Love and law enforcement go hand in hand

People who know me these days will be surprised to learn this: I once had a promising career in law enforcement.

That’s right; I carried a badge, baby! And I wasn’t afraid to whip it out if some perp failed to respect my duly appointed authority. Actually, I didn’t have to whip it out; it was pinned to my safety belt.

I was in fifth grade and bore the heady responsibility of making sure my fellow students were able to cross Fountain Street without getting squished by a car. It was a job I took seriously.

My motives for going into law enforcement were not altruistic, however. Sure, I enjoyed the prestige and respect the uniform (a white belt with a pin-on badge) brought me. I liked the hot chocolate we safeties got after our “shift” on cold mornings. And I REALLY liked being able to yell at kindergarden babies to “step on it, already!”

I liked pretty much everything about being a cop.

But after all these years, I guess I can admit this; I joined the force not out of any love for the law, but for a dame, a goil, a skirt — pick the 1930s detective novel euphemism of your choice.

Marietta Bartilotti — who five days a week sat directly in front of me in Mrs. Lewandowski’s class — had as much in common with the rest of the knocked-kneed, brace-toothed fifth grade female rabble as a swan has with a hedgehog. Marietta … even her name was beautiful.

Long hair, so black it was almost blue, flowed like India ink over shoulders both fragile and strong. Any errant breeze brought about by the opening of the classroom door carried her scent to me; Wrigley’s gum and strawberry shampoo.

Her laugh was the tinkling of glass wind chimes, musical, delicate, ineffably precious.

To say I was in love is a gross understatement. What I felt for Marietta was all-consuming, potent, life altering. I would have climbed mountains for her, swum oceans, crossed deserts.

So when she volunteered to be a safety, I signed up as well. It gave me another 15 minutes with her every day.

Marietta impressed me as a woman who would appreciate a man in uniform. I’d seen enough World War II movies to know the beautiful Italian girl always falls in love with the rugged G.I. I figured it was just a matter of time.

Standing together on our cold corner post, I told her knock-knock jokes, I recited poetry (a dirty limerick I’d learned from my Uncle Ed), I punched her in the shoulder — basically, every trick in the fourth-grade boy’s lexicon of love.

And miracle of miracles, after a couple weeks, it worked! One blustery Friday morning, on the walk from our corner back to school, Marietta shyly took my hand. And held it. Buddha receiving universal enlightenment beneath the banyan tree couldn’t match the sublime transcendence I felt at that moment.

Nirvana! Valhalla! Heaven! 

It was the singular, most perfect moment of my life. Even viewed through the dark tunnel of all these years, that morning still shines like gold.

I have loved a few women since I last saw Marietta — her parents transferred her to a Catholic school a week after the hand-holding incident that consummated our devotion — but I’ve never again loved like that; never like I loved Marietta.

And I’ve never again felt the urge to wear a badge.

More Reality Check online at mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com. Contact Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.