Back to main Creative Writings page > The Desk Officer M. 3rd watch at the 24th District desk is not a favorite position. The whole desk crew that was here is now working at some other district. And like the other officers in the district, I prefer to work outside. Outside got more adrenaline, more autonomy, less bosses. But by some fluke, through no fault of my own, I was put on the desk. Day after day after day. Until I couldn’t stand it. Then little by little, among the tediousness of report writing, and answering phones, the bouts of boredom and maddening rushes. I began to notice all the different types of individuals entering and exiting the room. An endless flow of characters. Different types of criminals come through. The very bad, the not so bad and all the ugly in-between. Victims of crime walk right in off the street. Bruised and battered, they just want a report, like a report is going to close the wound. People who just got into a car accident, or just received a parking ticket and are holding it like it might be able to be returned. Whole families of people come in. People looking for shelter. Crazy people. Lonely people. Upset angry people. Scared and crying people. People who are bleeding. Lost people. Confused people. Demanding people. Very important people. Even people looking for other people, who are missing. Forever coming in. Forever filling out reports. In addition to Lieutenants, Captains, Sergeants, cops and other staff. Each and every one woefully and fearfully fused on a carousel ride around the desk, playing out a drama, amidst a comedy of errors, every hour of everyday to no apparent end. Except perhaps, for the possibility of changing their life circumstance, if even temporally. Everybody calls the desk. We at the desk answer the phones. No secretaries, just us. When people come to the desk, they want something, they want that something from you, and they want it now. And you need to get it for them. Because you are the proverbial answer man. You have power, because you have knowledge. You know all the quirky little ways the department works. So when they’re stuck and don’t know something, you’re who they come to. Stories get told at the desk. Funny stories. Horrible stories. Stories about prisoners. Stories about stories. Stories about the way things used to be done. Even people who come in off the street have a story. Sometimes they tell you that story, Sometimes they just come in to use the bathroom and leave. Sometimes people tell you part of a story for the report, which is a different story from what actually happened. Sometimes people come in and leave part of their story behind. Sometimes people come in to end a story, so they can start another one. Sometimes people just want someone to listen to their story. They’re desperate for someone to hear the story. They seem to be stuck in it. They sort of want you to get stuck in that story with them so they’ll have company, but they know you don’t want in, and besides, it’s their story. It may be the only possession they have, it keeps them alive, so you can only stay in their story for a while. Alas, stories are what life is about. We are all our stories and yet, we are more than our stories. Pick apart the details of anyone’s life and you’re in for a shock. When you see the details of a ravaged life, all you see are levels and depths of hell, covered and camouflaged by material things. Like a homeless person under a viaduct, covered with dirty clothes, blankets and newspapers.