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I remember exactly what went through my head. Holy shit, oh my God, I’m not ready for this. We’d always wanted to wait five years, but you know how it is. One thing happens after another, and suddenly your life is taking off without you.

As a police officer, I was resigned to the fact that I’d never be rich. It was a decent living, though, and about six months later, Elaine and I were able to buy our first home for our growing family. Our single-story, two-bedroom house was in Covina, about twenty-five miles from the academy.

I felt prepared for what lay ahead. Looking back, I had no idea what was coming.

Under badge #10238, I entered my probation period at Southwest. In California, the standard training for police officers is called Peace Officer Standards and Training (POST). All probationary officers, or P1s, have to get a basic certificate to be considered full-fledged officers. I’d be on probation for the next year, paired with a training officer, or P3, and put to work on the streets. That training officer would become my partner until I was assigned to another when I switched watches, or shifts.

Every day I was out in the police car on patrol answering calls. In Southwest, we had five calls holding most of the time. As soon as we cleared one listing, another one would take its place. It was busy but fun.

Some of the calls would amount to nothing. We might get a burglary call and report to the building only to discover the alarm had been set off by the wind. Then there were very serious calls, for rape or child abuse, for example. Some calls I’d never forget, no matter how hard I tried. Some people are capable of the unthinkable at any given moment, hurting their friends, wives, husbands, even their own children. You never know when someone is going to snap.

Thankfully, not all of my calls were tragic. Some were quite comical, in fact. On one occasion, we were called to a domestic dispute. An old couple who had been together about forty years thought it was time to part ways.

My training officer listened to each side’s complaints, then calmly slipped his badge off his chest and placed it in his open, outstretched hand. Remember, his job was to keep the peace—no more, no less. As serious as a minister on Sunday, he said, “You both really don’t want to be together anymore. Do I have that right?”

“Yes, sir, I’m tired of her. She’s just a nasty woman,” the old man said.

“He’s a son of a bitch,” his wife said.

“Well, all right,” my partner said. “Put your hands on my badge. By the powers vested in me by the state of California and the city of Los Angeles, you are hereby divorced from one another.”

The couple looked at my partner.

“So I’m not married to her anymore?” the old man asked.

“Nope, not anymore,” the officer said. “You feel better?”

“Goddamn right I do. I’m a free man.”

As my partner and I left the house, I saw the old man beam.

“Did they really believe that?” I asked.

“Hell, yes, they believed it,” my partner said, “and they’re gonna be making love tomorrow anyway, so it really doesn’t matter.”

Some calls defied logic. Sometimes survival trumped everything else.

On Thanksgiving, we were sent to a family dispute and arrived to survey the father sitting at the dinner table with a fork stuck in his hand and his son shot dead in the chair across from him. It turned out the son had been mad at his father for taking the piece of turkey he wanted, and this was the end result.

Because of what we saw as officers every day, we all had to gain a sense of humor about things. Otherwise, the scenes would drive us crazy. I don’t want to say we became desensitized. There were sobering images we’d never get over seeing again and again, but we made light of things to get through the days.

I learned how to be an officer when I started working patrol in the divisions. At first, I struggled to fit in with the realities of being on the force. The LAPD wasn’t quite what I’d imagined, and I have to admit I was disappointed after