imgI’m a rookie cop in the early eighties. It’s that thickest, darkest time of night between 2-4 a.m. where nothing is moving, except burglars, drunks, and officers. I pull over my first D.U.I., ever, on Dresden Drive. Back up is not coming. The male cops have made that pretty darn clear. The drunk is way past the legal limit. He fails the walking-a-straight-line test with flying colors. I tell him he is under arrest, pat him down for weapons, and get one handcuff on before he decides to fight. Somehow, I hold on to the one cuff, get the backdoor open, and push him inside the patrol car. We wrestle around in the dirty backseat for a few minutes. I still have a grip on the loose cuff–the one he can beat me with if I let go. I’m close to exhaustion when I hear, “Officer, let me help you.” A long arm comes over my shoulder and pins down the guy’s beefy hand. Click. The handcuffs snap shut. I turn to thank the civilian, this good Samaritan. No one is there. Nothing. The street is empty.

This written piece and my performance in “Miracle” on June 25, 2017 at Core Studio in Decatur, Georgia are dedicated to my buddy and fellow officer, Wendell T. Davis, who died too young in the line of duty. Perhaps, he is my guardian, my angel.

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