I watched as he got dressed. Always in front of the mirror. Let's see, do I remember where he started? Oh yeah, first the bath. Yes he had to be clean, in case he had a traffic stop that went further than the ticket. Clean underwear, clean socks, and a clean body. Powder and deodorant. He smelled so fresh. All was well underneath.
Now the bulletproof vest, over the tee shirt. Cinched down, pulled in at the waist. Safe for him. Next comes the shirt. The shirt is most important. The shiny collar pins, and cuff links. Nametag and, of course, the badge displayed over his breast. The tie laid flat with the little handcuff tie clasp to hold it down. Pants next, pulled up to meet the shirt.
He tucks in the shirt and pulls the heavy black leather duty belt around his bulging waist. The belt came equipped with a nightstick, handcuffs, mace and a radio in case he needed help, and of course the mighty gun. Now he buckles up. He pulls in the belt to a notch much tighter than would feel comfortable but necessary to make the image he is trying to create, and you slowly see his shirt inflate with his new power.
Next come the black shoes he spent a great deal of time brushing back and forth with the shoe polish until he could see his 'own' reflection in them. All done, he turns to face the full-length mirror. Funny how big he has become from the little man he was when I saw him climb into the tub just an hour before. It takes so much to fill the uniform.
He now is not the person he is afraid he really is. Just a regular person, a nobody underneath that uniform. No, not now.
As his wife I thought what power he had just in a uniform. I am the one who needed the bulletproof vest. I needed the radio for when he came after me. I needed the nightstick and the mace to protect me. Not from the enemy on the outside, but from the enemy on the inside of that uniform. Was it not him who used the handcuffs on me, and the nightstick? Or held the gun to my head and pulled the trigger? More mad that he forgot to load it than what may have happened to me if he had indeed fired a real bullet.
What makes a man a cop, or a cop a man? I don't know. I was just the wife. Feeling safe as long as he knew I was his.
Wish I had a uniform.
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