Dear Chief

Sometimes putting things on the roof of your car is a bad idea.

It was summer, and in the Northeast working a road construction detail is a surefire money-making scheme. And at the time, it was about the only way to make extra money since overtime was scarce and my seniority was low — as in zero.

Cue The Violins

At some point after finishing FTO and getting the holy blessing that I was eligible to work road jobs, I took the plunge and signed up for my first one. The department had authorized detail uniforms that were kind of like a cross between BDUs and a bicycle uniform. They were supposed to be cooler (temperature, not style) and more comfortable. The best part about them was that you could wear a department baseball cap.  A baseball cap is way better than a traditional uniform hat which feels like a helicopter landing pad fastened to your head with a faux leather belt.

But, I didn’t have the detail uniform yet, so I worked my first job in full tuxedo. Cue the violins.

Be Right Back

The crew I worked with that day was leapfrogging from telephone pole to telephone pole as I followed on foot and crisply flapped my arms to direct traffic like a true professional. After a short while I was pretty dang far from where I had parked my car and wanted to move it before I ended up in Timbuktu with no wheels to get back. So I did what any reasonable officer would do; I told the crew I’ll be right back and went to move my car.  Famous last words.

When I got back to my parked car, I took my hat off, placed it the roof, grabbed a drink of water, and wiped the sweat from my receding hairline. After a refreshing swig, I got in my car, drove the half mile or so back to where the crew was, and parked. I stepped out — all happy that I had the forethought of moving my car and feeling refreshed with some high quality H2O — and then reached for my hat.

My hat?

That Feeling

You know that feeling you had as a kid that moment after you did something you weren’t supposed to and you suddenly realized that you were about to get caught?  Like the time you snuck your Christmas presents into the bathroom for a preview thinking you could open them and then re-wrap them and no one would ever know … and then your mom walked in?  Or the time you drove the family car into a large rock and came to grips with the fact that it wouldn’t buff out and there was no way dad wasn’t going to notice? In those moments your heart flutters into warp speed, your mind races with a myriad of horrible outcomes, and you think to yourself, How can I undo this?  Ya, like that.

Well, when I realized I didn’t have my hat because I had most certainly left it on the roof of my car, that’s the feeling that began to set in. Now, I know you salty old guys think that’s funny and who gives a care, but as a new guy I felt like I had just single-handedly ended my career right then and there. So, I made a command decision, left the crew, and hopped back into my brown 1988 Toyota Camry (it’s true) and did a couple laps up and down the street to salvage my career. I got out and walked. I looked and looked. No hat. In the matter of mere minutes, my brand new, over-priced, shiny uniform hat had vanished — right along with my hopes and dreams.

Pen Pals

After borrowing a hat in utter embarrassment from the route car (because you can’t direct traffic without a hat on because the motoring public could not possibly follow the direction of a hatless officer) I finished out the day with a sense of impending doom.  Before the day was out I got to write my first Dear Chief letter.

Dear Chief,

I left my brand new, never before worn, uniform hat on the roof of my car and drove off. Sorry about that.

P.S. You look really nice today.

Sincerely,

Delta 9

The Moral Of The Story

Becoming pen pals with the Chief is not a good career move. The fewer we write, the better.  The moral of the story is don’t put department issued gear on the roof of a car — even for a second — the back seat is a much better place. Oh, and that goes for evidence, too.  And very small dogs.
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