Growing up, all I knew about police officers was from TV shows like Dragnet, Adam-12, and a few others I can’t remember at the moment. Heroes in blue, larger than life.

Then came my sad exposure to the evening news and the riots and protests. The Kent State University incident. That one was probably National Guard.

I never lost my awe of cops. But back then, you rarely heard of police being shot. I know it happened, but it was far less common than today. In the tumult of the mid-60s to the mid-70s, so much happened that I can’t seem to remember everything and what the timeline is.

Everyone I grew up with had, at one time or another, wanted to join the police department. We were naive enough for that. I don’t know of any who actually did it.

The hippie and biker cultures were cop haters. Depending on who I was around and being susceptible to suggestion because I’d been so thoroughly brainwashed by my father, I’d often go with the mentality of the crowd. I was really fucked-up. And I have often been swayed since my teen years because I react emotionally, and I get influenced by the reactions of other’s emotions.

But aside from delinquent pranks at junior high school, I kept straight for the most part.

That’s not to say I was above the odd misdemeanor or two. Having some fun, like teens do, was what made my life bearable. In the summer of 1976, I had a badge holder from a shop in Annapolis with a “special officer” badge in it. Later, a classmate gave me, out of the blue, a real Anne Arundel County police badge. I was insane to accept it.

During summer break, I worked at my father’s warehouse on Penrod Court in Glen Burnie. Two guys older than I, Ronny Booth and Mike Lukum, wore long hair and jeans to work. Flared-leg jeans. Yeah, I’m not kidding. I wouldn’t be old enough to drive until late that fall after Driver’s Education classes. So, at lunch, I’d go with them to McDonald’s or Burger King. But one day, I came up with an idea. In addition to the badge, I had a pair of handcuffs. With black hair, wearing a red bandana folded and tied into a classic headband and a pair of mirrored Foster Grants, I looked perfect. I gave the guys the badge and cuffs. I took a baggie and poured soap powder in it and tied it off. I stuck it in my back pocket, and the plan was to enter Harundale Mall on opposite sides, and they, as undercover narcs, would head right for me and “bust” me. There was another guy with us, George, closer to my age. He would be the witness, and in the event of a shopper asking what was going on, he’d say something to make them swallow the sham.

They got me up against the glass at some store, I think it was Lerner Shops or something like that. They were good, too. They had my face against the glass and “searched” me, coming up with the bag of powder. Ronny held it up and said, “Twenty years,” while Mike cuffed me. A crowd, much larger than I’d ever anticipated, gathered. Sure enough, some white shirt-and-tie dude asked, “What’s going on?” and George said, “It’s a bust!“

It was perfect. But had we pushed our luck? What if a real cop saw us? To this day, that idea scares the shit out of me.

The Narc Boys would ride one more time at the Glen Burnie Mall. It was somehow less satisfying than terrifying, but we got away with it. After that, my badge and handcuffs vanished. I have no idea who kept them. This was back in the days when cops were called names like “the fuzz” and “pig” and at the Harundale bust as I was led out in cuffs, I screamed, “Fuckin pigs!” Scared the hell out of some old ladies. I feel bad about that.

The badge was probably a felony to have, but I never had the chance to turn it in. The fun was over. None of us wanted to pull that shit again.

We amused ourselves by eating at McDonald’s and going next door afterward for snowballs because the two girls who ran it were hot. One always wore a halter that showed middle and side cleavage. A blonde and a brunette. Eye candy for us chauvinist lowlifes back then. After that summer, Wendy’s was built on the lot the girls had their stand on. All I could do was remember and daydream.

Decades passed, and I stacked up traffic tickets and finally let my license expire. After hundreds in fines and 35 accidents, I’d had enough. I was blessed not to have killed anyone. My driving career lasted from 1976 to 2003. Severe PTSD or CPTSD and driving don’t mix.

On social media, being as I was a liberal, I ran into cop haters. Unfortunately, they had the power to manipulate my feelings and, therefore, my opinions. I’ve written things on this site that I regret. Anti-cop bullshit and worse.

I was wrong. One incident does not define every officer or the departments they work for.

George Floyd’s death was tragic. But he had attacked someone. And one officer broke. Now, there’s a statue of Floyd. The former officer has a prison bounty on him. He’s been shanked multiple times, and he will be murdered in there. I don’t think that’s justice. It’s no less than a hate crime. What will it accomplish? Things will get worse.

I understand the desire to take revenge. Oh, yes. But it’s never right.

Someone I followed on Facebook would take the worst articles and post them. She infected me with her invective toward cops. Nobody will ever do that to me again. Left-wing hate is no way to answer right-wing hate. Where’s it end? It doesn’t. We need to at least agree on that. But social media won’t allow that. Respect the men and women of our police. Our medics. Firefighters. They are never safe out there, but they’ll die trying to make sure that we are. They are heroes.

And finally, tonight, I have something to say about New Year’s Eve and day. It’s become a necessary thing to have police set sobriety checkpoints. Has been for decades. I want to tell you, one friend to another, if you’re going to drink alcohol this year, then please have a designated driver or the cash to call an Uber. I’ve been watching police bodycam footage on YouTube, and I’m shocked at how many drivers are caught at two or three times the legal limit. They’re everyone, a cross sampling of us all.

How would you really feel if you woke up in the drunk tank, you didn’t remember getting there, and a sergeant tells you that you killed three people including the love of your life in an accident?

Things that change your life forever and put you in prison for vehicular manslaughter? And lives are ended. Yours is ruined. Don’t drink and drive. Obey the instructions of officers at checkpoint blocks. You can do it easy or hard.

It’s up to you.