ONE MAN’S
LONG DANCE WITH DEATH
HELP IS
AVAILABLE
PRIDE IS NO
REASON TO DIE
NO MOS
SHOULD SUFFER IN SILENCE
TAGS: NYPD MOS SUICIDE, SUICIDE AS OCCUPATIONAL
HAZARD
FOR LEO’S, DISCREET HELP ALWAYS AVAILABLE,
SUICIDE
IS NOT IN EVERYONE’S VOCABULARY,
SENSE
SOMETHING ABOUT A CO-WORKER, REACH OUT
TO
HIM OR HER, MOST SUICIDES ARE PREVENTABLE
(Friday, December 19, 2014, NYC) He had had his nights. Times when the world seemed to be at a
hazardous kilter that was making him dizzy.
His thoughts would race on those nights and like the repetitive bursts
of the same songs as the scan mode went through the stations on a car radio;
his mind scanned through his memories and kept revealing the same handful of
scenarios over and over again until they became one cohesive block. It was a
bit unnerving that in that vast ocean of his past that he would always come
back to that handful of moments, moments frozen in time where he perpetrated an
error of commission or omission. Yes, he had had his nights; sometimes, after a
12 to 8 tour as the rest of the City was going about on their way to work he
would find himself in the lonely shadows of a Blarney Stone or some other
shithole tavern that actually did a brisk business at that time of day. People who sit on bar stools at 8:30 in the
morning see the world outside differently.
That was fine. There were few people
who could see the world the way he did and, even those who occasionally did, were rarely up for a few shots of Jameson’s before
the morning rush hour was even over. So,
he drank alone.
He was a good drinker, a good
bar customer. He sat alone at the
farthest corner of the bar so his back was against a wall: laid out his cash,
placed his cigarettes and lighter to one side of an ashtray, read the paper,
did a crossword puzzle and bothered no one.
And no one bothered him. Of
course those were the days before the Imperial Mayor had swept into City Hall
and began to regulate the habits of New Yorkers. Fucker.
There was no small irony lost in that the City had become the safest
large City in the country, the number one destination for foreign travelers,
very business friendly, and clean thanks to the efforts of Bloomberg’s
predecessor and the NYPD. Things were
running so smoothly that he had time to dream up all sorts of “quality of life”
ordinances and initiatives. Rudy
Giuliani had inherited one God-awful mess after the abysmally inept David Dinkins and during his two terms things, the
things that really matter, turned around.
He had been proud to be part of the PD when that tectonic shift
occurred.
But on this particular morning
he wasn’t thinking much about anything or anyone besides himself. Typically, when he got in one of these moods,
he could identify the precipitating event.
On this morning which was shaping up to be sunny and clear as far as he
could tell, he wasn’t sure why he was sitting where he was. Clearly something
triggered this mood; some scene or words exchanged with a mope; something was
eating at him like the itch in a phantom limb that an amputee can never
scratch. Some cluster of nerve endings
in his un- or subconscious mind was twitching.
Not caring at the moment for some introspection he let the warmth of the
smooth Irish whiskey to gradually round the edges in his
mind. It usually did. For some reason on this morning he couldn’t
identify the singular event or encounter that was troubling him and, after a
few more Jameson’s he realized it was not a single event or scenario; it was
the cumulative effect of the countless jobs, situations, scenarios, crisis,
disorder; of witnessing year after year the callousness of people, the petty,
trivial things they will kill over, kill for, deliver violence and brutality of
an epic scale upon those least able to defend themselves. Yes, it was always the children; the children
are what could make his blood boil and heart ache.
***** ***** *****
Suddenly, without recognizing him
at first, an old friend came and sat next to him. He was familiar with this specter, this
mindset that conjured up what he’d long referred to as “the option”. The option had traveled through life with
him since his early teen years. For a
very long time, most of his lifetime actually, he could and would not speak to
another about the option. To do so might
get him a permanent appointment with a Department psychiatrist or even worse
some bleeding heart liberal psychologist the Department had on retainer would have him reassigned to "Thee Bow and Arrow Squad". So he kept his option a secret; he protected
his secret from anyone who might disparage it or otherwise imply he suffered
from some sort of mental illness. After all, who besides a deeply disturbed man
would ever even consider such an option?
But he found an odd sense of comfort in owning the option. His
thinking in this regard was akin to that of an agoraphobic; a person who always
had to have an escape route planned just in case…just in case of what? Just in case of a panic attack or some other sense
of being confined or impending doom. No but he
held on to his option for similar reasons; if he ever decided it was time to
exit, he could take himself out. Death via his service piece or one of his other fire arms was literally an arm's length away. If he
ever arrived at the point where his ambivalence towards life became a hazard
for others, he’d be close to a proverbial door and simply slip out. Yes, he found comfort in the option.
***** *****
*****
Given the estrangement that
has set in like a tenacious virus between the NYPD and Mayor Bill de Blasio’s
administration, one is left to wonder if the Mayor has reached out to the family
of the 33 year old, father of two, 10 year veteran Police Officer Sachin Singh
who killed himself yesterday. Sadly,
this tragic story has not been covered in the media aside from a short blurb in
the Daily News. Suicide retains its age
old distinction as a taboo, an unnatural act committed by a mind housed in a
body that is completely constructed to cling to life. Human biology is fundamentally, when taken in
total, all about survival. While we are
composed of “selfish genes” determined to thrive, it is in the dark recesses of
the soul, the shadowy nether regions of the mind that suicide lurks. Like toxic mushrooms suicide grows in the
damp shaded underbrush of a spirit that sees no light.
But it is a spore that does not take root in everyone’s mind; it simply
doesn’t register with most people as an option for anything and therefore it is
a closely held secret by those who’ve allowed it to flourish.
As a rule the NYPD does not
call attention to the suicide of one of their own. They keep very quiet about it as they instinctively, collectively circle the wagons knowing that every detail of the
suicide’s life is going to be scrutinized by the Internal Affairs Division
(IAD). They will look into his bank accounts;
speak with his colleagues, family, neighbors and friends looking for something
untoward in the Officer’s life that they can explain the suicide away. This is some of the nasty, disrespectful fallout
that ensues after a Cop’s suicide. In
the locker room of the Precinct the suicide was assignation to the other Cops
would scour their memories of the last interaction, the last conversation each
of them had had with the deceased. Some
would wonder if they had missed some warning sign, some change in demeanor or
personality that may have, could have been a red flag that something was not
quite right with their colleague. This
line of thought occurs quite naturally after every suicide be the deceased a
Cop or civilian. Suicide just seems so
far beyond most others comprehension that they need to know why; why did this
happen and could I have done anything, anything at all to prevent it? Rarely are such questions ever answered. Death by suicide typically leaves more
unknown than known. The answers are held
by the suicide into the grave.
***** *****
*****
The bar he found himself in on
this morning was called the Molly Wee.
It was on 8th Avenue and 30th Street just a
block south of Penn Station and Madison Square Garden. His Dad had always called this bar and others
of its ilk a “bucket of blood”. But,
now, there was no crowd from a Knicks or Rangers game, no college revelers
doing shots of weird concoctions after a big concert at the Garden. No, for these hours this was a hard-core drinker’s
bar. Despite the Irish name the only
thing Irish about this tavern were the bottles of Jameson and Bushmills on the
top shelf of the back bar. Since the
long dirty window faced west as the rush hour gave way to mid-morning the bar
was graced by bright sunlight that illuminated the gauzy cloud of cigarette
smoke that hung in a slow moving layer like some indoor vapor trail just above
the old wooden bar.
Without realizing it the bar
had begun to fill up a bit. A few old
grizzled Irish pensioners, likely retired longshoremen and stevedores, talking quietly and smoking cheap cigars; a few
Latino guys with the logo of an office cleaning service on their shirts, a hooker
of indeterminate age slumped on the stool nearest the door with the tell-tale track marks on her arm of a heroin addict, and a couple of big
firemen from the Engine 1, Ladder 24 House on 31st Street between 7th
and 8th Avenues. They nodded
at him and raised their glasses and he in return raised his. He recognized them from the days he spent
working in Midtown South. He liked
fireman for a number of reasons and was just a bit envious of the public appreciation
they received, and rightfully so; he wished the public had some modicum of
appreciation for his Department and the men and women who served on the front line between civil society and chaos.
But, shit, what the fuck, he thought.
Everyone has a role to play; everyone made a choice many years ago and
that was that.
For a moment he lost sight of
the option and wondered if he’d slipped out the back door between the restrooms
and a storage closet. In that moment he
found a wave of relief wash over him because frankly, he knew he was just not
up to dealing with the option today. It
was often a draining experience to spend time with the option; sometimes
terrifying, at other times tranquilizing. The
dichotomy inherent in this relationship was not lost in him but, long ago he’d
ceased analyzing his relationship with the option. They knew each other well enough to know when
to poke and prod and when to back off, to just let life unfold in its all too messy
and random ways.
***** *****
*****
The first suicide victim he
had ever seen was a 66 year old man, a divorced retired military officer who
was at the time the director of security for a big building in Midtown. This fella, possessed of whatever personal mayhem
that raged on that night in his mind, sat on the lid of the toilet and placed a
.45 caliber sidearm in his mouth and pulled the trigger. His neighbors had
heard the shot; a .45 is a big, heavy, loud gun and they had phoned 911. He and his partner arrived only to see what
was left of this man’s cranium precariously balanced on his facial bones while
the rest of his skull and brains were plastered to the wall in chunks and clumps behind the poor fucker. It was during the hours it took for the
Medical Examiner’s crew to arrive that he spent time looking at this man with
half a head on his shoulders. What
possessed him to do this? How much balls
does it take to commit suicide in such a brutal, sloppy manner? Was there a note left behind that might
explain why he did this? Who was his
legal next of kin and have they been contacted?
Once a person expires from whatever the cause a well-worn, efficient mechanism is
set in motion by the NYPD on the scene and the ME’s Office. The victim’s
family is contacted if there is any lead as to who they might be. It is not unusual to trace a dead end seeking the next of kin of a suicide. Had they had better relations, more contact and communication, perhaps the suicide would never have happened. He was probably some one's grandpa. This is a common thought that every Cop whose ever had to "secure" such a crime scene wonders about.
The process can be perceived as a cold, callous,and intrusively obscene as a routine by the next of kin but, every such incident is first assumed to be a homicide and is handled as such. In this particular case it did not take very long, merely a matter of hours, to determine that this man had indeed taken his own life. To this very day he could see that man’s final facial expression. He looked to be oddly at peace.
The process can be perceived as a cold, callous,and intrusively obscene as a routine by the next of kin but, every such incident is first assumed to be a homicide and is handled as such. In this particular case it did not take very long, merely a matter of hours, to determine that this man had indeed taken his own life. To this very day he could see that man’s final facial expression. He looked to be oddly at peace.
***** *****
*****
It was nearing noon as he
walked back to the men’s room that reeked of piss, disgust, and Lysol. As he stood there
relieving himself he could not help but to read the graffiti on the wall in
front of him and the metal partition to his left. It was mostly the typical barroom shit, the
names of unknown women who had committed unknown transgressions by the guy who
carved some insult in the paint maybe with his apartment key. There was something sad in all these
emotional, bile-driven epithets and he was left to wonder anew about his own
past, the women who had come in and out of his own life and, at some point in
their relationship, had realized it was in their best interest to leave him to
his own devices, to not ask to be introduced to his demons, and, above all, he’d guarded the existence of them. That was his option.
The results of a life carried out in such a fashion eventually catches
up with you and this he realized more clearly with each passing day.
As he washed his hands in the
rust stained sink he looked into the stall thinking perhaps the option was just
hiding from him for the moment, poised to pounce at any second. But that would not be the case on this day. He collected his cigarettes and lighter, left
the newspapers behind for the next person to read through, gave the barman a
very generous tip and walked out onto 8th Avenue. He could see the bright yellow and blue
umbrella of a Sabrett’s hot dog vendor on the next corner. He walked in that direction, ordered two dogs
with onions, mustard and relish and continued on walking south. His apartment was a bit of a walk from where
he started but he needed the sunlight, the air and the activity. Before he realized it the option had taken
leave. That was a good thing. He was planning to go to bed and sleep as
soon as he got home. The option could
visit anytime; sometimes at the worst of times but for the time being they
seemed to have forged a fragile détente’, a ceasefire that would last for who
knew how long? At least today he’d kept
the option at arm’s length, the very same distance in which he wore his service
piece. The .38 caliber, five shot wheel
gun with a 2 inch barrel was worn on his ankle; this was the piece his Dad had
given him when he’d graduated from the Academy eons ago.
He thought often about his Dad
who, at the still tender age of 18 found himself a Marine on a landing craft to
be beached on Okinawa. He had occasionally
in his later years spoken about death and it was from him that he was taught
that everyman, no matter what they proclaim or say, will cling to life tooth
and nail. Marines in the island-hopping
South Pacific battle theater learned this lesson exceptionally well.
But life is not meant for
everyone; longevity as a goal might reside in our DNA but in the minds and
souls of others, it has no appeal. To do
battle with an ambivalence towards life seems so anathema to most that those
who have a long-term relationship with the option know they cannot speak of it.
At 23rd and 9th there is a church. The doors were open so he walked inside, his vision unfocused from the abrupt change from the light of day to the darkness of the church. He sat for a moment looking up at the stained glass windows; various Saints captured in an artisans mind made real in wedges of thick glass. If it was a Saturday he may have waited around to make a Confession but there was no Priest to be found on this early afternoon. He said a few prayers, asked God to forgive him his many transgressions and also pleaded his case for a rapid and imminent death. It was probably a sin to pray for death but it couldn’t hurt. He immediately recalled the axiom to “be careful what you pray for…you just might get it”.
At 23rd and 9th there is a church. The doors were open so he walked inside, his vision unfocused from the abrupt change from the light of day to the darkness of the church. He sat for a moment looking up at the stained glass windows; various Saints captured in an artisans mind made real in wedges of thick glass. If it was a Saturday he may have waited around to make a Confession but there was no Priest to be found on this early afternoon. He said a few prayers, asked God to forgive him his many transgressions and also pleaded his case for a rapid and imminent death. It was probably a sin to pray for death but it couldn’t hurt. He immediately recalled the axiom to “be careful what you pray for…you just might get it”.
DEDICATED TO THE MEN AND WOMEN WHO HAVE SERVED WITH
DIGNITY, HONOR AND VALOR YET BECAME CONSUMED
DIGNITY, HONOR AND VALOR YET BECAME CONSUMED
BY THE REALITIES OF THEIR CHOSEN PROFESSION.
GOD BLESS AND KEEP THEM ALL.
AMEN
Copyright The
Brooding Cynyx 2014 © All Rights Reserved
