Paul Bacon by Bad Cop: New York's Least Likely Police Officer Tells All Page B
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different from my neighborhood. There were buildings and people and cars, and everybody was rushing around, looking too
busy to make any trouble. I settled into the familiar groove and started paying attention to important details. I saw a pizza
joint, a grocery store, and a restaurant that made soul food. I didn’t know what soul food was, but it sounded satisfying.
I decided I’d try some—later. I wanted to get to the precinct and claim a locker before the other rookies showed up.
I found myself nearly alone when I entered the Three-two men’s locker room. In the many rows of tall gray lockers, I saw only
one other cop. A mustachioed man in his early forties, he looked like a veteran on the job. He sat on a bench wearing only
uniform pants, applying a generous coat of underarm deodorant with a blank look on his face. He seemed lost in thought, so
I walked past his row without introducing myself.
I ambled up and down the corridors just looking at lockers. Covered in bumper stickers and pictures and trinkets, they were
a trove of information about my new colleagues, much of it conflicting. One officer’s locker was decorated with a dancing
line of Grateful Dead bears and an American flag sticker with the words, 9-11: NEVER FORGET. Another person’s locker featured
a U.S. Marine Corps emblem next to a string of ASPCA stickers with pictures of a puppy, a kitten, and a bunny. Below both
of these was a sticker that said, FUCK AUTHORITY. I saw a Monty Python film festival advertisement beside a flier for an all-female
hip-hop group that said, WORD ON THE STREET IS THE NEW ALLURE ALBUM IS BANGIN’ . . . NO QUESTION. The last locker in the row
had only one sticker, which read, YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT. so shut up!
I eventually made my way back to Deodorant Man, who was now in full uniform, combing his mustache in front of a mirror in
his locker. He caught my eye in the mirror and said, “You just come out?”
“Can you tell?” I joked.
“Good. A sense of humor. You’ll need it,” he said, turning around and reaching out his hand. “Congratulations, by the way.
My name’s Perry.”
“Do you work the four-to-twelve tour?” I asked. Maybe he’d be my partner someday.
He laughed as though I’d asked him if he was the attorney general. “I wish,” he said. “No, I’ve been a bad boy, so I’m on
the midnights now. I’m just here to finish up a call-uh.”
“A what?” I said.
“A call-uh, ” he repeated, pulling at his shirt collar and sticking out his tongue like he was being hauled away by the neck. “An arrest!
Jesus, what are they teaching at the academy these days?”
“I guess it’s pretty PC now,” I said. Maybe I’d missed out on something.
“I guess,” he said.
I noticed a splash of sunlight on the wall behind him, so I carried my stuff over for a look. At the end of the row, three
available lockers faced a small plate-glass window overlooking the street. This was prime real estate. The area was bright,
with plenty of room to stretch out, so I wouldn’t have people tripping over me while I got dressed. I looked at my watch and
saw it was almost time for roll call. My new rookie coworkers would be showing up in droves any minute, so I decided my search
was over. I slapped a combination lock on the door handle and started to unpack.
“You don’t want one of those,” Officer Perry told me.
“Why not?” I said.
“The window,” he said. “You wanna get shot? Don’t forget where you are now.”
* * *
Our first roll call would be historic. Thirty rookies were coming into the precinct at one time, more than twice the usual
number, and five newly made bosses were filling leadership slots that had never existed before. The walls of the Three-two
muster room were covered in colorful charts and maps, meeting books were piled on tables, and a box of fresh summonses stood
by the door.
Stepping inside, I was initially drawn to
busy to make any trouble. I settled into the familiar groove and started paying attention to important details. I saw a pizza
joint, a grocery store, and a restaurant that made soul food. I didn’t know what soul food was, but it sounded satisfying.
I decided I’d try some—later. I wanted to get to the precinct and claim a locker before the other rookies showed up.
I found myself nearly alone when I entered the Three-two men’s locker room. In the many rows of tall gray lockers, I saw only
one other cop. A mustachioed man in his early forties, he looked like a veteran on the job. He sat on a bench wearing only
uniform pants, applying a generous coat of underarm deodorant with a blank look on his face. He seemed lost in thought, so
I walked past his row without introducing myself.
I ambled up and down the corridors just looking at lockers. Covered in bumper stickers and pictures and trinkets, they were
a trove of information about my new colleagues, much of it conflicting. One officer’s locker was decorated with a dancing
line of Grateful Dead bears and an American flag sticker with the words, 9-11: NEVER FORGET. Another person’s locker featured
a U.S. Marine Corps emblem next to a string of ASPCA stickers with pictures of a puppy, a kitten, and a bunny. Below both
of these was a sticker that said, FUCK AUTHORITY. I saw a Monty Python film festival advertisement beside a flier for an all-female
hip-hop group that said, WORD ON THE STREET IS THE NEW ALLURE ALBUM IS BANGIN’ . . . NO QUESTION. The last locker in the row
had only one sticker, which read, YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT. so shut up!
I eventually made my way back to Deodorant Man, who was now in full uniform, combing his mustache in front of a mirror in
his locker. He caught my eye in the mirror and said, “You just come out?”
“Can you tell?” I joked.
“Good. A sense of humor. You’ll need it,” he said, turning around and reaching out his hand. “Congratulations, by the way.
My name’s Perry.”
“Do you work the four-to-twelve tour?” I asked. Maybe he’d be my partner someday.
He laughed as though I’d asked him if he was the attorney general. “I wish,” he said. “No, I’ve been a bad boy, so I’m on
the midnights now. I’m just here to finish up a call-uh.”
“A what?” I said.
“A call-uh, ” he repeated, pulling at his shirt collar and sticking out his tongue like he was being hauled away by the neck. “An arrest!
Jesus, what are they teaching at the academy these days?”
“I guess it’s pretty PC now,” I said. Maybe I’d missed out on something.
“I guess,” he said.
I noticed a splash of sunlight on the wall behind him, so I carried my stuff over for a look. At the end of the row, three
available lockers faced a small plate-glass window overlooking the street. This was prime real estate. The area was bright,
with plenty of room to stretch out, so I wouldn’t have people tripping over me while I got dressed. I looked at my watch and
saw it was almost time for roll call. My new rookie coworkers would be showing up in droves any minute, so I decided my search
was over. I slapped a combination lock on the door handle and started to unpack.
“You don’t want one of those,” Officer Perry told me.
“Why not?” I said.
“The window,” he said. “You wanna get shot? Don’t forget where you are now.”
* * *
Our first roll call would be historic. Thirty rookies were coming into the precinct at one time, more than twice the usual
number, and five newly made bosses were filling leadership slots that had never existed before. The walls of the Three-two
muster room were covered in colorful charts and maps, meeting books were piled on tables, and a box of fresh summonses stood
by the door.
Stepping inside, I was initially drawn to
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