I readily admit I never liked working the graveyard patrol shift. I always considered it a crime against nature. The other night I woke up at 3:00 am. I was warm and snuggled in bed under my soft, down quilt. Thunder, lighting, and heavy rain pounded my bedroom window. It was one of those downpours that windshield wipers cannot clear.
Suddenly, I was taken back to the long graveyard patrol shifts I used to work as a kid-cop. I remembered a very slow Code-3 response to an injury traffic collision. I could barely see through the windshield due to my red emergency light's reflection in the heavy rain. Arriving, I put on my helmet (we wore them in those days of civil unrest) and one of those big, uncomfortable, ugly, yellow rain coats. The coat was not quite long enough to keep my wool trouser legs from getting soaked and shrinking up my ankles. The rain ran down the back of my helmet through a space in my collar and then down my back where it was caught in the dam created by my gun belt. There it sloshed around as the rain put out my road flares as fast as I could light them.
Finally, the useless yellow rain coat was covering the injured driver, lying in a red-streaked puddle. Then came the impossible task of interviewing witnesses and drawing a diagram in a waterfall. My shivering was somewhat calmed by the thought of my nearby police car with red lights flashing and heater going. This comfort was short lived when I realized I left the driver's side window down and spent the rest of the shift sitting on a sponge.
"Tom-1, am I clear to come to the station and clean up?"
"Negative Tom-1, respond Code-3 to an injury traffic collision at 23rd and Temple!"
The rain continued to beat down as my thoughts returned to my down quilt and the warm body lying next to me. I drifted peacefully back to sleep.
Thanks to the kid-cops who have inherited the graveyard shift.
