Tag: humor

The Job from Hell

Everyone has bad days at work. Sometimes a bad day can stretch into two or three, or maybe even a bad week. But, have you ever gone into work knowing deep down in your guts that this is the day you’re going to get fired? When I got my first job as a police officer with the Hillsborough Police Department back in 1991, that is how I felt every day that I went in to work.

For four weeks.

When I put on my blue uniform and started field training for the first time, I was assigned a training officer that seemed to derive a great deal of pleasure from torturing me from the moment I showed up at work until the second I left. I imagine when he went home, he must have had a few puppies in the house that he could kick just to get him through the off hours until he could start tormenting me again the next day.

Let’s call the guy, “Dave,” because his name was Dave and I have no interest in trying to come up with a fake name to protect his reputation.

I don’t know how he managed to become a training officer in the first place. Perhaps Lucifer himself promoted him to the position. The devil doesn’t have time to torture everyone personally, so he probably decided Dave would be a good substitute in his absence.

Dave never missed an opportunity to berate me or make me feel stupid. Every day I went to work, I was convinced that I would be fired before the day was over. I had a knot in my stomach that didn’t go away for a month.

I remember on a traffic stop, while I was talking to a driver who had failed to stop at a stop sign, Dave stood behind me and told me that my officer safety was lousy because I had parked my car too close to the car in front of me and I had forgotten to turn the front end of my car out into traffic to protect myself from traffic in the roadway.

Legitimate points, perhaps, but nothing that couldn’t wait until after I had completed my contact with the driver. Dave didn’t see things that way. Yelling at me was a high point in his day and he wasn’t going to wait if he saw an opportunity to do it. The driver of the car did not fail to notice what was happening either. As he signed the traffic ticket I had written, he shook his head and mouthed the words, “I feel sorry for you.”

Okay, maybe I imagined that last part.

Despite his love of telling me what a terrible cop I was, Dave wasn’t exactly a pillar of the policing community himself. We worked the graveyard shift, and I recall many nights that Dave would direct me to park the patrol car in the driveway of his house. He handed me a copy of the Field Training Guide and told me to “study the book” while he went inside the house to “take care of some stuff.”

“Take care of some stuff” was code for crawl into bed and go to sleep. I would be sitting in the patrol car reading department procedures and legal texts while Dave had himself a nice nap. I sometimes wouldn’t see him for half the shift before he came back outside with his hair mussed up and pillow lines embedded in his cheek.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. The nights that Dave left me in the car by myself were the happiest nights I had when I was training with that guy.

Somehow, I survived those four weeks and moved on to my next Training Officer, Nick.

During my first shift with Nick, he climbed into the car holding a Styrofoam cup full of coffee. He told me, “Let’s go get a newspaper, and if you make me spill my coffee before we get there, you’re fired.”

I thought, Oh, hell, here we go again. Different guy, same evil shit.

When Nick saw the look on my face at his comment, he put down his coffee and ordered me to pull over the car. I pulled up to the curb and stopped. As I was preparing to hand over my gun and badge and walk home, I heard Nick mutter, “That mother f**ker. They never should have given him a new trainee.”

“Huh?” I asked with my usual incisive wit.

He asked me, “What did Dave do to you? We need to find a way to get your head unf**ked before you hurt yourself. For starters, forget everything Dave ever told you.”

I think that was the first time in over a month I was able to take a full breath. Life got much easier from that day forward. I discovered that you didn’t have to be an absolute tool to be a Training Officer, and that mistakes could be opportunities to learn something. It soon became apparent that most of the other officers at the department didn’t have too much love for Dave, either.

Things got even better about three years later when Dave got fired for violating department policy and then lying about it during the Internal Affairs investigation.

I’ll be honest with you, I threw a little party for myself that day.

Karma can truly be a magnificent bitch.

So, the next time you think you are having a bad day, even if it is absolutely the worst day at work you have ever experienced, just remember it could be worse.

You could work with Dave.

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Four Wheels and a Windshield

My youngest is starting her Junior year of college this fall. This is her first year not living on campus so it is also the first time she will need a car to commute to and from classes. With four drivers in the family who need vehicles and only three cars available, we had a small problem.

My wife needs her car to get to work and I need my truck to get groceries, shop, and run other errands throughout the week. We asked EM1 if she would be willing to share a car, but she acted as if we had suggested renting out her room to a group of traveling carnival clowns. She immediately began complaining that she had her mirrors exactly where she wanted them, her radio stations programmed to her favorite channels, and she didn’t want her sister messing everything up.

Rather than reminding her that the car isn’t hers and she doesn’t even pay for the gas she uses, I decided I didn’t have the energy to devote to that particular argument when there are so many better things to yell at her about. So, I let it go.

I suggested that we look for a cheap, but reliable, used car that EM2 could drive to and from school.

My wife had other ideas. She saw an opportunity to get herself a new car and then let EM2 drive her old one. My wife argued that her old Subaru was safe, reliable, and well maintained. We knew it had never been in an accident and that we had taken very good care of it while we had it, so it was an ideal vehicle to give to our daughter.

I agreed to the plan. When we told EM2 that she would be driving her mom’s car, she shrugged and said, “I don’t really like the Subaru. Can we look for something else?”

I have terrible children. And I have only myself to blame for that. It’s my fault they were born and it’s my fault I continued to feed them until they were big enough to start developing opinions about stuff.

We were offering her a four year-old car with a sun roof, fully functioning heat and A/C, stereo/CD player, electric everything, and more safety features than the first rocket that NASA landed on the moon, and she wanted something else.

My first car was a twenty-year-old Volkswagon beetle that my dad bought from a friend of his for $350. Even back in 1983, three hundred and fifty dollars was a ridiculously cheap vehicle, and I think he might have overpaid. The car was basically four wheels and a windshield. And the windshield was cracked.

There was no air conditioning. The only heat available was a small lever on the floorboards that would open a vent between the engine compartment and the cab. Air would flow over the engine, warm up marginally from the heat of the carburetor, then move into the driver’s compartment along with a significant amount of exhaust.

On cold days I would play a little game with myself while driving on the roadway. I would try to roll the window down right before I passed out from carbon monoxide poisoning, then roll it back up before freezing to death. If nothing else, being constantly on the precipice of death at least kept me from getting bored on long drives with no one else in the car.

In addition to the lack of environmental controls, it only had a six-volt battery running the electrical system. It was enough to start the car (most of the time) but it wasn’t enough for anything else. Not even a radio. Being a typical teenager in the 80’s, there was no way I couldn’t have music in my car. I eventually bought another battery, stuck it in the trunk, and wired up a portable stereo system with a state of the art, 8-track tape player.

Okay it wasn’t state of the art. It was my brother’s piece of crap player that he let me have when he upgraded to a cassette player. But it worked, and that was all I cared about.

It wasn’t until years later that I learned that carrying around a 6-volt battery in the trunk of a car attached to loose stereo wiring was an incredible fire hazard. Even if I had known, I probably would have done it anyway. After all the carbon monoxide I had been breathing, I wasn’t making good choices at that time in my life.

My point to all this is that I was grateful for what I had. I was grateful for the crappy car, the questionable heat source, and the hand-me-down 8-track tape player. I didn’t ask my dad, “Can we look for something else?”

If I had, he probably would have sold the car back to his buddy, handed me 20 bucks, and told me to go invest in a bus pass.

Now I have kids that feel entitled to turn up their noses at a car that is better and more luxurious than anything I could have ever imagined while growing up, and like I said before, it is totally my fault. I have never instilled in them a sense of appreciation for just having basic necessities.

But maybe it isn’t too late. Maybe I can start now with a more practical car for EM2.

Does anybody know what I can get for $350 these days?

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Garden of Earthly Disasters

Every year, I plant a garden in my back yard, and every year, I usually experience about 50 percent success. Half of the plants do very well, while the other half make it their mission in life to suck up water and fertilizer for a few months before dying without producing any edible payback. I have gotten used to that dynamic. I take the good and accept the bad.

Not this year. This year, every plant in my garden decided that they were going on strike. They seemed determined to show me up for the farming failure they have always perceived me to be. From the day I planted the first seeds, I could almost hear the giggles and whispers as they conspired against me.

Let this blog be my written capitulation to the inevitable. I quit. I surrender. I cease and desist. My white flag is firmly planted in the ground, and hopefully, unlike everything else I put in the ground this year, it will not die.

The ordeal started with the zucchini. I plant squash every year because it is the easiest thing in the world to grow. You almost have to go out of your way to screw up growing zucchini. It will sometimes pop up in a garden uninvited like some kind of predatory, invasive lifeform dropping out of the sky to take over the planet.

A month or so after planting, I noticed that the zucchini plants had become infested with squash bugs. I tried pesticides, oils, and even physically removing the bugs by hand. The bug population outpaced my ability to keep up with them. They sucked and chewed on the plants until the leaves wilted and the zucchini turned yellow and fell off before growing large enough to pick.

When the battle was officially lost, I pulled out the plants and threw them away. As I pulled the zucchini plants from the garden, many of the squash bugs fell off onto the ground. I began to stomp them into the dirt, venting my frustrations on the tiny invaders who had rendered the simplest plant to grow into a desiccated heap in my yard. As I stepped on the miniature vampires, I discovered something I had never previously known about squash bugs.

They can fly.

To my horror, several of the little monsters launched themselves into the air, and all I could do was watch helplessly as they redistributed themselves through the rest of the garden. They quickly disappeared from sight. As they landed on the still healthy plants, I could hear their little squeals of glee as they found fresh fields of vegetables to destroy.

In addition to the bugs, the heat this summer has been oppressive. Sacramento has been experiencing a record number of days in excess of 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Even the plants that were bug free could not hold up against long hours in the direct path of the blistering sunlight. They wilted and dried out, lying down in surrender like French soldiers in World War II.

I tried giving them extra water during the hottest part of the day, but it was as futile as trying to push back the tide with a slotted spoon. The end was obvious, and inevitable.

All summer long, I have been growing small, withered plants that would open a few pathetic flowers, then die off before being able to produce any fruits or vegetables. I haven’t been this disappointed since EM1 dropped out of college.

I have tomato plants with no tomatoes, cucumber plants with no cucumbers, pepper plants with no peppers, and lettuce that resembles the bagged salads you forget in the crisper drawer of your refrigerator for several months. (Assuming the bagged salads also included a handful of hungry bugs.)

The garden isn’t the end of it either. I have several peach trees that suffered from leaf curl and dropped all their fruit before it could ripen. I have two apricot trees that just decided to take the year off, and I’m not totally certain why. I also have a couple apple trees that the birds seem to be enjoying very much. Every piece of fruit in those apple trees seems to have been nibbled or pecked by something that was only interested enough to take a few bites before moving on to make room for the next vaguely hungry animal in line at the buffet.

And the coup de grace in this disaster of cultivation is my back lawn. I have a huge dead hole in the middle of my lawn where the kids set up their inflatable pool. They swam in the thing once, then ignored the pool for weeks. I asked them several times to deflate it and move it, but instead, they let it remain in place just long enough that nothing green could possibly survive in the circular zone of destruction directly underneath.

It’s like a cosmic joke that everything I touch this year will die a slow, agonizing death. Even grass isn’t safe from my swath of carnage.

In light of my vegetative failures, I have decided it is time to give up. Going outside each day to view the destruction of flora that used to be my home landscaping has beaten me down to the point of submission. I am accepting defeat.

From this day forward, I will remain indoors where my cursed touch will be limited to the few sacrificial house plants shivering in fear on the windowsill. The iris and the begonia are doomed, but they can die knowing that their sacrifice will not be in vain.

They died so that others might live.

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Go Play Outside

When I was growing up, I loved television and video games as much as the next kid, but my favorite times were when I could get together with my friends in the great outdoors. This type of behavior was encouraged by every parent on the block. When the kids began to get a little stir crazy and started bouncing off of the walls, moms and dads everywhere would echo that well-known caveat, “Why don’t you go play outside?”

The, “or else,” usually remained silent, but we all heard it loud and clear.

Today, playing outside is neither encouraged nor desired. Kids prefer to be indoors and interact through electronic media, never physically interacting in any way. With the current pandemic situation in our world, this mindset is being reinforced by legal and medical authority.

It makes me sad. It makes me long for the times my friends and I gathered in groups and played until the sun set and our parents came outside to yell at us that dinner was ready.

I remember a favorite game of ours when I was a teenager. It was called, “bun-ball.” It wasn’t a real game, since we just made it up.

It was sort of a cross between handball and attempted murder.

All you needed to play bun-ball was a large open area with a brick or concrete wall, a tennis ball, and a group of friends who possessed a total disregard for human life and their own safety.

The rules were simple. The person with the ball, threw the ball at the brick wall. You had to hit the wall before the ball bounced on the ground. If it hit the ground first, it was a “skip,” and you got one point. You didn’t want points. Points were bad.

After the ball bounced off of the wall, if another player caught the ball before it hit the ground, the person who threw it got a point. Players could only catch the ball with one hand. If a player trying to catch the ball, dropped it, they must run and tag the wall before another player could grab the ball and hit the player that dropped it. If you get hit with the ball before you tag the wall… yup. You guessed it. That’s a point.

We learned quickly, that when you tag the wall you should keep running, since the player that picked up the ball after you dropped it is probably going to throw it at you anyway. Late hits were surprisingly frequent and, in some cases, quite deliberate. It may not cost you a point, but it’s still going to hurt.

If you use two hands or move the ball from one hand to the other, that is called a “bobble,” and it is the same as dropping the ball. You have to run and tag the wall before someone else nails you with the tennis ball.

Those were pretty much the rules. The fun part, however, started when one player got three points. This is also how the game got its name.

A player with three points had to curl up facing the wall, with their butt sticking out. It was your choice to kneel or stand. I recommend the kneeling approach since it makes a smaller target. Every other player then had one opportunity to throw the ball at the poor sap that had accumulated three points. The throwers stood far enough away that hitting their target was not a guarantee, but still close enough so the ball had sufficient momentum to do significant damage. After everyone had a turn humiliating and injuring their friend, the person with three points got reset to zero, and the game resumed.

My friends and I used to play this game on the tennis courts at school during recess. Today, I believe that playing bun-ball on school grounds would constitute about a half dozen felonies in California. Parents these days just get way too excited when their kid limps home with a bloody lip and circular bruises all over his ass.

Anyway, my point wasn’t that my friends were insane and intent on killing each other. My point was that we were all trying to kill each other outside! We inhaled fresh air through our broken noses and spat blood onto green grass, just as God intended.

I feel bad for kids that spend their entire lives indoors. This pandemic lockdown is going to end eventually, and when it does, I am afraid that the generation growing up now will choose to stay inside anyway. That’s just sad.

I want my kids to get out of the house and go play outside.

I know that there are plenty of activities we can do indoors to keep active and mentally stimulated, but it isn’t the same when you can’t look up and see the sky. It isn’t the same if you can’t run full speed without worrying about tripping over furniture.

Besides, there just isn’t enough space in the living room to throw a tennis ball.

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Forgotten, But Not Gone

It is disheartening when you suddenly discover that you hold very little value to your family. Not just that they take you for granted, but rather that they don’t seem to notice any difference if you are there or not.

Not too long ago, I decided to take a few days to go camping on my own. I told my wife and kids about my plans weeks in advance. The trip was not a secret by any means. But on the day I packed up my gear, hooked up the trailer and got ready to leave, I said goodbye to the kids and EM2 asked me, “Where are you going?”

I’m used to being ignored by my family, so this reaction was really no surprise to me. I told her, “Never mind. Go back to sleep.” Then I left.

It was a wonderfully peaceful trip. No internet. No television. No distractions. Just me, a book, and hundreds of square miles of trees and animals to stare at.

I returned home at the end of the week to find … everything exactly the same as when I left.

The cuckoo clock had stopped running since I am apparently the only person in the house that winds it, so it was literally as if time stood completely still in the house while I was gone.

The kids were sitting on the couch where they always are during the day. (If I hadn’t actually seen them occasionally get up to pull food out of the refrigerator, I would swear they were surgically attached to the couch cushions.) There were dishes in the sink, a used pan on the stove top, and a jar of peanut butter on the kitchen counter precisely where it had been when I left the house four days earlier. And outside, on the back lawn, a mostly deflated, unused swimming pool that I had begged them to get rid of while I was gone, sagged in the overgrown grass, waiting for me to eventually throw it away.

When I walked into the house, the kids did get up and acknowledge I was home. They didn’t ask me how my trip was, or even say, “hi,” however. They just grabbed a bag of food out of my hands to see what snacks I had brought back home, and immediately started rummaging through the contents like racoons lucky enough to find an open dumpster behind their favorite restaurant. The half-eaten bag of Doritos in my bag got a better welcome home reception than I did.

While I listened to EM1 and EM2 fighting over stale chocolate chip cookies, one of the cats wandered out of the back bedroom and rubbed against my leg, demanding to be petted. I felt marginally better. At least one of the animals was glad I was home. She let me scratch her behind the ear for about five seconds before she decided she had graced me with her presence long enough and decided to go back to the bedroom.

It was at that point that I decided to text my wife to let her know I had gotten home safely. I figured at least my loving spouse would show the appropriate amount of warmth and affection to the news that I was once more with the family. I received a text back that said:

“Working late tonight. Don’t wait for me to eat dinner.”

I could feel the love radiating from the phone.

That was it. That was my greeting after four days of being gone. Maybe I should have stayed away a little longer. Perhaps if I was gone a few more days they would have actually missed me. Or they might have simply forgotten about me altogether. I’m afraid that would probably be the more likely outcome.

After about two weeks:

EM1: “Where’s Dad?”

EM2: “Who?”

EM1: “You know, the guy that used to hang around here and bother us while we watched television?”

EM2: “Quiet. I want to hear this part.”

Despite the fact my family sucks and apparently doesn’t care if I’m in the house or not, I did discover my absence hadn’t been completely unnoticed. When I arrived home, I discovered that the hummingbird feeder in the backyard was completely empty. Several hungry and pissed off hummingbirds were hanging around the empty feeder like vagrants around a closed food kitchen.

I went outside and was immediately dive bombed by a handful of the tiny moochers. While I don’t actually speak hummingbird, I’m quite certain a few of them were making unkind remarks about me not knowing who my father was. Who knew cute little hummingbirds could be so cruel?

 I refilled the feeder, despite the awful things the birds had said to me, then ran for my life as a cloud of the winged opportunists swarmed in from every direction. Now that there was food available again, I was just the guy that was between them and their lunch.

I went back in the house and found the kids had returned to the couch. Their attention was once more firmly fixed on whatever foreign-language soap opera they had found that morning, and any attempt on my part at conversation would be firmly met with rolled eyes and shushing noises. The only difference was now they were surrounded by the wrappers and detritus of the pillaged snacks they had stolen from me. I shook my head, realizing that it would probably be my job later to throw away the nest of garbage they had just built around themselves. I know they can’t be bothered to do it.

Even though I was now home, I was just as alone as if I was still surrounded by miles of empty forest.

With no one to talk to and nothing better to do, I went into my den, turned on the computer, and started looking for places to go on my next camping trip.

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Do What You Gotta Do

In twenty-five years of working in law enforcement, I’ve seen and heard quite a few threats from people who were going to have me fired or would “have my badge.” Despite the fact that there were a surprising number of such threats, my career survived them all.

My badge stayed pinned to my chest the entire time.

I once pulled over a teenager who was driving a Lamborghini Countach at 50 miles per hour in a 25 MPH zone. When I asked him for his driver’s license, he asked, “Do you know who my dad is?”

I responded, “I guess your dad is the guy who’s going to be pissed off his son got a speeding ticket while driving his $100,000 car.”

The kid didn’t like this answer very much. He also did not like it when I added that he did not have any proof of vehicle insurance to the citation. To this day, I still don’t know who his dad was since I never heard from the kid or his allegedly career-destroying parent ever again.

In addition to threats, I have also dealt with tears, bribes, promises, and pleas. I was even propositioned once, although I didn’t realize what was happening until it was already over. I pulled over a woman who had just gone through an intersection without stopping at the stop sign. When I walked up to the driver’s side window, the young lady was wearing a black miniskirt that barely covered her hips and a white blouse with the first four buttons unfastened. The view was rather impressive.

She smiled at me and asked how I was doing. I said fine and asked her for her driver’s license. When I explained that she had gone through a stop sign she laughed and apologized. She said, “I must have been distracted. I’m so sorry. I promise that will never happen again.” I thanked her and started walking back to my patrol vehicle with her paperwork.

The woman poked her head out of the window and yelled, “Hey! Are you giving me a f***ing ticket?”

I said I was, then asked her to remain in her car. When I returned to have her sign the ticket, her skirt was pulled down to her knees and her blouse was buttoned up to the neck. I have never before or since seen anyone shift from flirty stripper mode to angry nun quite so quickly. She signed the ticket while glaring at me the entire time, then drove off before I had time to tell her to have a nice day.

My favorite traffic stop story, however, has to be the time I was following a black SUV and I watched the vehicle drive past a stop sign without slowing down. I activated my overhead lights to pull the vehicle over. The SUV drove several more blocks without any acknowledgement that I was behind it. I turned on my siren thinking that maybe the driver just hadn’t noticed me. The vehicle still did not stop.

About the time I was considering using my radio to request an additional officer for a “failure to yield,” (police double talk for “I think I’m in a really, really slow car chase”) the SUV turned down a side street and finally pulled over. I approached the vehicle and noticed that the driver was talking on his cell phone. I started to ask for his driver’s license, but he held up a finger and told me, “Hold on!”

I paused, and I heard him say over the phone, “Yeah, he’s right here next to me. You want to talk to him?” The driver then held his phone out toward me. “Your Patrol Commander wants to talk to you.”

Surprised, and curious, I accepted the phone.

“Hello?” I said.

“Who is this?” said the voice on the phone.

“Officer Wilbanks. Hillsborough Police Department.”

“Oh, hi, Gary. It’s Tom.”

Oddly enough, I actually was talking to my Patrol Commander. He asked me what was going on and I explained why I had pulled the SUV over.

“Sounds pretty straight forward,” he said to me. “Do what you gotta do.”

“Do you want to talk to the guy again?” I asked.

“No. Just hang up. I don’t really want to talk to him anymore.”

I disconnected the call and handed the phone back the driver. He had an unpleasant smile on his face as he accepted his phone. “Well?” he asked, getting ready to drive away.

“I need your driver’s license and proof of insurance, please.”

The smile on his face went away. He handed me his information, then told me, “You must really not want this job anymore.”

“There are days I don’t love it,” I admitted. “But today isn’t one of them.”

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Enjoying Deep Dark Thoughts? Follow me on Facebook so you don’t miss a post. Just go to my page and click the “Like” button to receive updates on my blog and other projects.

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