In the immediate period after the September 11th attacks, life was anything but boring: America was gunning for a worldwide war against a syndicate of supervillains plucked from the story lines of a 1940s pulp magazine; people were getting letters in the mail kissed with anthrax and being told by their President to shield their homes with plastic sheeting and duct tape; the “terror alert” level occasionally shifted from yellow to orange and then people on subways eyed their neighbors, wondering if the next instant might see them explode. Ordinary police officers were elevated to the status of action heroes after endless replays on TV of their colleagues charging into a vertical inferno months earlier.

Living in America, especially in New York, seemed downright intrepid.

But then nothing happened. The subways weren’t the death traps of our imaginations. No more buildings came tumbling down. Even the fight for Baghdad was far from two heavyweights coming out punching. (Instead it’s a still-undecided rounds-long battle of attrition that will be judged on points in years to come.) In short, the biggest thing to happen to America since the Cold War turned out to be over-hyped. Meanwhile, federal and local law enforcement agencies flush with cash did everything they could to justify their increased funding short of advocate for martial law. At one point, New York City was spending $5 million per week in federal money for Operation Atlas in which large contingents of officers working on overtime (at $400 per shift) would congregate at places where no crime had been committed or even suspected in a “show of force” that must have seemed farcical to any would-be terrorists. With so many cops on duty at all hours with nothing in particular to do, even they got bored. The following is a true story, written in September 2003 for a New York City alt weekly that, despite its long history before the attacks of telling cops where they could stick it, seemed uneasy about continuing that tradition two years later. The editor at the paper didn’t print the article, saying “I’m not sure if we can use it anytime too soon.” The words below have not been changed from what I gave him – just the political and publishing landscapes that surround them.

Cease Fire Over: Bash Cops When a Bashing’s Due

September 7th, 2003

In these post-9/11 days when the letters NYPD are as much a fashion commodity as DKNY and a collective thumbs up seems to be raised for our police officers-cum-heroes, cop bashing is about as welcome as a bomb joke in the airport. But I refuse to believe that all those nightstick juggling, Quality of Life-ticket writing, red-light blowing, wobbly-headed cops I see on the streets were really pulling old ladies and their little dogs from the burning WTC inferno. Let’s face it—there are plenty of cops who deserve bashing and I for one am starting with a few in my precinct.

Six months ago I moved to Brooklyn Heights. Nice neighborhood. Tons of cops. And in some of the least obvious places, too, I‘ve found. Everyday, I ride an elevator down to the depths of Brooklyn and hop on the 2 or 3 train at the Clark Street station. I never realized exactly how deep into the ground I was descending until the day when the elevators broke and I had to climb down enough flights of stairs to get to Middle Earth. Consequently, even on the hottest day of the summer it was a cool, if damp, 70 degrees on the subway platform.

Now, while I enjoyed beating the heat below Clark Street for five minutes while waiting for my train, some of New York ’s Finest required a bit longer to cool off. All summer long, at the Manhattan end of the platform, there was an ongoing construction project that left a vast mound of building materials and rows of stacked lumber piled up next to a support beam. Beyond these obstructions, the site served as the premier clubhouse for the boys and girls of the NYPD.

Like 10-year-olds who have converted a crawl space in the attic into an after-school hideaway, our imaginative officers spruced up this secluded corner with a couple of comfy rotating swivel chairs and a pile of magazines fit for grandma‘s bathroom. And, like 10-year-olds, they came here to shoot the shit and pick their noses and complain about their playmates.

Armed with department-issued 9mms and the odd sandwich, they guarded their secret den, NO CIVILIANS ALLOWED, at all hours. That’s correct—while Osama’s minions were out casing the nearby Brooklyn Bridge and street hooligans were stealing the CD player from your car, there was a squadron of cops keeping cool beneath Clark Street on an eternal lunch break.

Normally, I would defend anyone’s right to ride the clock. And in the current climate of thanks-for-saving-those-old-ladies cop love, I might be willing to say “Why not, they’re union. Cops do have a right to a seven-hour break during their eight-hour shift.” But a few weeks back, I encountered a scene of copdom so asinine, so bizarre and so utterly buffoonish that I can no longer defend cops’ right to sloth.

I was standing on the platform waiting for my train when I heard this noise, or should I say these noises, coming from the end of the track. CRACK. Ruffle, ruffle…snap, crumple, crumple…twist, CLACK. The only thing I could imagine was a sewer rat gagging on a pack of firecrackers. Curious, I inched closer to the cops’ den, and peaked around the pile of lumber.

In a moment, I will tell you what I found. But first, I want to confirm that I have nothing but respect for those who answered the call to duty with the ultimate sacrifice. Or, in non-Bloomberg-speak, I give anybody who rushes into a burning skyscraper due props. But after what I saw in the subway permanently etched in my mind, I am done giving unearned reverence to all cops because of some cops’ bravery. I have nothing but contempt for those cops whose badges are used for nothing more than to hide the jelly stains on their shirts. Now, back to the subway.

I peered past that stack of lumber, past the support beam, and into the cop club. There he was, standing alone in all his Keystone glory—his donut-fed paunch hoisted over his utility belt, his blank eyes fixed in a hapless stare fit for a cartoon St. Bernard. What was the snapping sound emanating from this gross armpit of the law, this cop who must have been created by God to be inserted into cop jokes? Well it was only slightly more intelligent than if he were using his sidearm as a Q-tip. Our highly trained crime fighter was battling the doldrums of being on duty by popping a sheet of bubble wrap…one bubble at a time.

Copyright Last Exit 2008