By Hal Collier, Retired LAPD
Ramblings: Drunks in the Park
I was reading Mikey’s blog about “Short Dogs” and it sparked a very old memory. I started the police academy on Oct. 5, 1970. The first month they crammed our brains with criminal law, self-defense tactics, PT (physical training), which I was told was rougher than Marine Corp boot camp. They also had us throw some lead down range at some silhouette targets. The second month they sent us out to patrol for one day on weekends. We were as green as could be, but we were dressed as real cops and even had loaded guns.
My story begins with our fourth month. We’re getting a little cocky. Our walk is getting that swagger, but we still don’t have a clue how to do real police work. In the past your fourth month was spent in the field. You got to work patrol for two weeks, had driver training, a couple of days working with detectives and, don’t forget the thrill-packed trip to the coroner’s office. They showed you dead bodies and maybe even an autopsy. A lot in my class had been to Viet Nam so dead bodies were not a shock.
We were all looking forward to a whole month of no PT instructors yelling at us and making reference to our heritage! Our class was assigned to station security; guess where? That’s right, the police academy. I guess I was lucky, I got assigned day watch. That’s right, I’m guarding the police academy where just about everybody has a loaded gun. Weekends were nice not too many people around, but I still had a loaded gun. I felt kind of sorry for my classmates who got graveyard shift. Not too much going on after dark unless you wandered into the “Rock Garden.” The Rock Garden was behind the Academy Lounge where cops would have a refreshing beverage and unwind, often with members of the fairer sex. I heard the rock garden was like the last row of a drive-in movie. I have no personal knowledge; remember, I was married.
So, after two weeks of walking around the Academy I finally get to play policemen in the field. I’m assigned to Rampart day watch. Rampart is just west of downtown Los Angeles. My first day I’m assigned to work with a foot beat officer whose assignment is to patrol MacArthur park. I asked my partner what we do in MacArthur park on day watch and he says we arrest drunks. I’m thinking I ran 5 miles up and down hills around the academy and did push-ups as the sun was setting to arrest drunks? I then had an inspiration—arresting drunks beat the hell out of doing pushups at sundown.
After coffee we head to the park. We drive up the ramp on the sidewalk and head down the foot path into the park. I’m not familiar with the drunks that might be in the park. At the first park bench, my partner stops about three feet away. The biggest Great Dane I ever saw walks up to my car window and sticks his enormous head inches from my face. I believe the dog had just completed some personal hygiene. I guess my expression was funny because my partner and the owner laughed.
The next park bench has a couple of old-timers. Sitting on the ground between them is a plain brown paper bag wrapped neatly around a cylindrical glass bottle. My partner asked them who does that bag belong to. Both deny any knowledge of the bag. My partner confiscates the bag and much to my surprise it contains a bottle of red wine. The bottle is emptied in the trash can in front of the men. I thought I saw a tear in one of men’s eyes.
The next bench has four men sitting upright. We get out of the car for this group. Again, there’s a bottle in the brown paper bag on the ground. The men all have bloodshot eyes and one’s starting to lean to the port side. My partner asks the men to stand. None of them can. They seem to be a happy bunch as we put them into the back seat of our car.
This bottle of wine is placed in our older model Plymouth black and white.
We drive to PAB (downtown) where the local jail is for Rampart Division. We pull into the back of the misdemeanor section of the jail and then my partner taught me a lesson I used for the next 35 years. He handed the bottle of wine that we had found in the park and handed it to the four men. They each took a long drink until the bottle was empty. No one complained that they preferred white wine. I walked the first drunk up to the booking officer and the officer called my first arrestee by his first name. They were happy and gave us no problems during booking.
My partner said to me, “Remember, they’re people and treat them with a little respect. They’re easier to book when happy.”
He also said, “Remember to use good officer safety tactics because even a drunk can be dangerous.”
–Hal
I would say anyone who isn’t in a coma or traction is a multi-tasker. Life is full of multiple things you have to do every day to live.
The first book comes back for more revisions. I’ve been in contact with my cover designer (Covered by CLKeerins 
Paty Jager is an award-winning author of 32 novels, 6 novellas, and numerous anthologies of murder mystery, western romance, and action adventure. All her work has Western or Native American elements in them along with hints of humor and engaging characters. This is what Mysteries Etc says about her Shandra Higheagle mystery series: “Mystery, romance, small town, and Native American heritage combine to make a compelling read.”
Way back in the 70’s a tragic event took place at California Institute for Men (CIM). A depressed employee went to his assignment on first watch in “A” Tower at the West yard.
By Catharine Bramkamp
A jail division sergeant grabbed the motor officer’s right arm which brings the copper out of his trance. He slowly lowers the now very hysterical queen down who fainted as he fell back onto the toilet in the sitting position exactly where he started.
I start each day convinced I have adequate blocks of time to dedicate to my big projects, and the same thing happens every time: Life gets in the way in the form of emails, social media, the need to eat and do the laundry, children and animals that beg for attention, and phone calls. Every major project requires quality focused attention, but life’s big and little necessities must be dealt with too. That’s where the other ninety percent of my multi-task capital is invested. I’m not one for hours-long phone calls, but there are a few people with whom it’s unavoidable. When one of them calls, it can go either way: “How frustrating! Aunt Bea phoned and I heard about her bee-keeping manual for two hours,” or “Aunt Bea called to chat about Bee Bliss, and you wouldn’t believe what I accomplished in those two hours! The dishwasher got unloaded, the veggies are prepped for dinner, I folded the laundry and polished the chandelier for the first time ever, the sliding door runners are sparkling clean, sixty dollars in quarters are rolled and ready for deposit, hundreds of old emails are now deleted, there’s freshly juiced grapefruit in the fridge, I filled fifty gelatin capsules with organic turmeric to ward off inflammation and chopped a bowlful of ginger to improve digestion, I touched up the black canvas on my old espadrilles with permanent marker, filed my nails, ironed two shirts, brushed the cat, and best of all, I saved at least twenty dollars by darning the toes of my socks!”
Last year I told you of my best friend and former partner, Richard L. Sullivan 
Many years after retirement, I was at a dinner party seated across from a young woman probably mid/late 30’s and a psychologist. I’m looking forward to some interesting conversation. Seated to her left is her male companion, a federal agent with the “ATF” (Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms), with possibly 2-3 years on the job. He is seated directly across from my wife, Susan who is on my right.
Before she could recover I hit her with the clincher. “And wife number three died of a broken neck when she fell down the stairs.” At this point, the psychologist was losing color and had the deer in headlights look.
The closest I came was early one morning when Neil Diamond saved my life! I was working day watch and I liked to get my workout in before roll call. I would get up at 4 AM, shave, grab my lunch that my wife made me and get on the road. Now I only lived eleven miles from work so my commute was about 20 minutes. Very little traffic that time of the morning, mostly big rig trucks and few other knot-heads like me who start early. Oh, there were a few who were on their way home after a night on the town!
We were standing in the parking lot of the Wilshire police Station and we were debriefing the nights activities. Ok, we were standing behind the open trunk of a car drinking beer. That’s a big no no in the LAPD Manual. We had been debriefing for about one beer, oh, I mean 20 minutes when a shot rang out and whizzed past my head! We all ducked as a reaction but since the bullet has already missed us, a late response.