a while longer trying to

shake off the sleepiness that was taking hold of me. Then I decided to move

on. As I stepped out of the doorway and looked to my right I noticed a

strange form in the distance moving toward me. I moved back into the

doorway and removed my hat so I could peer around and get a better look.

At first he appeared to be a large man in the distance but when I looked

more again more closely I realized that he was a very small man. In fact he

was a dwarf and as I watched him tack his way up the sidewalk I realized

that he was also very drunk.

I reclaimed my spot in the shadowy doorway and waited for him to

pass but instead of moving on by, he stopped directly in front of me and

started digging in his pockets for streetcar tokens. He was very unsteady on

his feet and only managed to stay upright by wrapping his stubby arms

around a convenient lamppost.

I was just about to go and help him when another streetcar pulled up

and the doors whooshed open.

The little fellow left the security of his post, staggered to the trolley

and tried to climb aboard. The step up to the car was about waist high on

him and he made several abortive attempts to mount them, the last time

taking a run at them and landing on his back.

I rushed over to him, helped him into a sitting position and asked him

if he was hurt. He just giggled and mumbled something incomprehensible. It

was obvious that he was feeling no pain. When I asked the conductor if he

would help me get him aboard he made it perfectly clear to me that he was

not going to be responsible for looking after the little guy. I told him that if

he didn’t I would have to call for the wagon but he didn’t seem to care.

Actually I knew it might not be that serious because Maloney was driving

that night.

After picking him up and dusting him off, I carried the little guy into

my doorway and propped him against the wall and then walked the short

distance to the call box and requested some transportation.

I knew the wagon was close by so I went back and hustled my

prisoner over to the curb so that we would be easy to spot. That’s when

inspiration struck!

When Maloney arrived I was standing, all puffed up and proud with

my nightstick in one hand and the dwarf handcuffed to my opposite wrist.

He stuck his head out of the wagon window and said, “I tink ya better

tro dat won back!”

Meeting Maloney

Policemen have several different uniforms, one for each season of the

year. On any given day every cop in the city must be dressed in the same

outfit and when there’s a change in the weather, it’s his responsibility to find

out what the dress of the day is and show up for work properly attired.

The officers in charge, many of whom were ex military types, were

real sticklers on this rule. It wasn’t uncommon for guys who showed up with

the wrong uniform to be sent home and docked a day’s pay.

I knew all this and that’s why I was so nervous when I arrived at my

first posting after Police College The thing is, the weather had changed and

we all were supposed to be wearing winter Pea jackets but I hadn’t been

issued with one. I hoped that the sergeant in charge would understand but if

he were anything like Sgt. Saul, my drill instructor at the college, my career

might be on hold before it even got started.

I didn’t get a chance to talk to him before the detachment paraded for

duty so I found myself in the lineup, sticking out like a sore thumb in my

summer uniform while everybody else was bundled up in heavy winter

coats. In an effort to be inconspicuous, I positioned myself at the end of the

line of big cops. I hoped that I’d be able to discuss my situation discreetly

with the sergeant when the inspection was over.

For a while, I wasn’t drawing any undue attention but then a door at

the rear of the room burst open and a huge policeman made his way over to

the line up and stood right beside me. He was a mountain of a man over six

foot six with broad shoulders, huge hands and arms that seemed ready to

burst the sleeves of his coat. “I’m sorry to be late, Sarge,” he said in a thick

Irish brogue.

I took half a step backwards hoping to hide myself in the big guys

shadow but it was too late. The sergeant had spotted me. He came over and

stood in front me and at first he seemed to be about to say something to me

but then changed his mind and started to move away.

I was still breathing a sigh of relief when I felt a big hand on my

shoulder and heard a voice bellow from somewhere up above me. It was my

neighbor and he was addressing the sergeant. “Excuse me, Sarge” he said, “

I see that this little fella doesn’t have a winter coat” “What a rat,” I thought.

“Now I hate to see anybody go out in weather like this widout a warm coat”

the big guy continued, “I’ve got a spare one in me locker and the kid’s

welcome to it”.

I tried to say, “Thanks but that won’t be necessary”, but the sergeant,

who seemed to be enjoying the situation, cut me short.

“That’s very generous of you, Maloney”, he said as the two men

exchanged knowing glances. I tried to object further while the big fellow

went to his locker but the sergeant raised a finger and hushed me.

Maloney arrived back with something large and blue draped over his

arm. “Here, get into this, sonny”, he said. I tried to object again but the look

on the sergeant’s face told me that my fate was sealed.

I looked like a small child trying on his father’s coat: the sleeves

hung down six inches beyond the ends of my hands and the neck and collar

threatened to slip over my shoulders. Everybody had a good laugh at my

expense. I secretly vowed revenge.

After finding me a coat that actually fit, the sergeant sent me out to

patrol on foot for the first half of my shift. I spent the four hours devising

plans to get even with Maloney and hoped that I might encounter some

criminal, preferably small, on whom I could take out some of the anger and

embarrassment I was feeling. As it turned out my time on the beat that

afternoon was uneventful.

I was hoping that the lunchroom would be empty when I came into eat

but as I approached it I could hear the familiar sound of the dominos

swishing on the tabletops and the loud banter as the men played Bump. The

room sounded full but one voice carried over all the others and it had a

distinctively Irish flavour to it. “Okay, I’m not going to let him get to me,” I

thought. “ I’ll just go in there and mind my own business, eat my lunch and

leave.”

I grabbed a seat at the far end of the table away from the Bump

players and opened my old tin lunch box. I had just started to remove the

wax paper from one of my sandwiches, when Maloney left the game and

took a seat directly opposite to me. I watched him inhale what was left of

his lunch while I poured a cup of tea from my thermos and fiddled with my

sandwiches. I had lost my appetite.

Maloney watched as I started to put the sandwiches back into the

lunch box. “Hoy!” he said, “ain't you gonna eat dat?” “Naw,” I said, “I’m

not hungry,” Then, hoping to ingratiate myself, I offered him the lunch that

my wife had so lovingly prepared for my first day at work. “Pass her over,”

he said, and then proceeded to wolf it down. He wasn’t long making his

way through the first half of the sandwich but as he bit into the second half

and drew back, something pulled out with the egg and mayonnaise. It was a

piece of paper. He put the sandwich down, unfolded the paper and wiped it

off. “I LOVE YOU,” the note said. “Jeezuz” said Maloney.

Of course Maloney wasn’t hesitant in sharing the note with the other

cops at the table, saying, “ I tink da litter feller loiks me”. I just wanted

lunch hour to be over so that I could get back out on the beat again but

before I could escape the sergeant came over to me with the worst news

possible: “Maloney’s partner has booked off sick and I want you to go out

with him on the Paddy Wagon for the rest of the shift.”

At first I thought he was joking but when Maloney came over and put

his big arm around me and ushered me out the door, winking at the guys

sitting at the table and saying, “Don’t wait up for us, boys” I knew my

hazing was not yet over.

When we got to the garage, I started to get into the passenger door of

the wagon but Maloney swung me around and said, “No, no, you drive”. I

tried to explain that I’d never driven a rig like that before but he wouldn’t

listen and just kept pushing towards the driver’s door. When I finally seated

myself behind the wheel and had slid the seat as far forward as it would go

he started saying encouraging things to me like “Can ya see over dat

steering wheel, sonny?” or “We’ll get some blocks put on dose pedals for ya

for da next trip.” Fortunately I had not yet been issued a gun.

After we had toured around for a couple of hours Maloney seemed to

tire of all the teasing and tried having a normal conversation with me.

When he asked me questions about myself my answers were curt and

guarded and I think he began to sense that for some reason I might be miffed

with him. He was silent for a while but then came out with what he thought

was a brilliant idea.

“Look, I knows I was a bit hard on you in front of the boys but it was

all in fun, so here’s what we do. When we gets back to the station I’ll bug

you some more. You act like you can’t take it anymore and go for me and

we’ll tussle. We’ll make it look real and I’ll let you win. How’s dat?” “Oh,

I don’t know,” I tried to say but he just punched me on the shoulder and

said, “Good, dat’s settled.”

When we returned to the station we had the first of what were to

become regular mock wrestling matches that always ended in me getting the

big ape into a submission hold and him begging for mercy. No one was

fooled of course, but it seemed to give Maloney no end of pleasure and as

for me, it was easier being part of a joke than it was being the brunt of one.

That didn’t mean that he stopped having fun at my expense but over time I

began to get a clearer picture of the type of man he really was and I took his

jibes with grain of salt.

I sometimes rode with him in the wagon gathering drunks off the

streets at closing time and it wasn’t unusual for him to deliver more of them

to their doorsteps than he did to the drunk tank.

He was a great man in a scrap because for the most part he didn’t have

to actually do anything: his size and obvious strength gave most

troublemakers sober second thoughts. When it was required, I watched him

lift large men, kicking and punching, off their feet and pitch them into the

back of his wagon like they were so much cord wood but I also saw him

cradling a dead child in his arms at an accident scene crying like she was his

own. At heart he was a big gentle man without a mean bone in his body.

We made quite a sight and turned more than a few heads when we

walked the beat together with the top of my hat travelling along at the same

level as his shoulder flashes. Of course it didn’t help matters when he would

stop and introduce me to store owners as his little friend while patting my

head. I suffered all the indignities in silence because I knew that when I was

with him I could relax and not suffer the anxiety I suffered when I patrolled

the same areas alone.

Ladies of the Night

In 1964 the Police Department decided to make a special effort to

reduce the number of women employed in “the world’s oldest profession”.

It may have become a priority because the frat houses at the U of T were

starting to use the services of these shady ladies quite frequently, often

including them as part of their initiations and hazing. Many of the civic

fathers had their sons attending the university and were anxious to see that

the reputations of their privileged offspring remained unsullied.

The Morality Squad selected several new recruits fresh out of Police

College to assist them in their quest to rid the city of these wicked women

and I was among the chosen few. They wanted us to pose as university

students and participate in a scheme that today would be considered

entrapment but back then ‘all was fair in illicit love and war’. Our job was

to head down into the tenderloin districts of the city and wait until we were

solicited by one of the hookers. The job didn’t end there. We were issued

with marked money and instructed to go with the woman in question to her

room. When she had disrobed to the extent that there could be no mistaking

her purpose and accepted the marked money we were instructed to whip out

our badges and arrest them.

At first the women were pretty easy to trick. Although we didn’t have

the academic qualifications, with our Ivy League togs and haircuts we could

pass well enough as students. There were no entrance exams.

Several of my young classmates who were assigned the same duties

had, at the outset, been very apprehensive about how the prostitutes would

react when they found out that they had been duped. At a general meeting

before we started the operation they expressed the concern that they would

be unarmed and that some of these girls were pretty tough.

I, however, was not worried and before I realized what I was doing,

blurted out that, in my opinion, the women would simply surrender

gracefully and accept the situation as just another part of the job. The room

fell silent for what seemed a long time and I was getting some strange looks,

especially from the Morality Squad detectives. I knew they wanted me to

explain how it was that I knew so much about prostitutes but they let it slide

and continued with the briefing. The American military’s rule of “Don’t

ask and don’t tell’ is not a new concept.

The fact is that I knew a lot about prostitutes. Now don’t get me

wrong. It’s just that you can’t have lived on Pembroke St. in downtown

Toronto in the 1950’s and passed the Spot One Grill on Dundas St. every

morning on the way to school and not have learned a great deal about these

ladies of the night. The corner of Pembroke and Dundas was the epicenter

of the flesh trade, surpassing even the infamous Jarvis St. As kids growing

up in that notorious area we saw a lot but at first, understood very little.

I had a school friend named Terry Gilder and we spent a lot of time

together. We participated in all the traditional after school pursuits like

snaring pigeons in Allan Gardens or dragging big magnets up and down the

back lanes seeing what rusty treasures we could snag. We travelled

everywhere on scooters we built ourselves. All we needed was a piece of

two by four, an orange crate and an old roller skate.

As kids will, we had sleepovers. Terry spent nights at my house but I

liked it best when we stayed at his place. It was more fun. The house was a

hive of activity. He had several aunts who lived in the rooms upstairs and

there were all kinds of interesting men coming to visit them. It was as if

there was a party going on all the time and, best of all, his aunts were always

subsidizing our banana splits at the Chinese restaurant on the corner if we

promised to stay there for an hour or so.

Of course as we grew into our teens we realized what was going on

but by then it somehow seemed normal. It was before the era of the drug

addicted prostitutes and Terry’s mother and aunts, when not engaged in their

nocturnal pursuits, seemed to be very normal caring people. They certainly

looked after my friend very well along with several other children who

shared the house. They even had a summer cottage at Wasaga Beach and

Terry often invited me to join them there. I never went. My parents, who

were working very hard and often away, had no idea what was going on at

his house and I didn’t want to press my luck. They might have wanted to

meet his mum before allowing me to travel that far away with them.

We eventually moved away and I lost track of Terry but now, as I sat

with the rest of the cops planning our assault on the bawdy business, I

wondered what he would think of me. It occurred to me that the girls in the

business must be already hurting. It was the era of free love and who could

compete with that?

But duty is duty so I played the game and did what I was told. It was a

short assignment. After a couple of arrests the girls all knew me and I had to

be replaced. I was right about their attitude. They couldn’t have cared less;

the arrest and the fine were just the cost of doing business. Both the girls

that I temporarily removed from the streets found the situation hilariously

funny and we had a good laugh together before I took them in. Of course

they felt compelled to embarrass me in front of the Desk Sergeant by

offering me a freebie but that, for want of a less explicit phrase, was just a

little tit for tat. Actually, they bore me no grudge and later when I was

patrolling the streets in uniform and they were back in business they would

often greet me like an old friend.

On Being A Cadet

The status of a cadet was a strange one, unless you looked very

closely at his uniform and noticed the absence of a gun holster and handcuff

pouch, you probably thought you were looking at a full fledged policeman.

Although he might have been as young as eighteen he had most of the

responsibilities of the older official constables. He couldn’t make arrests for

minor offences but for the more serious indictable offences he, like anyone

else, could make a “Citizen’s Arrest”.

The uniform the cadet wore, in anticipation of his progression to full

police constable, had all the compartments for the weapons of the trade; the

pants had a long rear pocket for a nightstick and the winter Pea jacket had a

leather holster in the right pocket. Although it was strictly ‘verboten’ the

temptations to fill these cavities with weapons of our own was great,

particularly if we were working the night shift in dangerous parts of the city

An older cop gave me a spare nightstick and I still have the 22-caliber

pistol I discreetly carried. I never had to use it but it was a real source of

comfort in tricky situations.

Shortly after attending Police College for the cadet course I was sent

to the traffic division for motorcycle training. It was wonderful experience

just like summer camp. A group of about twelve of us spent a couple of

weeks weaving Harley Davidson’s, BMW’s, Matchlesses and Indians

through pylons on the Exhibition parking lot and going for long rides along

the Lakeshore and through the streets of the west end of the city.

It was late fall and I remember the joy I felt as I sent my sidecar

careening through the piles of dead leaves that were accumulating at the

sides of the roads, sending them flying into the air and onto the windscreens

of the bikes behind me.

It was all new to me and the experience was the closest I have ever

come to the thrill I feel when galloping a horse.

Before we finished our training the weather turned really cold and we

were ordered into winter uniforms, which consisted of heavy twill breeches

over long wool underwear with the leather boots and leggings we normally

wore covered with tall-insulated galoshes; on top we wore our winter issue

box neck tunic over the heaviest flannel shirt we could find. We covered all

of this with a knee length black leather coat with a thick sheepskin lining. A

long thick scarf and a white helmet with cold weather flaps completed the

ensemble. It practically doubled my weight and I thought I might need a

derrick to get me on to my bike.
My infatuation with the motorcycle was short lived. By the time I returned to 
my station in Don Mills winter had set in with a vengeance and the streets 
were snow covered and icy. I thought that the motorcycles would be put 
away for the winter but instead they were all fitted with sidecars and it was 
business as usual.

I found out just how impractical this was when I went out on my first patrol. 
Approaching a corner with a red light I casually applied the brakes, in the way 
I had been instructed, and found myself sliding out of control all the way 
through the intersection with cars skidding to a halt to avoid hitting me, the 
drivers honking their horns and shouting very disrespectful things at me.

After that experience I realized that there was a knack to riding motorcycles 
in the winter. Firstly you had to plan ahead: if you wanted to stop at any 
particular spot you had to start applying the brakes gradually about one 
city block in advance. It was touch and go making a turn-- the bike didn’t 
necessarily go in the direction you turned the handlebars. It was often 
necessary to simply go where you were taken and, if anybody was watching, 
act as if you intended to be there, not that convincing when you 
ended up in a snow bank.

Only the Police Department would be allowed to operate a vehicle as

dangerous as the bike was in winter. I was told that it was a matter of

economy but that was nonsense because as it turned out a Harley Davidson

with sidecar would consume more gas than a typical scout car in the same

period of time. Anyway I grew to hate the damned things and could hardly

wait until I would be done with them.

My reprieve was slow coming and I spent all of the winter and part of

the spring riding the monsters and performing the duties typically assigned

to cadets: looking after school crossings, doing house checks for people

away on vacation and being a general dog’s body for the rest of the division.

It was for the most part very boring and I found myself inventing ways to

amuse myself.

During our training, we had learned how to cause the sidecar wheel to

lift off the ground and remain suspended in the air. I became very proficient

at this trick and became obsessed with seeing how long I could go before I

was compelled to let it drop back down onto to the pavement. Sometimes I

would travel in this manner very long periods of time, often madly careening

through complete subdivisions with my scarf flying behind me and my

sidecar suspended at a forty five degree angle, its wheel spinning in the

breeze. I can’t imagine what people in the area thought was going on. I

guess I didn’t care.

One day when I was doing one of my routine house checks, I noticed

some footprints in the fresh snow leading to the rear of one of the fancy

homes on the Bridle Path. I followed them until they ended in a packed

down area opposite an open basement window. I was just about to go

forward to have a look in when a pillowcase came flying out of the opening.

As it landed on the ground several pieces of silverware spilled out and into

the snow. The first case was followed by a second and then the arms and

upper torso of a very large man began to emerge.

He was still struggling to drag himself through the small opening

when I moved over and positioned myself directly in front and above him.

He saw my boots and then slowly looked up at me. “Shit,” he said with a

defeated look on his face. I thought I better restrain him before he got up so I

knelt on his back while he obligingly surrendered his wrists They were so

thick I had trouble getting my cuffs on them and when I grabbed his arms to

help him to his feet my hands were having trouble spanning his biceps.

I pushed him in front of me until we got to my motorcycle and had

him kneel down facing away from me while I called for a scout car to come

and get him. I tried several times to reach the dispatcher but the radio had

decided, as it frequently did in those days, not to work. There were no

telephones readily available so I decide to break the rules and take him to the

station in my sidecar. It wasn’t easy cramming his bulk into that tiny capsule

but for some reason he remained cooperative and I got him in and secure.

He rode quietly on the way to the lockup with his head held down in

shame and turned away from me.

I needed the help of two other officers to pry him out of the sidecar

and get him into the interrogation room and into the hands of an

investigating detective. I was going to leave and have my lunch but the

detective said he wanted me to stay while he talked to the prisoner.

It was really hot and stuffy in the little room so I decided to make

myself more comfortable. The prisoner, really looking at me for the first

time, watched astonished as I peeled layer after layer of heavy clothing off,

eventually revealing my true size and stature. He just sat shaking his head

for a while and then turned to the detective and said, “ I can’t believe 
I let that scrawny little prick bring me in here.”

In The Beginning

“Do you stand out?” That’s what the sign said. It was posted high on the side of Metro Toronto

Police Headquarters, an aging stone fronted building on the corner of King and Church Streets in Toronto. As I looked up, it seemed that the stern looking policeman depicted on the huge poster was pointing his finger directly at me. It was lunch hour and the streets were

crowded with men in suits looking very clean and very important. I, on the other hand, had not shaved that morning and was wearing my favourite faded jeans and plaid shirt.

As I looked around me I realized that I definitely did stand out and decided to go inside and have a talk with the recruiting officer. I have to admit that I was only curious and thought that an interview at Police Headquarters would make a great story to share with my cop hating buddies. The idea of becoming a policeman appealed more to my sense of humor than

to my sense of duty. I wrote a short test, filled out a few simple forms and had my height and weight registered. Then I was ushered into a small office where a large and slightly intimidating officer in full dress uniform pointed to a chair in front of his desk. As I sat down and noticed his Sam Browne belt and holster, shined to perfection, I discreetly rubbed the toes of my cowboy boots against my jeans while he read my application form. “Why do you want to be a policeman?” No word of introduction, just a cursory sizing up and the bark.

Leaning forward and placing my elbow on his desk, I rested my chin on my 
clenched fist, giving him my best impression of “The Thinker” and then, looking straight into his eyes, I said, “I’ve always wanted to be a policeman.” I couldn’t believe it. 
The guy actually believed me. He had absolutely no sense of humour. He gave me a warm smile and switching into the “I’m your buddy” routine, the huge cop confided in me, “Look,

Garry, you barely meet the height requirements, and at 138 pounds, you would hardly be much of a visual deterrent to crime, but, BUT, if you promise to clean up a bit before your next interview, I’ll process your application and I’ll see what I can do.” I skipped down the steps onto King Street laughing to myself. I could hardly wait to tell the boys. 
When I met with the guys later that week and told them about my funny adventure, they didn’t react at all the way I thought they would. They seemed to think I was a traitor for even going into the Police Headquarters, let alone almost signing up as a cop. Some even hinted at my

subconsciously wanting to join up.

Ron Bond, my closest friend, was uncharacteristically quiet as the other guys berated me. 
I presumed his silence meant that he was agreeing with what they were saying.  Still there was something strange about the way he was acting. 

Normally he would have been on my side.  A year earlier he and my high 

school music teacher, Bud Hill, had probably saved my life by talking me out 

of heading to Vietnam with the US Marines. So why, even if he didn’t think I was 

joking about joining the force, didn’t he say something in my defense?  

As it turned out turned out he was just holding his cards close to his chest and 

I was to find out why a few weeks later. Pissed off by some of my friends’ inability 

to appreciate a joke and Ron’s strange reaction, I just finished my beer and left. 

“Who needed them anyway?”
I was heading out west to visit at my sister Isabel for a month. It was going to 
be a fun trip; my brother-in-law, Colin, had a young horse he wanted to break and I was looking forward to giving him a hand. Although I lived in the city, I had spent my summers in

northern Ontario breaking colts to be used as camp horses. Colin said that he

figured his colt might be a bit of a challenge but I thought he was just

putting me on. As it turned out he wasn’t and the old saying “ There never

was a horse that couldn’t be rode and never a man who couldn’t be

throwed!” proved painfully prophetic.

It was six weeks before Dusty, as they called the gelding, started

behaving himself and I was able to come home.

As soon as I got back I decided to call on Ron Bond and clear the air,

make sure he knew I was only joking when I told him about my police

interview.

There was no answer when I rang the bell, but as I turned to go, I saw

his car coming down the street. He parked but didn’t get out right away. I

thought he was still angry with me, but when he did get out, I saw why he

had hesitated. He was dressed in a police uniform! I couldn’t believe my

eyes after all he had said to me. He had a lot of explaining to do.

After a few hours and several beers, his reasons for converting started

to make sense. He was even sounding more enthusiastic and convincing than

the recruiting officer. However, there was a problem. I remembered my

parents telling me about a week into my holiday out west that a letter had

come from the Police Headquarters asking me to report for further

processing. I was far away and not interested at that point so I just ignored it.

Now that I was actually interested, I realized I might have blown my

chances.

The next day, sporting a new haircut, my best suit and whatever

courage I could muster, I returned to the Police Headquarters and searched

out the recruiting officer. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Well,

sir,” I lied, “I was hoping I might hear from you after our first interview and

it’s been quite a while, so I was wondering why I wasn’t being considered. I

even gained five pounds for you, and I’ve been working out, too.”

“Well, Mr. Leeson, I do indeed remember your file, we sent you a

letter for follow-up meetings and you didn’t even have the courtesy of

replying to us. Conjuring up my best-shocked look, perfected in my high

school years, I continued, “I never got it. I waited and waited, but I figured I

hadn’t made the mark.” Trying to look dejected, I got up, head down, and

turned to leave.

Before I made it to the door, he stopped me, “Hang on a minute”, he

said, “I can’t understand how you didn’t get a registered letter, but you seem

sincere, so come with me.” “Yes!” I said to myself. He stayed with me

while I was weighed. Right on 143, a testament to my honesty!

He still had my original file, complete with background check, so they

hustled me right down to the Police Surgeon for a complete physical. After

all the probing and a request to cough, he asked me to make a muscle. I

gave the best I could, and after he finished giving each bicep a gentle

squeeze, the old Doc recited a line of poetry I have never forgotten: “The

muscles on his spindly arms stood out like sparrows’ ankles.” Finally, a

policeman with a sense of humour. Anyway, he gave me a passing grade

and I was in. What had I done?

I spent a few more embarrassing moments in the musty basement

room where an aging constable and his assistant were to fit me out with a

uniform. There were long racks of tunics, trousers and shirts, but everything

I tried on swam on me. At one point the men had a great laugh at my

expense when the only jacket that seemed the perfect size turned out to be a

policewoman’s. They finally found a complete kit close enough in size to do

me until I could be measured and properly fitted out and I headed home with

all my gear in two shopping bags to await my first assignment.

The next day I received a phone call directing me to report to the Don

Mills Police Station the following morning. Mum altered my uniform for

me and I gave my boots and Sam Brown a quick polish. The next morning

something astonishing happened. After dressing in my uniform, I opened

the closet door to check myself in the mirror. I didn’t recognize the person I

was looking at. What the hell was I doing? This was taking a joke too

damned far. Calling in sick on my first day would not be such a great idea,

so I decided to face the music.

I felt very self-conscious as I walked down our long driveway to the

main road. I had borrowed my dad’s old black lunch box because I seemed

to remember seeing policemen carrying them on their way to work. It was

only a short walk to the nearest bus stop but I had only gone a few yards in

that direction when a car pulled over and a rather dignified older man

opened his door, stood up and, looking directly at me, said, “Can I give you

a lift, Officer?” I looked over my shoulder to see who was standing behind

me. My god, he’s talking to me, I realized. I thanked him and as I climbed

in beside him, I thought of all the times I had tried unsuccessfully to hitch

rides on this same stretch of road when I was a civilian teenager. And come

to think of it, that was only two days ago.

As we drove along, he chatted away about how much he admired the

police force and what a wonderful job it had been doing over the years. I

thanked him, and in my most humble voice said, “Well, sir, we’re just doing

our job.” He replied that I was being too modest, and I gave him a look that

suggested that I agreed with him.

He dropped me at an intersection where several people were waiting

for a bus. Not sure of exactly where I was, and forgetting I was uniform, I

approached the lineup and asked a man reading a newspaper, “Excuse me,

sir, could you tell me where the police station is?” He gave me the strangest

stare and, after a long pause, without saying a word, he pointed with his

paper toward 33 Division, clearly visible, less than a block away. “What’s

with this guy?” I thought. Then I saw my reflection in the bus shelter glass.

I quickly recovered by saying “ Well done sir, you’d be surprised how many

people don’t know that,” I headed out thinking, “This being a policeman is

going to take a little getting used to!”