A whimsical look at growing up—with apologies to all my former field supervisors.
When you’re a little boy, you can’t wait to grow up. To be a big guy. To be an “adult.”
Then at some point, maybe in your late teens, or early twenties, when you’re living life and just having a great time, maybe getting into a little trouble here and there, you stop and look around. Perhaps being an adult isn’t the greatest thing. A lot of “fun” things are not necessarily “adult” things. You begin to think, “If I really grow up, will life be fun any more?”
Maybe—just maybe—that’s why I loved being a street cop in Chicago. The city essentially gave me a car with a full tank of gas, a revolver and 12 extra bullets, and told me to go out and look for trouble. Dispatchers even gave me hints on where to look, over the radio. And the city paid me! Let’s see… I was 28 when I came on the force and I worked the street for fourteen years. Patrol and homicide. That means I didn’t even have to think about growing up until I was 42. It was great!
Then I made Sergeant. Suddenly I was responsible for other people. Pity… it was downhill from there.