Good In a Pinch

“When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

- Yogi Berra

Milo is pacing the hallway outside the classroom after the exam waiting for the results to be posted, still groggy from absolutely no sleep the previous night. He chewed on the only fingernails that weren’t bleeding. When he failed the first time he had just graduated high school, and he put it down as due to inexperience, his absolute naivete of the requirements, physical and mental, of the academy.

“I know the stuff backward and forward,” he told the training officer. “I’m just not a good test taker.”

“How did you graduate high school then?” the training officer said. Milo didn’t want to admit he’d failed three grades before being passed conditionally.

“If you can’t handle the stress of taking an exam, how are you going to hold up in a life or death situation?” he replied. “Maybe look into seeing a therapist. You need to get a handle on that before coming back.”

Four years later, during which he scheduled bi-weekly counseling session with Father Piotr at Saint Stanislav, he enrolled a second time. But it was the same result.

It wasn’t just the exams. The physical training, especially running a mile under twelve minutes was impossible. Never good at endurance sports, unless he considered bowling. Ten frame will take it out of you. Six games will wipe you out. Minimum exertion produced the maximum amount of sweat on his back, under his arms, plastering his black, frizzy hair to his forehead, fogging up the thick lenses of his glasses. The gladiator contest was the most embarrassing.

“Schwab, you and Hairy Doughboy, you’re up. Grab the pugil sticks and go at it,” the officer said, smiling.

“Kacynski, sir,” Milo said, grabbing the pugil stick.

“Right. Sorry, Kachinski. Let’s see what you got. Better wipe those goggles first.”

But it was no use. After a few seconds of effort, his pugil stick was knocked to the ground and he immediately followed on his back with Schwab’s knee on his chest.

Milo is a surprisingly good shot, however, having grown up around firearms and handled them since he was seven years old. But that was the only area in which he excelled.

When the exam officer posted the grades in the hallway, Milo pushed his way through the others only to find he’d flunked again. He slowly turned away and traipsed down the hallway to the locker room to gather his stuff and leave. He spends a long time folding his gym clothes, gathering his personal hygiene items and placing them into his duffle. He stares at the post its he’d stuck to the back of the locker – “I am capable of achieving great success”, “I’m driven and focused on my goals”, “I’m unbreakable in spirit”.

What a joke, he thinks. You can’t just will something into being. You have to be something first. What is going to say to Mama Kacynski when he gets home?

“Hey, Milo,” a voice says behind him. Milo turns to see the exam officer holding something in his hand. “Look, I know this is not anything you want to hear, but maybe you’re not cut out to be a police officer. There are other options that are related. Police officer adjacent.” He hands Milo several brochures. “Take a look through these, they may be a good fit. The tests are all online so, theoretically, you could refer to the manuals while taking the test.”

Milo doesn’t know what to say. He stares at the brochures, the floor, back at the brochures. The exam officer holds out his hand.

“I’m doing this as a favor to your father. All of us looked up to Big Jake. He was a great guy, and a stand up cop. One of the best. This could be a way to live up to your promise.”

Milo shakes his hand and watches him leave. “Sorry, Milo,” he says over his shoulder.

“Sure,” Milo says softly. He finishes packing and he slams his locker shut. On his way out he stops by the academy equipment closet and stuffs a handful of zip ties into his duffle before walking out the door, though later he feels guilty for stealing and says three Hail Marys to himself as penance.

Milo grinds through the gears of his ’68 Ford Falcon in the long stop-and-go down Broadway Avenue to home in Slavic Village. Maybe he’ll stop at St. Stanislaus and light a candle. Say a novena. Maybe grab Father Piotr for some counsel, if he doesn’t have to duck out to count centerpieces for the Polish Fest. Or, count baseball bats for the CYA team, like he said the last time. He needs confirmation from a higher power, a light from above. Is this God placing obstacles to his goal as a way of testing his faith, or is the Devil tempting him into discouragement, so he’ll quit. Try something new. He hears a lot of ads for careers in radio broadcasting. He hears them on the radio.

As he passes Cleveland District Five where his father was based he lets out a whimper. Further on Broadway he passes Holy Name Elementary and the playground where he was always picked last for games. But when Big Jake give Stranger Danger talks in the gym, he would swell with pride.

As he approaches Skarek’s Delicatessen, a white Rabbit squeals away from the curb on the opposite side and swerves toward him momentarily. It speeds by, two men in the front, the driver wearing a black do-rag and goatee glares directly at Milo as they pass. Milo pulls to the curb just as a woman runs out of the deli screaming. Her long hair flows in riffles the shape and color of unpainted corrugated aluminum his father used to roof his shed. She wears aviator sunglasses and a thin yellow flowered sundress through which her bra and panties are partially exposed by the sun. Her arms flail in the air. Milo gawks dumbfounded at her as she collapses to her knees in a beautiful, miserable mess. Vince Skarek appears from inside the deli and lifts her to her feet. Should Milo stop, offer to help console her? The first rule of thumb in Cleveland when encountering someone in obvious trouble is to turn your head and walk on. Besides, Skarek is there. But what about the Good Samaritan? Milo could do a good deed and maybe God would reward him with direction on his career. Each thought was urgently tugging at his heart until, in a flash, he saw how he could respond to both. He wheeled the Falcon around and squealed off in pursuit of the Rabbit.

Milo illegally passes several slow drivers on Broadway, runs three red lights and speeds up until he’s right on the Rabbit’s rear end, all the while a thousand thoughts swirling through his mind, wondering what he’ll do if he catches up to them. There are zip ties in his duffle. He could use to tie their hands. Okay, they’re stolen. If the arresting police trace those to the Academy, he might be charged. Shouldn’t have to pay more than a fine, though. Still, even with the Hail Marys he said earlier, that might not square him with God. Maybe apprehending them, added to the Hail Marys would outweigh that sin and leave the ledger balanced. Still, the Plain Dealer Police Blotter might read, “Good Samaritan apprehends crooks with zip ties he stole from the Police Academy”. That’s not the reputation he wants, if he decides to enroll again. He decides he’ll push those thoughts off and deal with them when he catches these guys. There’s a snubby five shot S&W 38 cal. in his glove box. Theoretically, that was illegal. But he could prove he was a prudent person that had been enrolled at the Police Academy, so maybe there’s a legal defense he could use if he got caught. That one fell into a grey area, one that would square him with the law, but God could consider it a plus or a minus. There was no more time to think because the driver of the Rabbit stopped short, causing Milo to slam on his brakes, and then speeds off to outdistance him. Milo steps on the accelerator, redlining the tachometer in each gear, to close the distance. The Rabbit tries this tactic twice more before attempting a hard left turn on Miles Avenue going 50mph. The Rabbit skids over the curb and bangs onto a fire hydrant, lift the cars front end and spewing water in all directions.

Milo quickly pulls in behind them, reaches for both the gun and zip ties, and rushes up toward the driver’s side of the Rabbit while traffic slows to ogle what’s happening. Several cars pull over and a couple of drivers exit. One is holding a 35mm camera, and it’s trained on Milo and the wrecked Rabbit. Inside, both driver and passenger are slumped over as Milo arrives. Blood is on the steering wheel from the driver’s forehead. The windshield on the passenger side is cracked. Both are awake but stunned. The driver turns toward Milo and squints.

“Dude,” his voice is slurred. “What the fuck?”

Milo opens the front door grabs both hands of the driver and zip-ties them to the steering wheel. He runs to the other side and zip-ties the passenger’s hands to the assist handle. He calls to a man standing outside Gray Drug to run inside and call 911. Milo then runs back to his car and puts his revolver back in the glove compartment. Within minutes two cruisers pull up, and Milo explains that the two stole the Rabbit in front of Skarek’s Deli. He gave chase as a concerned citizen and when the car crashed, he apprehended them. There are a lot of questions, but Milo’s answers mostly satisfy the two cops.

One of the cops says, “You related to Jake Kacynski, the cop?”

“He was my Dad,” Milo says.

“Good man,” the cop says. “I rode with him for a while when I was starting out. Learned a lot from him.”

Milo feels he’s on solid ground, now.

The other cop radios dispatch and finds that a Twyla Pepper had reported a stolen vehicle, license plate LV2175W, Volkswagen Rabbit not ten minutes ago.

“Okay,” the cop says to Milo. “You can go. But stay close to home in case we have more questions.” A request for a tow truck is radioed in. The cops take both men into custody.

The next day the Plain Dealer police blotter discloses what had happened, and the day after that a reporter from the newspaper shows up at Milo’s house requesting an interview. “We got pictures of you apprehending those crooks,” the reporter says. “Would you mind giving us a little of your background and providing your version of what happened?” A two-column article with his photo appears above the fold the next day later, followed by a phone call from Channel 5 requesting a Community Heroes interview the day after that.

Milo sat at home in the front room and watched the interview on the evening news on his mother’s TV. He picks up the phone book and searches for a Twyla Pepper. She had looked to be about his age, maybe a little older. And a little skinny. Does she dye her hair that color to make herself appear older, he wonders? Some of Mama Kaczynski’s goulash would fill her out. Why wouldn’t she talk to him, if he called and asked if she wanted to get a cup of coffee, or maybe a malted at Daisy’s Ice Cream. On the table beside his chair lays the brochure the training officer gave him. He picks it up and looks through it like it’s the first time. Hmm…the address is local. Classes are offered in-person or online. He lays it back on the table and goes to the kitchen, following the aroma of fresh baked cookies his mother left out to cool.