As many of you may or may not know, before slipping into the life of luxury that is called being a writer, I used to do something quite different to earn a living. For twenty-five years, I put on a blue uniform every day and wandered the streets of the city so society could treat me like their own personal chew toy.
That all ended in 2016 when the State of California told me that they would send me money every month on the condition that I did not come in to work any longer. I happily agreed. My agency stamped the word “retired” on my badge and we both went our separate ways.
While I was working, I was required by law to attend hundreds of hours of training every year. I attended classes and had to prove my proficiency during drivers training, arrest and control training, domestic violence and abuse courses, sensitivity and mental health lectures, etc. etc.
That was fine. I get why all that has become necessary.
What I didn’t know, however, was that even after retiring I would have to go to training. That’s right. Once a year, every year, I have to go to my department’s range and demonstrate that I still know how to shoot a handgun without losing a toe or other body part. For twenty-five years I carried a gun every day at work without any unfortunate mishaps. (Well, there was that one locker-room incident, but I still think that ceiling fan had it coming.) Even so, when I retired, I was advised that I needed to attend range training at least once every year.
This year, I almost missed it. I just happened to bump into a buddy of mine who asked if I was going to the retired employees day at the range this year. I told him I hadn’t heard anything about it. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Maybe they don’t want you there for some reason. Who did you piss off?”
As I was sure (mostly) that I hadn’t actually pissed anyone off recently, I sent an email to the person in charge of scheduling the range for castaways like myself. I asked about the qualification date and why I hadn’t heard anything about it. She answered the next day.
She wrote:
Hi, Gary. Sorry you didn’t get the email, but we all thought you were dead.
I will go ahead and put you back in my email distribution list. I apologize for the mix-up.
Despite the surprise of hearing about my early demise, I soon received the relevant information and I showed up at my scheduled range date two weeks later.
The nice thing about a firearm qualification day for retired cops is that there is always food. Providing something to eat is pretty much how they guarantee that people show up. There is very little that motivates a retiree better than the promise of a free meal. This year, the Chief of Police and his three Captains fired up the grill and cooked tri-tip while I and the other old-timers wandered down to the firing line and, with shaking hands and poor eyesight, fired hundreds of rounds at mostly undamaged paper targets.
We may not have successfully hit a lot of those silhouettes, but I’m sure we scared several of them pretty badly.
Regardless of our scores, we still got to eat, so I consider the day a win.
When I was working, we were never allowed to bring food to the range. If we did, the range master would get mad and tell us to hike back up the hill and put it back in our cars or else he would take it away and eat it himself. We also had to clean up the range when we were done. As soon as we finished shooting, he would yell at us to pick up all the stray brass, clean our guns, then hurry up and get back to work.
Now, the only reason the range master yells at us is because someone’s hearing aid stopped working.
Personally, I prefer the old, retired guy range days.
After shooting, the day quickly devolved into tri-tip sandwiches, sodas, cigars, and gossip about what was happening at the police department since we left. (Okay, that last part is actually a lie since most of the retired officers don’t really give a crap what’s going on at the police department since we left. If the building burned down, I think the general response would have been, “I’m glad I don’t have to write that report.”) It was nice chatting and catching up with people I haven’t seen in several months.
In a year, I will have to do it all over again. Shoot my gun for two minutes, smoke a cigar and eat barbeque. It’s not for everyone, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. I’m just that kind of a guy.
Hopefully, next year I won’t need to remind anyone that I’m still alive.
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