Thursday, January 29, 2015

WORDS FROM THE MEAN STREETS by Marc Cameron


Coppers are storytellers. Partly, I think, because so many stories happen to us on a daily basis—stories that, as I’ve said before, worm their way into our subconscious and shape who we are and how we view the world.
My wife and I had business that kept us in town late last night. Driving home, we passed through one of the rougher areas of Anchorage—which only gets more dangerous in the dark and bitter cold. I couldn’t help but think of our youngest son, who would soon be out patrolling these same streets. I know, I’ve already written about him, but I’m a dad, I know what it’s like out there—and I can’t help but worry. Anyhow, those thoughts brought to mind one of my favorite Raymond Chandler quotes:
Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean…” The rest of the quote is pretty cool too, but seems a little self-serving since I spent thirty years on the job.  
My son’s a good guy, sweet really, with a kind heart and a gift of empathy that is rarely seen. He is also quite capable of…well, kicking ass. He and I have talked much lately about what makes a good cop. In some ways the job is different than when I started over thirty years ago.  But it’s also much the same—
lunch break
A mutual friend recently told my son that though he’d heard many of my war stories as he grew up, now that he was “on the job”, I’d likely tell some that that were new to him. That friend was absolutely correct.  Some stories, you just don’t tell your eighth grader.  
The fact is, I learned early on that I had to be careful with my storytelling—especially at parties with those outside the profession. Years ago at a church social I sat at a table of sweet, tenderhearted family folk. One of them asked something about what it was like to be in law enforcement. I’m sort of like one of those pull-string dolls when it comes to war stories, so I began to tell them about a recent adventure—
I’d been dispatched to an apartment complex where the manager had noticed the windows to a certain apartment were covered with flies, lots of big, green-backed, nasty things, crowding inside the heavy drapes, leaving countless black specks and tiny trials of something more sinister on the glass. An incessant buzzing, enough to drive you crazy if you stood there very long, vibrated the air. It was mid summer and no one had seen the occupant for nearly two weeks.
Sitting there at the church social over punch and cookies, and oblivious to the under-the-table nudging from my wife, I explained to the paling folks around me that my backup officer and I dabbed our mustaches with Mentholatum jelly in anticipation of the gruesome scene we knew we’d find inside… Finally, my wife put a boot to my ankle and I realized a couple of our friends were about to throw up. I toned down the rest of the story, minimizing the goriest details of what we found in that apartment, while noting the entranced reactions from several at the table. I knew I wanted to write and some people were keenly interested in this stuff. 
Writing about a violent conflict is of necessity different that the real deal. In a book or on film, fights, as I’ve noted before, are usually portrayed as contests of skill where opponents go toe to toe in a flurry of fists and feet, square off with knives, or even have a showdown at high noon. In reality, a person who wants to hurt you will rarely face you mano a mano. Extreme violence looks a lot more like an assassination than a fight—a brutal attack with overwhelming force. Think a brick to the head when you round a corner, a blade to the kidney that feels like a punch, or the bullet you never hear. There are, of course, fights. I’ve talked about the realities of a punch to the beak in past essays. When I was younger, I liked to box. I still enjoy a good scrap. But an honest to goodness fight—the kind into which I throw Jericho two or three times per book—those are a different story. 
Many years ago while en route to pick up a load of prisoners in Ardmore, Oklahoma, my partner wrecked a van during an ice storm on I-35. We rolled one-and-a-half times, coming to rest on the passenger side.  Other than the box full of leg irons smacking me in the head, I don’t remember many details—only that it seemed to go on forever. There was an odd hissing noise coming from outside once we stopped. Both my partner and I thought we might be on fire and scrambled out like gophers through the driver’s side door, which, and that moment, was pointed toward the sky. Turns out, the noise was air leaking out of the tires. My partner, the senior deputy and former Texas Highway Patrol, nodded in approval as we stood on the side of the road—and told me he was proud I hadn’t wet myself and run off screaming. Interesting to find out where he set the bar on my behavior.
 Working in DC
I think of that wreck often when I’m teaching defensive tactics—or writing about a fight—because real human violence has a heck of a lot more in common with a car wreck than a boxing match.  
            Law enforcement officers know this. They see it everyday. So, they try not to fight, but when they do, they certainly don’t fight fair. A good cop, one who is well trained and fit, will always bring a gun to a knife fight—or even a stick fight—because they aren’t there to go toe to toe.  They’re there to take care of the situation—and win.
            Jericho knows this as well. When he fights, it will always be with the most overwhelming force he can muster.  Of course, a good adventure requires the odds be stacked against the hero, so Jericho gets plenty of that as well.
            Well-meaning folks often ask if I’ve ever shot anyone, if I’ve ever been shot, or if my vest has ever saved me. Most of that is none of their business. But the fact is, my vest has saved me from serious injury on more than one occasion—once, during a knock-down-drag-out fight in a restaurant kitchen where I was kicked in the chest and knocked into the edge of a stainless steel table. I reimagined that scrap for a scene in DAY ZERO. In reality, I was off work and peeing blood for a couple of days—Jericho is built of stronger stuff. Hopefully, so is my son.



Marc Cameron is a retired Chief Deputy US Marshal and 29-year law enforcement veteran. His short stories have appeared in BOYS’ LIFE Magazine and the Saturday Evening Post. He's published eleven novels, six of them Westerns.   
DAY ZERO, fifth in his USA Today Bestselling Jericho Quinn Thriller series, is available now. Marc lives in Alaska with his beautiful bride and BMW motorcycle.
Visit him at:
www.marccameronbooks.com 
http://www.facebook.com/MarcCameronAuthor  

14 comments:

  1. Will pray for your son's health and wellbeing, Marc. And hang in there, papa. I'd bet he knows what he is doing. After all, he grew up with you as his example.

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    1. Thanks, Frank. Thankfully, he had mis mama as an example.

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  2. Your pride and concern for your son rings through strongly. Knowing what he is facing can be worrying, but the pride in his ability is priceless. May he be safe as he does his work. Working lock up was different, but we saw the results of a job done well. Doris

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    1. Thanks, Doris. I'd imagine working lockup was more difficult in many ways.

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  3. Marc, your son has an ace in the hole--you! You're kind of like that old man in one of the John Wayne movies--"Been ever'where, done ever'thang, SEEN ever'thang..." LOL At least you can give him pointers and tips (and keep telling those stories of personal experience!) that might keep him safe and alive. I know you have to be so proud of him, while being scared for him, too--knowing what he'll be facing. Now I'll have to look up the rest of that quote...

    Great post as always, and congratulations on the latest Jericho Quinn book, just released!

    Cheryl

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    1. Thanks, Cheryl. I am like that old man in that I am indeed old...

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    2. HA! No, that's just the experiences you've had making you feel that way right now! LOL

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  4. I always love hearing your stories and I bet your son gobbled them up all these years, so he has a leg up over many of the other because of you.

    And about our heroes--it truly does amaze me when a man is wounded, but two hours later is ready to fight again. The body can only take so much before it gives you a strong message to lay low. But, that's the stuff of fiction.

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    2. Thank you, Jacquie. I've seen some mighty interesting things from folks who I thought were down for the count. I know one deputy who held his finger in the severed brachial artery of another deputy, while the wounded deputy shot it out with the bad guy over his helper's shoulder. If you don't think I stole that for a Jericho Quinn story...

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  5. I like your analogy that real violence resembles a car wreck more than a boxing match. Movie fights are often balletic and are indeed choreographed ahead of time. The challenge to me is in writing about violent encounters. Even authors have to carefully time the punches and be clear as to where they land and how much damage they do.

    I sense there's a lot you in your boy. He'll be all right. Maybe he'll write a few books some day too.

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    1. Luckily for him, the boy is much more like his mother.

      Fights are definitely a challenge to write. It takes me hours to write a two page fight and I often split it to look at it from two points of view--a bystander in the beginning,as the fight begins, then switching to the center of the action through the eyes of one of the fighters. Work, but it's also one of my favorite parts of writing.

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  6. Excellent article, Marc. It is great to have these insights into the real world.

    You have obviously been an inspiration to your son. He will do well.

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