That’s what I got today. Nuttin’. Maybe in a couple of days.
Well, it’s almost that time. I do remember I hated working Waikiki during Halloween. That place was strange enough without everyone running around in masks and costumes. However, as with every “holiday”, some officers found a way to have some fun and do some good.
The Cops Are Monsters
One of my earliest beat partners was Bobby Yarnell. A big, barrel chested part-Apache Indian with a huge zest for life and the job. I learned something from Bobby every day I worked with him.
Every year at Halloween Bobby would turn his yard, driveway, and carport into a haunted house and a maze full of monsters. The elaborate costumes, masks, and make up were all done by Bobby’s wonderful wife Nora.
The monster maze was on its fourth or fifth year when Bobby approached me and asked if I could help out with traffic control. Since this required I be in uniform we had to have permission from the Chief of Police. Considering the good publicity these little happenings generated, and the senior police Chaplin and Catholic Nun Sister Roberta Derby was also involved, permission was quickly granted.
The Sister wielded a great deal of authority in the department, well not exactly power or authority, but she usually got her way.
When I say elaborate costumes and make-up, I mean these were Hollywood movie caliber. The huge full head masks were lifelike and constructed so well they could be used for several years. The make-up was so well applied that you really didn’t want to clean it off until you had scared a good number of kids. It was great.
All of this was out of Bobby’s pocket except for a small amount of donations from the watch officers and others. All of the cops involved would also donate money as well as their time.
This year Halloween fell on a Saturday so Bobby opened the maze on Friday and Saturday nights. It was open from sunset, about 6:00 pm, to 10:00 or 11:00 pm, and there was a line of kids waiting to be scared from early on. Cops, dressed as famous monsters were there to do their best to oblige.
It took me three years to work my way from traffic control to monster. During those years the whole thing grew and grew until it outgrew Bobby’s yard and he had to move it to a neighborhood park. Again, with the good Sister’s blessing, permission was granted.
One year, 1977 or 1978, a friend gave us the use a construction size flatbed truck. All the monsters, complete with grave yard tombstones and pretty damsels in distress, participated in the Kam Day parade through Waikiki.
Since Kam Day is in June, it was a bright, clear day with humidity only a little less than the temperature. The elaborate costumes only increased our discomfort so we had to break character once in a while to re hydrate.
The truck had the “Wolf man” among the tombstones; “Dracula” was in his coffin with a pretty handmaiden; the “Human Fly” (me) menacing several pretty girls; and the “Creature from the Black Lagoon” (Bobby) with a damsel (Nora) at his feet.
The webbed hands of the creature were actually constructed of rubber gloves and I remember one moment when Bobby raised his hand to wave and the sweat literally poured out of the glove in a stream.
But he never broke character.
The greatest joy of his life was when Bobby found out Nora was pregnant. There were four of five kids living with them from her prior marriage, and Bobby treated them like his own, but they both wanted one of their own. He was ecstatic.
I remember the day he and Nora brought Brandi home. That barrel chest of his was even bigger than ever. His smile never faltered, even over diapers.
After retiring from the Department, Bobby spent several years as an investigator for the Honolulu Police commission.
Brandi grew up, went to school, and then became a Honolulu Police officer. A fourth generation cop. She graduated at the top of her academy class. Recently she was promoted to detective. I know she’s a hell of a cop.
It was with deep sadness and a sense of personal loss that I read of Bobby’s passing not too long ago. I think the good Lord needed a good “monster”. Rest in peace Bobby. Rest at peace.
Stripped from today’s headlines.
Hillary Clinton chooses sides in Vin Diesel vs Dwayne Johnson debate. Just one more indication she is entirely irrelevant and completely out of touch. They settled that disagreement 2 years ago.
WWE star Roman Reigns reveals battle with leukemia. I would not wish this on anyone. He’s “beaten” it once and I believe he can do it again. Good thoughts and prayers.
Got Racism? PETA Says Milk Is A Symbol For White Supremacists. You can’t make this crap up. What about the brothers and their scotch and milk. Or chocolate milk? And Almond milk is white but almonds are brown. I’m so confused.
Migrant Invasion Army. When you have 5-7 thousand people, the majority what is considered “military age” males, they are an invading force and should be treated as such when they reach the border. Remember, WWII started with one solder crossing into Poland.
When I first started writing these stories, actually back into the late 80’s, I was going to title it “Battered Armour, Tarnished Shield” . This was a take off from the “Blue Knight” tag created by LAPD officer and writer Joseph Waumbaugh.
My armor had gotten pretty beat up and I had tarnished my shield, the badge. So I first tried to give all the stories names in keeping with that theme. This is one of those stories.
Every cop knows one, the one who doesn’t let up, the guy that is always full speed ahead.
He did everything the same way, full speed ahead and damn the rocks. It didn’t matter if it was baseball, basketball, or any other sport or competition. Art was always at 110%.
He loved the job the most.
Sure he was a little abrasive at times, maybe a little too aggressive, but that would slow down in time and with “mileage”.
But it didn’t slow down. His marriage lasted a year and a half after his police class graduation.
The second time was over after only eight months.
The third one looked real good. She seemed to love him and understood about the job he did. She wanted to take care of him and make him happy. He was happy, when he was on the street working.
Then came the long nights without communication. Then the fights started. She walked out one night, she’d had too much. It had taken four months.
It was 3 o’clock in the morning when my phone rang. It was my partner Ray.
“Art just shot himself, he’s dead.”
Everything full speed ahead.
Everything, even sorrow.
Big hoohaha about Taylor Swift actually speaking out for a specific candidate. I don’t live in Tennessee so it’s no difference to me, but if she’s going to speak out, she should at least registered to vote. That’s right, she isn’t registered.
Many years ago I attended a question and answer evening with (then) Honolulu Mayor, The Honorable Frank Fasi. Yes, I know opinions differ on him, widely, but he was elected so that should speak for itself.
During the q and a, he would ask each questioner if they were they registered to vote. He would then go ahead and take their question. One individual stood and when quizzed told Frank he didn’t believe in military service and was not registered to vote. Frank, very politely but very firmly, told this person if they couldn’t be bothered to register, they didn’t have any business questioning the government. The crowd approved. The questioner sat down. Frank was re-elected.
Saw in the news Bill Coors, yes that Coors family, just passed away at 102 years old. Maybe there is something to that Rocky Mountain water.
Help, I’ve been invaded by yard gnomes.
Every now and then someone will ask me what blogs do I read on a consistent basis. It’s really too many to list here, so just go to the Gun Blog Blacklist and start reading. There’s something there for everyone.
It was with sadness that I read of the passing of Hawaii entertainer Wisa D’Orso. I met Ms. D’Orso in Waikiki during the 70’s and 80’s. Several of us would attend her late night shows after 3rd watch. She was always gracious, entertaining, and had a wonderful sense of humor. She will be missed.
I recently read an article, one, regarding the Zulu empire in South Africa announcing its protection of the doomed white farmers. If you haven’t kept up, it is an active genocide. There has been over 700 deadly attacks on “white” farmers in the past 3 years. Soon they will be no farmers and no food. The Zulu have declared this is not a good idea and have come to the aid of those farmers. Problem is, I had one article that I cannot now find. Nowhere in the MSM had this been reported. Hell, there has been very little coverage of the farmer’s plight….
Just a thought; many police officers don’t decide if they are going to give you a warning or a ticket until they see what kind of response they get when talking to you. This sticker is probably not the best idea. Just sayin’.
THE LAST LAUGH
I would guess my problems, with Internal Affairs, started in 71-72 with a real good arrest.
There was an armed robbery call from Liberty House, Ala Moana. Dispatch broadcast a really good description of the suspect, and his sawed off shotgun.
I was patrolling inside Ala Moana Park when it happened. Being the cop I was (am?) I started scanning the park.
And there he was. The right male description, the right clothes, and that Pam Am bag. Even though every other person in the park carried one of those damn blue bags; I was betting it was him.
The first thing I did was call for back-up, but everyone was at the shopping center. Everyone but an adjoining sector sergeant.
I will not use his name, mostly because I don’t want to.
He radio’s that he will “cover” me. Let me set something straight here, to “cover” means he’s got my back. He will be there to back-me up, to protect me, to be my second pair of eyes, or hands if everything turns to shit. He’s supposed to make sure we both go home tonight. When someone says they’ll cover, you trust them.
So I went forward knowing, should I need it, help was on the way. Somehow I snuck up on my suspect; he was so focused on someone coming from the shopping center, that he never saw me coming from ahead of him in the park.
I was there in front of him, car stopped, gun drawn and he was centered in the sights before he actually was aware everything was over.
Of course, I was yelling for him to drop the bag, don’t move, put up his hands, don’t move, you know all the contradicting orders cops give when they’re scared, amped up, and 25 years old hoping to make 26.
He dropped the bag raised his hands, and didn’t say anything. He’d been thru this before.
I cuffed him, put him in the back seat, and sat down to take some deep breaths. Inside the Pan Am bag, a loaded sawed-off double barrel shotgun.
When I started looking around I realized, my back-up was nowhere around. I finally spot him, across the park, in a lot, watching with binoculars.
By then, other units, detectives, Sergeants, all start showing up. The bag and its contents were “recovered” into evidence. I transported the Suspect back to the Beretania Station for booking, and I went to the squad room to start the report.
By now it was afternoon and the 3rd watch was getting ready to start. It was either a Wednesday or a Friday as the on-coming watch was getting ready for inspection. So everyone was in the squad room. I sat down at one of the typewriters.
So, everyone was there when my back up sergeant shows up, slaps me on the back and tells me what a good arrest “we” made.
I lost it. I called him every kind of coward I could think of. I maybe made up a few new ones. In front of God, Buddha and the on-coming watch, and at the top of my voice, I loudly proclaimed him a coward for his long distance back-up.
Finally a couple of the on-coming Sergeants got between us, moved him away from me, and got me calmed down. But I never forgot, and neither did he.
A short time later he was transferred to Internal Affairs, and I became one of, if not his only, favorite targets. He took minor complaints, made them major violations and basically made me his career.
He finally put in his time, retired and got his pension.
Me, I got fired eventually.