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!”