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deportment card from her or from you. It’s your call.”
Deportment cards were our currency of punishment. As recruits, we surrendered them to instructors for minor infractions like
talking in the hallways or forgetting to do homework. We had to keep two of them on our person at all times—except in gym
class, where discipline took the form of endless push-ups. Get enough cards taken, and we faced administrative review, or,
in chronic cases, expulsion from the academy. Clarabel was still carrying her original two cards, a fact Moran would have
known as our group leader.
“Respectfully, sir . . .” said Moran. “Recruit Suarez has been advised many times on the importance of a proper uniform, so
I request the card be taken from her.”
Afterward, Moran ordered us to fall out, and I watched for Clarabel’s expression as she marched past me. She looked angrier
than I’d expected. Giving up a single deportment card was no big deal, especially since some of the instructors just tore
them up later, leaving them out of our files. Yet Clarabel’s nose was wrinkled and her lips were twitching with unspeakable
oaths. Moran must have really struck a nerve.
Clarabel removed her eye shadow in the women’s room, then sulked for most of the day, lingering in corners and staring at
the floor. She seemed devastated about the deportment card, which didn’t make any sense. She wasn’t herself until later that
afternoon, when Moran strolled in late to Behavioral Science with a crooked tie clip.
“Look at Moran,” she said. It was loud enough for the entire room to hear. “He thinks he’s gangsta, but he’s just ghetto.”
Clarabel nearly got a standing ovation from the rest of the class. Everyone laughed, and our company sergeant’s face turned
redder than a traffic light. It was such a low blow that it spared Moran a deportment card for his tardiness, because our
instructor said he’d already been punished enough.
It was only then I realized that I had a rival. I couldn’t believe it had taken me so long to see it. They were both single,
attractive young adults, and they were both masters of the mind game. Was I really going to lose Clarabel to this pencil-lined
punk? No, I told myself. It wouldn’t last. I’d seen it happen before. They’d have a bit of fun, but they’d wind up hating
each other in the end, and I would be the one she trusted all along.
I would rather have courted her openly, but this approach had never seemed to work for me. Something about my smoldering sex
appeal was difficult to convey. Perhaps I was overly in touch with my feminine side. Or not swarthy enough. What ever the
reason, I was twenty-six years old before I had my first one-night stand. I’m not proud of this, or ashamed, either; it’s
just telling in light of the number of attempts I’d made before then: around ten thousand since puberty, according to a rough
calculation. Given enough time—I mean months or years—I could win a woman’s heart. But in the short run, I think I was just
too bland for extreme dating. If sex was a catered party, I was the bowl of fresh fruit that went untouched until the cheese
tray was devoured. Moran was the cheesiest rival I’d ever had, so I’d just have to wait him out.
CHAPTER 8
T WO MONTHS INTO OUR recruit semester, we left the academy in downtown Manhattan for ten nights at the NYPD Outdoor Firearms
and Tactics Range in the East Bronx. The place where we would learn our most controversial skill was a low-slung compound
built on a forested peninsula in Long Island Sound, as far from prying eyes as one could get in the five boroughs. The entrance
to the range stood at the end of an unmarked and unlit road bordered by thick woodlands. Visiting the place at night gave
me a sense of being swallowed up. Out on the peninsula, nearly twenty thousand rounds of live ammunition were fired every
night, hammering out for hours at a time. It was
Deportment cards were our currency of punishment. As recruits, we surrendered them to instructors for minor infractions like
talking in the hallways or forgetting to do homework. We had to keep two of them on our person at all times—except in gym
class, where discipline took the form of endless push-ups. Get enough cards taken, and we faced administrative review, or,
in chronic cases, expulsion from the academy. Clarabel was still carrying her original two cards, a fact Moran would have
known as our group leader.
“Respectfully, sir . . .” said Moran. “Recruit Suarez has been advised many times on the importance of a proper uniform, so
I request the card be taken from her.”
Afterward, Moran ordered us to fall out, and I watched for Clarabel’s expression as she marched past me. She looked angrier
than I’d expected. Giving up a single deportment card was no big deal, especially since some of the instructors just tore
them up later, leaving them out of our files. Yet Clarabel’s nose was wrinkled and her lips were twitching with unspeakable
oaths. Moran must have really struck a nerve.
Clarabel removed her eye shadow in the women’s room, then sulked for most of the day, lingering in corners and staring at
the floor. She seemed devastated about the deportment card, which didn’t make any sense. She wasn’t herself until later that
afternoon, when Moran strolled in late to Behavioral Science with a crooked tie clip.
“Look at Moran,” she said. It was loud enough for the entire room to hear. “He thinks he’s gangsta, but he’s just ghetto.”
Clarabel nearly got a standing ovation from the rest of the class. Everyone laughed, and our company sergeant’s face turned
redder than a traffic light. It was such a low blow that it spared Moran a deportment card for his tardiness, because our
instructor said he’d already been punished enough.
It was only then I realized that I had a rival. I couldn’t believe it had taken me so long to see it. They were both single,
attractive young adults, and they were both masters of the mind game. Was I really going to lose Clarabel to this pencil-lined
punk? No, I told myself. It wouldn’t last. I’d seen it happen before. They’d have a bit of fun, but they’d wind up hating
each other in the end, and I would be the one she trusted all along.
I would rather have courted her openly, but this approach had never seemed to work for me. Something about my smoldering sex
appeal was difficult to convey. Perhaps I was overly in touch with my feminine side. Or not swarthy enough. What ever the
reason, I was twenty-six years old before I had my first one-night stand. I’m not proud of this, or ashamed, either; it’s
just telling in light of the number of attempts I’d made before then: around ten thousand since puberty, according to a rough
calculation. Given enough time—I mean months or years—I could win a woman’s heart. But in the short run, I think I was just
too bland for extreme dating. If sex was a catered party, I was the bowl of fresh fruit that went untouched until the cheese
tray was devoured. Moran was the cheesiest rival I’d ever had, so I’d just have to wait him out.
CHAPTER 8
T WO MONTHS INTO OUR recruit semester, we left the academy in downtown Manhattan for ten nights at the NYPD Outdoor Firearms
and Tactics Range in the East Bronx. The place where we would learn our most controversial skill was a low-slung compound
built on a forested peninsula in Long Island Sound, as far from prying eyes as one could get in the five boroughs. The entrance
to the range stood at the end of an unmarked and unlit road bordered by thick woodlands. Visiting the place at night gave
me a sense of being swallowed up. Out on the peninsula, nearly twenty thousand rounds of live ammunition were fired every
night, hammering out for hours at a time. It was
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