Diesel Heart

by Melvin Carter Jr

  But that was fine with me. My loyalties leaned more toward the people and to the citizens than to the police culture. I wanted to be one of the guys, but the people were my priority rather than “proving myself” to the blue code. A hard-nosed Black cop was the last thing Black folks needed.

  Malcolm X, writing while in prison, noted that Black corrections employees hurried to illustrate to fellow white employees that they were not like him and others who were imprisoned. So I always made it a point to identify (as much as possible) with African Americans, because they were the most in need.

  Every couple of months, some genius issued the routine challenge: “Take off that badge and gun and I will kick your punk ass.” I’d reply, “This badge may be the only reason I ain’t kickin’ your ass right now!” Loudmouths sometimes took advantage of the fact I had to act responsibly. But on some of the most dangerous calls, I would be the most respectful.

  Home was my refuge. Sometimes I’d race home just to see my baby sleep, hear her breathe, burp, or snore. “Oh look, dear! See the slobber?” I would build my child a Dr. Seuss, Disney World, Muppet Show wonderland, full of nursery rhymes, dollhouses, and teddy bears, and then I’d use her world for my own hiding place. Stevie Wonder had just recorded “Isn’t She Lovely.” Well, he was talking about my child. I’d be offended when people passed by without mentioning how beautiful my child was, or especially that she looked like me. “Hey, get back here!”

  Having a daughter changed my vocabulary. Words like cute and potty suddenly slipped in. She and I were already communicating before birth, so she listened attentively as I read stories to her. I was amazed when, at six months old, her tiny hands rushed up to cover her eyes every time the Big Bad Wolf appeared on the scene.

  She’d sit in her high chair and pick a fight while I was getting the cereal. “See? I told you!” I’d retaliate, “What are you talking about? You ain’t told me nuthin!” She’d nod in agreement with herself, “Uh-huh!” We’d go on and on, “Uh-uh!”

  She teethed early. The old folks said that she was making way for the next child.

  That was good for a laugh but was not possible. Lovely Willetha was on high-powered, maxi-strength birth control pills. But, even so, and yet, there I was again, my hand on her tummy late into the night, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her soft breath evolved into a gentle snore. Conversation with my baby continued long after she’d fallen asleep. We talked about life out here. This baby, more active than the first, was exercising in utero, raring to get born. “Don’t worry—we’ll getcha outta there! … Zzzzz.”

  The entire Carter clan appeared in the hospital waiting room. Thinking that I was an old pro by now, I was real cool when admitting Willetha to the hospital. But her labor was harder this time. I regretted not taking a refresher Lamaze class. Again, during multiple trips to the potty, she almost fell, and I stabilized her by holding her elbows. Again, “Getcher hands off me!” Again, I scooted backward on my knees to keep my hands between her and the hard tile floor.

  It was excruciating to see her in so much pain and not be able to help her.

  The doctor stood in the quarterback position awaiting the hike, nudging me aside with his elbows. “Mr. Carter, please. I need some room here!” Suddenly the crown of the head appeared. It took forever! They stuck tiny needles attached to wires in the exposed part of the head to monitor the heartbeat. They used huge salad spoons to turn the baby to the birthing position. “Come on outta there right now!” (I didn’t really say it.) Oh, the suspense, the drama!

  Suddenly the earth turned beneath my feet, the moment froze in time. He leaped outta there like a sprinter. My strange sensation was that I was witnessing a metaphysical historical moment in time.

  “Aww, yeah! A boy!” Tears shot from my eyes like from a water pistol.

  “Mr. Carter!” the doctor shouted.

  “Mr. Carter!” the nurse shouted.

  “Melvin!” my wife shouted.

  Eventually their voices penetrated. “Huh?”

  “Would you like to cut the cord?”

  Totally incapacitated, I said “No!” I was doing good just taking my next breath.

  Naming him Melvin III seemed to be a foregone conclusion. Dad and I met later that night for a little father-and-son libation. Laughingly, he reminisced that when I was born was the only time in his life he ever got sloppy drunk. We slammed a few, but he made sure I was able to drive. Then he followed me home.

  A few days later, my wife and son came home. Midday I sat still and quiet holding sleeping babies, one in each arm, watching lovely Willetha crank up “Boogie Oogie Oogie” on the stereo and perform a victory dance, whirling and twirling unceasingly across the floor for two hours nonstop, celebrating in full flamboyant femininity the recovery of her body. I rejoiced.

  As with everything else in life, I was a slow starter. By this time all my buddies already had a batch of children. Fatso said that having only one child is like a hobby. You can still do everything as you’ve been doing. Friends still invite you over, and you can bring him with you. “But when you’ve got two, you’ve got KIDZ!” Nobody calls and invites you over and says, “And bring all them KIDZ!”

  As I had with my daughter, in an ancient West African tradition, I took my infant man-child into a secluded forest area, lifting him high before the clearest moonlight and stars, introducing him to the universe. Boldly I pronounced, “Behold, my son, the only thing as great as yourself!”

  From the paternal pulpit, I dedicated myself to “father up” with a vengeance, to prepare him for the harsh terrains of life, teach him of his power, his beauty, his magnificence. When the time comes, my child, the world will hafta jump back, rather than you asking, “Can I survive?”

  Anika turned out to be a great teacher. Melvin III, always reaching, always climbing, absorbed everything in sight. I’d hold him up to examine a tree limb and have to hang on tight so that he would not leap out of my arms. He was very active and verbal with jibe-jabber baby talk, the only baby I ever heard actually utter the word goo-goo, and I affectionally called him “My Goo-Goo-Guy” until his toddler years.

  One day I was lying on my back on the floor, half asleep. Melvin, just learning to crawl, still extreme with the baby slobbers, scooted over and slobbered all over my face, waking me up with baby spit. I lay still, thinking he was kissing his dad. Simultaneously, Anika pushed hard on my chest. Then it dawned on me that my two-year-old and my four-year-old, who had just seen a demonstration at daycare, were performing CPR on me. Wiping slobber from my face, gasping for breath, I laughed almost to tears. It was the best laugh I ever had in my entire life.

  As a one-man squad, I could only count on backup when about three certain white officers were on the same shift. Some guys called for backup at parking meter violations. But I’d get dispatched to violent domestics-in-progress, some of the most dangerous calls we had, and be all alone. I didn’t mind so much, though, because courtesy was my method of operation, whereas the yahoos showed up with, “Just what the hell is going on here?”

  As it turned out, I had a special knack for domestics. People were suckers for respect, for being treated with human dignity. How you enter into someone’s castle during sensitive hurtful situations is everything. Respect and courtesy were my tools, my survival strategy as well as an effective de-escalation tactic. This was most applicable in situations where I truly had no respect for specific individuals. Yes, internally I was poised ready to strike like a viper, but externally I was Mr. Rogers. A few times, I left domestics with man and woman hugging it up, saying “I love you.” They’d walk me to the door, locked hand in hand, seeing me off like an invited guest, waving as I drove off into the sunset.

  I was sent to a violent domestic-in-progress at 187 South McKnight Road, located at the edge of the city. I heard screaming, shouting, and crying when I entered the large multi-dwelling complex. Standing in the long hallway were two large men wearing football jerseys.

  “Hello, I’m Officer
Carter. We have a call to this apartment.”

  They just stood there with crossed arms, using their forearms as a barrier.

  “I need to see the caller,” I explained as gently as possible.

  “She’s fine!” one insisted.

  I explained that as a matter of police policy, I had to see her. They remained there, blocking the door and continuing to refuse me entry. I made a move to enter. They moved to obstruct. Almost in disbelief I watched Viper One self-activate, shoving one guy’s head into the door-jamb as Viper Two self-detonated three times in his face, all in one fluid move. Guy One slid slowly and gently to the floor.

  Getting a little carried away, I turned to Guy Two. “You might as well get some of this, too!” I said. He leaped back and spontaneously surrendered, displaying the palms of both hands. A neighbor down the hallway raced out of his apartment shouting in disbelief, “Got day’am! Got day’am! You move just like a cat! I never seen anything like it.”

  According to their driver’s licenses, Guy One was six-two. Guy Two was six-four. Both were well over two hundred pounds. Guy One went to the hospital to be treated for a broken jaw. Although I had called for backup, none ever came. Sergeant Intellect, the supervisor, checked in over the air after the fact, more interested in faultfinding than in my safety.

  Months later, Guy One, the husband, stopped me at a gas station, told me that after the incident he had gone to treatment, he got his life straightened out, and now his marriage was good. He actually thanked me for my role in his recovery.

  Weeks later, still a one-man squad, I was dispatched to a violent domestic-in-progress in a huge multi-dwelling apartment complex. As soon as I entered the building, I followed the sound of a woman’s voice screaming and crying. I found a path of blood and patches of blond hair scattered up and down the stairway into the caretaker’s apartment, where the limp, trembling body of a white female cowered in a far corner. She happened to know me and called me by name. She had run into the caretaker’s apartment, attempting to escape from being beaten by her husband. But her husband followed her and attacked the caretaker also.

  She trembled as she spoke. “Carter, he is after my baby! Promise me that you won’t let him leave with my little girl!”

  I ran outside and followed a madman racing to the back parking lot, carrying a small child. He tossed the child into the back of a car loaded with hockey equipment, jumped into the driver’s seat, but had to maneuver in tight spaces between parked cars in order to get out of the lot.

  I’d be damned if I was going to let that happen! My feet shifted alongside as the car maneuvered back and forth. I could not let him get into the clear. Running alongside the car, I slammed my flashlight through the car window on the driver’s side. Broken glass splattered all over the place, inside and outside the car, cutting my right hand. Reaching through the broken glass, I unlocked and opened the car door, wrestling over the steering wheel enough to make him put on the brakes and get out of the car to fight me. In almost one single motion, he put the car in park and exited, confronted me, and said, “Carter! I’m gonna take this side of my right foot and place it against the left side of your head!”

  He attacked. Ker-platch! With all my might I hit him with my flashlight, harder than I ever hit anyone in my life. Blood splashed, gushing from his face and head. Had it been baseball, it would have been a grandstand triple, game-over home run. I expected him to drop hard like a bad habit. He stutter-stepped a little upon impact, but in truth he was hardly fazed. The mightiest blow I ever struck seemed to barely get his attention! The fight of my life, for life itself, was on. If I win, he’s only going to jail. If he wins, I’m a dead man.

  I must have called for assistance just as full contact knocked my communications pack across the parking lot. Officers heard my call for help, but Officer Charlatan, the dispatcher who had just sent me there, claimed not to know where I was. With the baby crying frantically inside the car and approaching sirens blaring in the far-off distance, I could hear Officer Mike Toronto pressuring the dispatcher over the air, demanding to know what address he had sent me to.

  In the meantime, this guy had the strength of a madman. Exchanging vicious blows, we tussled end-over-end in the parking lot. For an eternal instant, he had me by my hair, grinding my face into the pavement and broken glass. I was counting on him weakening due to his rapid loss of blood. But no! It was I who was weakening, I who was losing strength.

  The instant lasted an eternity. For my life, for all that was sacred, I held on. Finally, with vision blurred by trickled blood, I deciphered images of Mike Toronto pulling the madman off me.

  Three ambulances arrived at the scene, one for the mommy, one for the caretaker, and one for the mad daddy, and all went to the St. Paul–Ramsey Medical Center emergency room. After securing the area and other police stuff, I drove myself to the ER. The madman had been the first to arrive, ranting and raving, shouting that he was gonna kill that nigger cop. When I arrived, a nurse told me, “Carter, I knew he was talking about you when he kept saying ‘that nigger cop.’” The hospital staff was ready to turn me in for excessive brutality until they saw the mother’s face and the caretaker’s injuries, then heard what had happened and how.

  After irrigating glass and dirt from my face, head, and hands, giving me a couple shots and a stitch to the deep gash in my forehead, the doc used a special light and tweezers to pluck fragments of glass from my skull, face, and hairline. I was treated and released. Broken glass fragments oozed from my face and scalp for several days. “Hey, Carter, did you win that fight? I heard the guy gave you a tough time!” My claim to fame was, “He who gets out of the hospital first wins the fight!”

  The next morning, my face, head, and hands were wrapped like a mummy. I woke up with my children standing over me. In allowing myself to get injured, I had violated something sacred and precious. The look in their eyes reminded me of that look from my mother and father when I had betrayed them.

  “What happened?” They demanded an explanation, and it better be good, but they only looked angrier and angrier as I tried to explain. Try as I might to tell them what had happened, they still did not appreciate my allowing their daddy to get hurt—no, not one bit. I had let them down. My spirit repented.

  22

  Routine Workplace Hostility

  I have to tell you that I was so good, decent, and by the book out of necessity. Supervisors and peers watched me like a hawk, some recording my every move, always keeping tabs. The fact that I was the only Black cop sporting an Afro on the east side made me stand out like the fly in the buttermilk. I got accused of stuff just in case it was about to happen. So in the event of the slightest infraction, I knew that I was already caught.

  Walking the daily tightrope almost became an advantage. One day, I stopped to chat with the man at the station’s front desk and noticed a twenty-dollar bill on that desk. He looked at me and shoved it in the desk drawer. For some reason, strange as it seems, it happened that I had a twenty-dollar bill folded in my hand.

  After casual small talk, I continued on my way. He allowed me to get to the door so he could shout for everyone to hear, “Hey, Carter, where you goin’? Come back here with my money!” He was so eager to accuse me of stealing that he forgot he had put his bill into the drawer next to him.

  Several cops appeared in the hallway to see what the ruckus was. I played dumb for a while, allowing the audience to gather. Then I walked back and handed him my twenty, politely reminding him at the same time that “You’ll find your twenty-dollar bill in that drawer, right where you put it.” And sure enough, there it was.

  He flushed red with embarrassment. “Well, okay, Carter …” He tried hard to return my money. With as much nasty indignation and condescension as possible, my reply was, “Oh no! You keep it! You must really need it.” He held the bill out as I slowly strolled out the door, privately savoring my articulate shittyness. Boy, was that worth twenty dollars! Ahhhh … !

  These people
accused me of so much that after a while the gossip became entertaining, if not flattering. For instance, I came back from a two-week out-of-state family vacation, and the most interesting detailed story had circulated around the entire department about a fight that happened while I was gone. “It was a donnybrook, a free-for-all—cops against the bad guys, with bodies flying everywhere. Carter hid behind the bar the whole time, until the danger was over.”

  I was so enchanted that I never denied or disputed it. I was eager to hear the rest of the story. “Then what happened?” I really wanted to know. Rumors, allegations, and criticism happened in such clusters that they almost became validating. I’d trace the source and find out that not only did I not know the authors, but I had no clue that they even existed. And yet, I was a preoccupation of their minds.

  I didn’t address or respond to most rumors. After a while, I only disputed formal allegations. In this business, complaints are part of the process. Great policing can look pretty ugly, while horrible policing is justified.

  The first time a man tried to take my gun was in the trailer-park-biker-dive called the Red Mill. Shooting him never occurred to me. My fists settled the incident with one of those Sugar Ray flurries, and it was over. “Carter, you shoulda shot him!” senior officers criticized. He stopped by the hospital emergency room, then went to jail. I went home. We both survived.

  A small group of teenagers tormented an elderly Italian lady who lived alone on Arcade Street, bullying her on a daily basis—prank calls, property damage, messages scratched on her car. She’d call. I’d get there. They’d be gone. This cat and mouse game went on and on for weeks. By the time I got there, she’d be in tears. I’d go to where they lived, never to find an adult.