Hey Dad

Being exiled is a terrible experience. It's an unhealable rift and sadness that can never be surmounted. There might be heroic, romantic, glorious, even triumphant episodes in one’s life, but these can't overcome the crippling sorrow of estrangement.
—Edward Said

The Way We Were

As Thomas Jefferson said, in a broken nest you find precious few whole eggs. So it is with the family.

I’m a single dad and I can say Jefferson’s observation is true—at least, how it applies to my son and me.

We’re both cops—he’s a beat cop and I’m chief of detectives, but it’s pretty well the same deal and I can tell you, it’s not like Blue Bloods on TV.

I envy Tom Selleck sitting there week after week, his family gathered around the table for Sunday dinner—Tom bowing his head, saying grace—Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts.

It’s just not going to happen for me and it kinda makes me sad.

You see, Brad, my son blames me for the breakup of our family—he thinks his mom, Emily, was abandoned by me. She died last year of cancer, but what he doesn’t know is she left me for another man.

She didn’t tell him and I didn’t either—because that other man was a cop like me. He was killed in the line of duty. After that, there was no going back for Em and me—and no going forward for Brad and me.

That's the long and the short of my miserable life.

The phone rings and the caller ID says, Brad. I let it ring and go to message. Then I pick up:

Hey Dad, Hear you drew the assignment for protecting the Saudi ambassador today—knock yourself out.

It’s the same old—no dear Dad for me—just slight sarcasm and shoptalk.

He’s given up long ago and maybe I’ve given up too.

He doesn’t visit. I occasionally catch up to him at the precinct.

I try to tell him about being a cop—he shuts his ears. He’d rather read the rules book than listen to his old man.

“What’s wrong with following the rules? —Oh wait, I forgot—I’m talking to you.”

It’s a not too subtle dig about cheating on my wife. I could defend myself, but what’s the point? Should I ruin his image of his dead mother? No way. I ignore it.

“Well, rules are a good place to hide, if you don’t have a better idea.”

“Oh, I’ve got lots of better ideas. I go by the book—you should try it sometime.”

He storms away, confident in his own righteousness—that’s Brad—a rights fighter, smug and convinced of his own view.

I see a lot of me in him—after all we’re cops. I tend to define my job by negatives—it’s a good day if I don’t piss off the chief, get shot or shoot somebody—other than that, there’s few perks.

Except for last week. I drew a cool assignment —got to be police advisor on Blue Bloods and spent the day talking to actors about procedure and how to handle firearms.

I saw Tom Selleck watching me and felt embarrassed—hell, he could probably go with me to the shooting range and teach me something.

As I’m leaving the movie lot, he spots me and shouts out, “Good job.” I want to tell you that made my day—I felt proud, like when Frank Reagan compliments his son Jamie on the TV show.

I don’t get that. When Brad was younger, he used to say, “If Dad says it’s true…”—but not any more—he’s a man and convinced he’s right.

I meet with the team assigned to protect the Saudi ambassador.
The banquet’s being held in the Grand Hotel downtown and we’re the plainclothes presence. There have been no threats against the ambassador’s life and the bomb squad boys have been in and swept the room—but they’re still on standby.

“Detective Reilly, I trust everything’s in place?”

“Smooth as clockwork, Chief.”

He nods and continues into the huge dining room. I watch him shake hands with the Mayor and the two of them exit through a side door, presumably to meet the ambassador. I’m left with overseeing the security detail.

The ambassador is regarded as a person of high status but low risk—no one’s anticipating protests, let alone assassination attempts, but protocol must be followed.

I leave no stone unturned—right down to checking the kitchens and ordering a cleaner to turn off his transistor radio. The entire staff is searched and undercover officers take up their duties camouflaged as Hotel employees.

Soon, the banquet is underway and proceeding nicely.

Just after the toasts and before the ambassador is about to speak, shots ring out.

A Hotel security guard fires a pistol at the head table, narrowly missing the ambassador. The guard then flees down a hallway.

I make sure the ambassador is removed to a secure area and then pursue the shooter. He’s taken a Hotel employee hostage and is threatening to kill him, unless we negotiate his safe conduct out of the country.

“The man’s highly agitated, Sir,” Sam Kellogg, one of my veteran officers explains. “We’re communicating with him via the phone in the small dining hall.”

“But he wants to negotiate, right?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Is the hostage in immediate danger?”

Sam shrugs, “The shooter’s making wild demands and waving his weapon around—I’d say he’s out of control, Sir.”

“Tell him I’m going to negotiate with him face to face.”

“That’s a high risk, Sir—are you sure you want to take it?”

“I’ve got a plan, Sam. I want you to get the bomb squad’s bomb sniffing robot and then find the Hotel employee with the transistor radio. I’ll fill you in on the details later.”

Sam hurries off to carry out his assignment and I stuff a 38-caliber pistol behind my back, between my belt and my spine.

Ten minutes later, I’m walking into the small dining room, hands raised above my head.

“Don’t come any further,” The man warns.

I stop and check out the surroundings. The shooter has a hand clamped on the hostage’s shoulder and a Glock in his other hand. He’s wild-eyed and breathing heavily—the hostage looks pale and faint.

“Why don’t you allow your hostage to sit down? —He looks faint.”

“I give the orders here,” The man shouts. “Are you going to comply with my demands?”

Before I can answer there is a noise behind him and the sound of someone talking. He wheels to fire at the intruder, and I reach behind my back, draw my gun and shoot him in the right shoulder—the part of his body furthest away from the hostage.

The shooter slumps to the floor, and I hurry forward and retrieve his weapon.

The story’s all over the six o’clock news and the late edition of the papers.

Robo Cop Disarms Assassin. Chief of Detectives, Frank Reilly uses bomb sniffing robot with a transistor radio strapped to it, to distract and wound a terrorist.

At first, the Chief of Police is upset by the flaunting of protocol, but relents when the Mayor points out it’s an opportunity to boost the image of the police force—not to mention their own prestige as well.

I get slapped on the back by everyone, except the person who really counts. I don’t hear from Brad.

Still, all in all, it was a good day—I didn’t piss off the Chief, didn’t get shot, but I did shoot someone. Hell, two out of three ain’t bad.

I get home late that night and sit in the dark, drinking a beer in my empty apartment. I notice the small orange light blinking on my phone—I’ve got a voicemail message. I pick up and listen.

“Hey Dad, it’s me. I saw the news. Good job.”

I press erase, wiping tears from my eyes.

Oh Dear dad, Can you see me now? I'm a lot like you somehow.
—Pearl Jam

© 2024, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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