I carry on my jacket, it says: Hoellen, Building Engineer. But I'm a janitor. An engineer is just a word that people more or less respect. I don't care. You can call me a janitor. There's nothing wrong with a janitor. A lotta guys that work in high rises, he'll carry the same card as me but, man, he don't want to hear the word janitor. He's an engineer. He' even got "building engineer" written on his mailbox and his bells.

I have walkups mostly. I have buildings from forty years old to a four-plus-one building.26 This to me is a pain in the ear. They're hard to keep straight. It's open, there's parking underneath. They go hang something on the wall, it falls off. Cabinets come off the wall. Zero weather came, pumps all froze out. Whoever designed this building-! Pump split wide open. Man, it flooded us out. A lady came down the elevator, it didn't stop. When she hits bottom, water is in the elevator. It's lucky she didn't get electrocuted.

Older buildings are less trouble than new ones-easier to keep straight. In the new building, they're paying much higher rent for less s.p.a.ce. They want better service and you can't blame 'em. These old cast-iron boilers they put in long ago, they're repairable. You can't beat 'em. They'll last a lot longer than these new ones.

My dad did the same kind of work, but he worked harder than I do. Because of gas heat, I can sleep an hour, maybe two hours later in the morning. He had to be at that building opening doors at that boiler at five thirty to get that heat up at six. If those radiators weren't clanging at six in the morning, people were raising all kinds of hay.

When I first started out, I had twenty-five porches of garbage. Every morning I had to carry it. This building was a six-story walkup. It was the only building I had. When it came noon, by the time I got to the top, I was so all-in and soaking wet from sweat that I had to sit there and look out at the lake for a while and get my breath before I started on my way down.

You talk about heart condition. The janitor's got one of the worst. He's gotta walk every day up and down stairs carrying garbage. You carry a hundred, two hundred pounds of garbage down. Going up, it's bad enough carrying something on your back. Coming down with two hundred pounds on your back, it gets heavier. It has never bothered me. I have a real bad back, by the way. I've been in the hospital last year with a bad back. Shoveling coal and mopping is bad. If you have a lot of mopping, you're throwing your hips around. I tire out very easy because of my back. But I'm better in my job now.

A janitor on zero days, when the wind is blowin' and he has to go up those stairs in ice cold weather-a lot of janitors are up in age. You're talking about men fifty years old, fifty-five, up into there. He has to clean those porches off, he has to shovel the snow, and the ticker only takes so much.

Now I have a jeep. I plow the whole sidewalk. Instead of shoveling, I just push it off now. Almost all the janitors . . . There's an ordinance that say's you're not allowed. A lot of rookies, especially, 'll give you trouble. You try to explain, "Man, I'm not hurting anybody. I'm going slow." "Get off the sidewalk." You'll get a ticket if you don't get off.

Today I can walk in the boiler room with clean trousers and go home with clean trousers. You check the gla.s.s, you're all set. That's the first thing you do. I check my fires and bring my garbage down right away. I take one of those big barrels on my back and I bring it up the flight of stairs and back down. I do this on three buildings and two have chutes.

Before air pollution we used to burn this. We burned it in the same boiler every morning. There was a city ordinance that it wasn't allowed, but yet they did that for years. Now we put it in the hallway. We bring it down and put it in drums and the scavenger hauls it out. We don't burn garbage any more. It helped you get the heat up in the morning, but it's a good thing they stopped. It's a little more work now, 'cause it was easier to throw it in the boiler than come out and stuff it in the barrel.

These cry babies we got, they're always hollering about something. I had a call one night about eleven o'clock. She said, "My p.u.s.s.y's caught in the door." (Laughs.) So I jumped up out of bed and said to my wife, "Someone's crazy or drunk or somebody's pulling a trick on me." I get my clothes all on and I'm ready to go out the door and my phone rings. She says, "Never mind, I got my p.u.s.s.y loose." She's talking about her d.a.m.n cat. The next day I told her, "You know the way that sounded?" She says, "I thought about that afterwards." She got a big laugh out of it.

Ah, there's a lot of stuff. I'm not mentioning names, but this buddy of mine, I told him I got a couple of hot numbers on the third floor, students. And I says, "You can make out." (Laughs.) I says, "I'll go up first. When you see the blink at the window, come and knock, 'cause I'll have 'em all lined up." You know you can control electricity from the fuse, right? So I go down the boiler room and fuse box and turn the fuse, and the light in the window blinks off and on up there. Christ! he come runnin' up those stairs. He's bangin' at the door, "I know you're in there! I know you're in there!" I said, "Hey, I pulled a joke." He almost killed me; he chased me all the way down the steps.

As for making out with tenants, it's not like they say. Good-looking broads, if they're playing they ain't gonna monkey around with a janitor.'Cause they know you're around the building and they're afraid you might say something. I'm not saying it's not done, but ninety-nine percent of the time you're not gonna make out in your own building.

I had a couple of girls, man, nearly crazy. One's a bunny. But she said, "I have to face you every day and I don't hold with making out in the building." I betcha I could go back and I'd make out. She's a very nice girl and everything.

Some people look down on us. A ditchdigger's a respectable man. A gravedigger's a respectable man. A garbage hauler, he's a respectable man -if he does his job. Now they're saying we're making money. They read in the papers the janitors got a raise. Thank G.o.d for the Janitor's Union.

We're making a lot more money than in my dad's time. Then they were living in bas.e.m.e.nt apartments, where maybe a catch basin was in your kitchen. You live in a bas.e.m.e.nt apartment, you start out when you're a young fella, you live in the apartment twenty years and when you get older, you're gonna feel it. Oh man, it's just damp.

I live in a townhouse now. I've been at this since '50, so I worked my bones around with the owners and got the okay for it, to live off the job. Actually, I live outside Chicago. I drive in in the morning.

I make a pretty good buck. I figure if I do my work and do it honestly I should be ent.i.tled to whatever I make. For high-rise buildings, head man makes a thousand dollars a month and his apartment. You never heard of that stuff before. I've turned down high rises by the dozens. I can make more money on the side on walkup buildings.

Most tenants, I get along with 'em. The bad part about a tenant, they have no respect for your hours. Maybe my day starts when their day starts, but they want something done when they come home. My day is ending too. They'll call up and some will be sarcastic about it. "You have to come here when I'm home." That's not true. They can leave me the key, so I can do it on my own time. Some people don't trust you. If I'm gonna steal something, I'm not gonna steal from somebody I know, especially when they know I'm in there. If they can't trust me, I don't want to be around'em.

They come home maybe around seven and you're sitting down to supper and they'll call. "I got a stopped up toilet. It was stopped up yesterday." I'll say, "Why didn't you call me? I could have had it fixed today while you were at work." "Well, I didn't have my key." Sometimes you get in a mood and you say, "Suffer then." (Laughs.) If I'm eating, I finish eating, then I go. But if it's a broken pipe and it's running into somebody else's apartment, you get on your high horse and you're over there right away.

Phone calls always go to your wife, and a lot of people are very rude. They figure your wife works. My wife is not on the payroll. They call her up and chew her out about something, "When will he get here?" She's just there, she's being nice enough to take my calls for me. A lot of the janitors now are getting machines to take their calls. They'll call you up and the machine says, "Leave your message." They'll say something silly and hang up. They'll see you on the street and tell you about it. They don't like an answering service. They want to make contact right there.

My wife gets tired of the calls. It's a pain in the neck. My mother lives with us since my dad pa.s.sed away. She takes my calls for me. She's used to it. She's been doing it so long. She lets 'em talk if they have a complaint. She just lets 'em talk. (Laughs.) Some of 'em will demand. I just tell 'em, "I think you're very unreasonable. I'll see you in the morning." If they keep arguing, I just politely say, "That's it." And I hang up on 'em.

You just don't let it get the best of you. We've had janitors hang themselves. Since I've been out here, three hung themselves. They let it get the best of 'em. I asked this one guy, "Eddie, what on earth is wrong?"

He's up there fixing lights in this high rise and he's shaking all over. "These people are driving me crazy," he says. I read about this guy, Red, he blowed his brains out. People drive 'em batty. They want this, they want that. You let it build up inside-the heck with it. You do the best you can. If they don't like it . . .

You gotta watch. We have a business agent in the area and, oh man, there's too many guys lookin' for work. These people coming from Europe, Yugoslavs and Croatians. We're talking about young guys, thirty years old, twenty-five. They're nice guys. They talk broken, but you get to know 'em. They bowl with us and learn as quick as they can. A lot less young native-born are in it now. They'll take a job like a helper until they can find something better. A helper makes $640 a month, five-day week.

Back in the forties a janitor was a sort of low-cla.s.s job. n.o.body wanted it. But during the Depression, janitors were working. They had a place to live and they had food on the table. It was steady work. They had a few clothes on their back. Other people didn't.

Today a janitor is on the same level as the plant maintenance man. If I leave my work I would have no trouble walking into any plant and taking over as supervisor, maintenance electrical repair. I saw an ad the other day, it took my eye. They're paying twelve thousand and travel. To me it would be very interesting and easy. But I couldn't afford to take a salary of twelve thousand dollars. If I'm making more now, I want to better myself. My dad always said, "It's not what you make, it's what you save." (Laughs.) Most of 'em will call me an engineer or they will kid me. 'Cause it's on my coat. I wear regular uniform clothes. Gray trousers, blue. I have different colors. I have green, blue, gray. Shirt and trousers to match and a jacket, sort of ski-jacket-like, with an emblem on it. I try to keep clean because n.o.body wants somebody dirty around. I'm not a sweeper, I'm like a stationary engineer. I've been out with lawyers. It's the way you conduct yourself. If you know nothing, keep your mouth shut. You learn a lot by keeping your mouth shut.

I got a boy married. I'm a grandfather. He's twenty, going on twenty-one. He was an honor student in math. I wanted him to go to IIT.27 He run off and got married. A kid'll do what he wants to do. He hurt us real bad. He said, "Dad, why should I spend all your money and go to college. I can get a job driving a truck and make more money than a college graduate." I said, "There's two different kinds of work, though."

So he's working now as a janitor's helper. In a couple of months, he'll have a building himself and make eight hundred dollars a month and a free apartment. He'll probably pick up another building on the side and make another two hundred. And this is just a start for the kid. But I wish he'd a went into engineering. I don't know why, but I feel . . . (hesitates) . . . I believe in college. I didn't get a chance to go and I believe in it. Even if he comes back to janitoring, he's still got this in his head. College doesn't hurt anybody. He's saved me a lot of money and everything. He'll do all right for himself, but . . .

A college man is underpaid today. We have a janitor, a kid that eats with us every morning. This guy has all kinds of degrees in electrical engineering. He can't get a job. They want to pay him peanuts. He's making more money now.

I carry on the side a criminal investigator's badge. I can carry a gun whenever I want. I'm registered by the state, with the FBI and with the city police. You gotta be fingerprinted, you gotta be registered with Springfield. It's marked right on the card, it's volunteer.

I work for a detective agency because sometimes it's pretty rough at night. We go down in holes, in bas.e.m.e.nts. We stop a lot of burglaries, people robbing apartments. We can hold 'em for the police. We arrest 'em and we hold 'em. I've worked with the FBI. Watch out for Weathermen and stuff like that in the neighborhood.

I've worked with two or three young FBI men, very intelligent men, very respectable men. I really admire 'em and I love to help 'em. I'm all over the University of Chicago area, so I got it pretty well covered all around. They pa.s.s out pictures to watch for. You don't have no authority, you just kind of see the area. This is for something like dope. We look through the garbage. They'll tell you what to look for.

Like some of these political kids?

Yeah, in a way. But they never bothered me with that. It's mostly like dope or something. They're not talking about a little pot party. About somebody selling it. We had a girl living in one of these buildings, she made trips to Mexico. She was crippled, she was in a wheel chair. They believed she was bringing it back and forth. I don't get involved because they don't let me get involved.

You report to them now and then . . . ?

Oh, yeah.

Do a lot of janitors do this?

No, no, no.

Is it because you're in a university area?

Well, yeah . . . (Quickly) They're not interested in the kids. They're interested in the guy bringing the stuff in. They might be watching him for a different reason altogether. There was a case where a kid didn't report for draft. They didn't want to arrest the kid or nothing. But they wanted to know where he was so . . .

All they told me is: "You know where he lives? Do you know where he moved?" So I tell them where they move. We saw him walking the street the other day and I called them and they said, "Find out where he moved." That's all. They don't want to arrest the guy, but I guess they want to talk to him. Oh, I don't know . . . what the h.e.l.l, these draft dodgers.

The janitor knows more about the neighborhood than anybody, doesn't he?

He can, if he wants to get nosy, yeah. I enjoy my work. You meet people, you're out with the public. I have no boss standing over me. People call me Mr. Hoellen. Very respectable. If I'm a good friend, they say Eric. I'm proud of my job. I've made it what it is today. Up in the morning, get the work done, back home. Open the fires and close 'em. (Laughs.) WATCHING.

FRITZ RITTER.

Hes the doorman at a huge apartment building on Manhattan's Upper West Side. "I would say about 180 apartments." It has seen better days, though signs of its long-ago elegance are still discernible. High ceilings, marble pillars, expensive lobby. The walls could stand a paint job. The floor's tile has had it; its patterns, hardly visible. We're seated on a divan in the lobby. He wears his uniform. He is bareheaded and is smoking a cigarette.

The neighborhood's not so good any more like it used to be. Used to be very nice, one of the best neighborhoods in the city-Nice restaurants, nice movies, and nice people. You know what I mean? I mean very high cla.s.s. The times change and everything. You know what I mean? Sure. Don't you think so? Sure. There's still some good ones in this building, very nice ones. Mostly middle cla.s.s, I would say. And some hippies too. But I think it will go down a little bit more. You know?

I watch who comes in, goes out. If I see a stranger, I stop him and find out where he's going. We call upstairs, we have to announce him. In the nighttime now, twelve o'clock, you have the door locked. The old days, we had the doors open. I didn't have to stop n.o.body. Then it was opened twenty-four hours a day.

I worked forty-one years in this building. I started '31, '32, something like that. I worked twelve hours a day, six days a week. From seven to seven, nights. There was no union then, no vacations, no nothing. Now we work five days and forty hours. That's much better.

In them days, the doorman was . . . ohhh! You had to be dressed nice-white gloves and a stiff collar. And the white tie there, even like the waiters use, the head waiter. Nicer uniforms than this. In the summertime, gray uniform and white gloves, always gloves. You had to wear hats always. I had a problem one time with the boss. I didn't want to wear a cap. I don't know why. I always take it off. He comes by, I put it on. He goes away, I take it off. Off and on, off and on. But that's the way it is.

If tenants came by, you had to stand up. If you were sitting down, you'd stand up. As a doorman then, you couldn't sit like this. When I was first hired, I sat down with my legs crossed. The manager came over and he said, "No, sit down like this"-arms folded, legs stiff. If tenants came in, you had to stand up quick, stand there like a soldier. You only spoke when they spoke to you. Otherwise, don't say nothin'.

It was real high cla.s.s, yes. Nice rugs on the floor, nice furniture. Oh, they all had maids. No maid could come in the front. You had to go all in the service, oh yeah. They were working Monday, Tuesday. The service cars would be up and down, up and down. Today they come in the front. They don't have many maids today like they had before.

When the house was high cla.s.s, the tenants look down on me. When they used to see me on the street they'd make believe they didn't know me. There was a restaurant in here. I used to go there once in a while, they'd make believe they didn't see you. But it didn't bother me. Because I don't give a d.a.m.n if they speak to me or not. Because I did my job a hundred percent. Even to this day, the old-timers, sometime they see you somewhere and they make believe you're not there. It's the truth. They think they're better. Years ago, sure they did. They wouldn't say nothin'. You couldn't say boo.

One time I felt lousy, I had hay fever. I was on the elevator, I say, low, "Good morning" to the man. And he says to me, "Don't you say good morning?" I say, "I did say good morning." 'Cause I had hay fever and I feel bad. He didn't spoke to me no more and he cut me off for Christmas. But I didn't care. It was about 1932, '33. See how people are.

I had good times here, don't get me wrong, very good times. Everyone dressed up, my dear man. They were dressed high as anything. There was movie stars living in this house. Sure. Singers, Metropolitan. Sure. Doctors, lawyers, bankers.

An elderly man walks by, erect, though with a slight touch of fatigue. He is carrying a doctor's black bag. Fritz calls out, "Good morning." The man nods, hardly looking our way. "He's an old-timer. He's been here thirty-five years, very nice man."

Times change. Today it's different. Today is every day more liberal. Today they discuss, they talk with you. Even the high-cla.s.s ones change. Everybody change today, more friendly today. Today I make a joke, they take it. More on the equal side, more friendship. Before you couldn't do nothing. I see one time a doorman smokes a cigarette and the tenant went over to the manager and they fired 'im right out. They said, "Go"-just like that. You had no chance at all. Yesterday when payday was, they don't want you, you're through. They can't do that today no more. Today the man is better off.

But I would like to see the house the way it was. If a stranger come in today, I stop him. I ask where he's going. Some of 'em give me a little trouble, especially the Democrats, the black ones. I call 'em Democrats. I don't want to say colored or white or anybody-just Democrats. One time a guy says to me, "Didn't you ever see a colored man come in here?" I said, "Yes, but it's my job. I don't care what you do upstairs, but I have to ask where you're going, see?" When he came down, he said, "I'm awfully sorry. I didn't realize that." Seem with all this liberal stuff you have your ups and downs. I didn't have that years ago.

You never had to stop 'em before. I knew who they were. Years ago, they had more family life. Their friends come in or their brother or somebody you knew. Today is more open. They take apartments here, three, four guys, girls, and they have friends come in and you don't know who is who. You have to stop 'em. I have to tell 'em this is my job.

There's a lot of trouble around here. Pocketbook gets s.n.a.t.c.hed, things like that. I used to work nighttime. There was a couch here. I slept there and the door was open in the summertime. n.o.body came in, not a soul. Today you couldn't do that. When I was out of the service in 1945, it was pretty good. But in the last ten years you get a little trouble. You walk there in the street, you see it. Drinking, dope . . . The uniform helps, yeah. If I would stay there with the suit on, they wouldn't respect me. But when they see a uniform, they know who I am.

A heavy-set blonde girl wearing slacks has entered the vestibule. It had started to rain several minutes before. It is now a downpour. She stands against the wall. She's obviously in a good humor. Fritz approaches her. She smiles at him and holds forth a half-pint. She offers it to him. She has a slight Spanish accent. He declines in a friendly manner. The rain slackens, she waves good-by and leaves.

"You need something?" she said. "I don't need something," I say to her. That would never happen years ago, no, no, never. You couldn't say things like this or "How are you?" I liked it. You didn't get in no trouble. They think today because you're friendly they got advantage, you know? Freshness.

The people, they all know me. When they go away here in the summertime, they give me the key and I take care of the apartment. Whatever, flowers. I don't care what's laying there, I wouldn't touch it. They know this. There could be whisky staying there, I wouldn't touch nothing. If they have a little money in there, I don't care what they got laying there, I wouldn't touch it. They know this. They respect me.

In forty-one years, if I took five days off for foolishness, I would be a liar. Oh, I never take off. I betcha I wasn't late five times in forty-one years. I'm very on the ball. I should get more money because I'm here a long time. A new guy comes in, he don't know nothing, he gets the same pay I do. But then the other way around: if they would have to pay me more, they would take the younger man and save money.

I don't care no more, because I'm sixty-five and maybe a year more and I will retire. I hope G.o.d is good to me, that I have my health. So long as I feel good, I work, because I have a nice job and I don't kill myself. I wouldn't like to take off now and sit on the bench here, with the older men here. I wouldn't like it every day, like friends of mine. I'm active, I like to do something.

I came to this country from Germany, there were no jobs. This is 1927. I was working in a candy factory. Christmas and Easter we worked. They lay me off. The money I saved up went to h.e.l.l. So this job was steady. Even if I wanted to change, I couldn't change, because there was nothing. I was glad to have it. If I was to come to this country again, I would like to be a mechanic. Because today you have golden opportunity.

VINCENT MAHER.

Each child has a dream. I had two. One was to be a marine and the other was to be a policeman. I tried other endeavors but I was just not cut out for it. I am a policeman. It is one of the most gratifying jobs in the world.

He is thirty-nine. He lives apart from his family-a wife and three children: two boys, fifteen and twelve, and a girl, fourteen. He presently directs traffic in Chicago's Loop. He had previously been a member of the Tactical Unit. Due to a personal grievance, he had resigned from the force. For a time, he worked as a bartender-disconsolately. "I had a deputy chief come in and a commander. They said, 'Vince, you're a cop. Get your f.a.n.n.y back on the job.' I came back on the job and I'm happy."

Two of his uncles had been on the force in New York City, as was his father, "until he lost his trigger finger in a railroad accident." As he reflects, past and present fuse.

I make an arrest on someone who commits a crime of violence. I have to resort to a physical type of arrest to subdue him, I might have to shoot the person. I'm chastised for being brutal. It's all right for him to do what he wants to do against myself or legitimate people, but in no way I can touch him. I don't see the justice.

I've been accused of being a bigot, a hypocrite, and a few other niceties. I'm a human being with a job. I judge people on face value. Just because a guy wears long hair doesn't make him a radical. Just because he's black -I'd rather work in a black neighborhood. They need me more than the white. White neighborhoods are not as involved in actual crime, the dirtiness, as they are in poor neighborhoods. I don't mean blacks alone. There are Southern whites that come up here, they live in jungles. So do the Puerto Ricans.

The white man, he wants me to write an illegally parked car or write the neighbor nextdoor for his dog defecating on the gra.s.s. I don't dig this. This is not my kind. I lived in a jungle, I've come from a jungle. In those early days, n.o.body knew the word n.i.g.g.e.r. There was no hate. You came and went as you pleased. I've seen kids come out of a bad neighborhood, some become priests, some become policemen, others go to the penitentiary. I don't believe what some judges say: because of environment, this is the way it is. I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I never finished high school. I finished the hard way-Uncle Sam and I. I should be a crook because I came out of a slum neighborhood? My dad was a Depression kid. I saw him when he was making four dollars a week, supporting four kids and a wife. (Laughs.) That's why I became a policeman.

I'm in traffic now-semi-retirement. (Laughs softly, ruefully.) All I ever wanted was detective and I couldn't make it. When I was on the Tactical Force, I just couldn't wait. I used to work my days off. I felt I was really functioning as a police officer. I get out there and infiltrate, to find out why, when, and where. We need an element to get out there. I'm not saying it's the greatest thing in the world, but it's necessary. It's a evil because crime is evil. Why do these people who preach liberalism and pacifism require walls around their houses? They need these buffers. That's what we are, buffers.

If there was a crime pattern working, we'd go out and find out who, what, when, and cleaned it up. We would roam the street as citizens, rather than marked as policemen. We'd wear neat and presentable suits. You can hear a lot more when you're sitting in a group of hippies or you're sitting in a restaurant. That's how I used to operate. I'd pick up information. n.o.body knew I was a policeman.

I don't believe in entrapping. To entrap is to induce someone to commit a crime. The prost.i.tute was a great source of information. This is funny, but I'd rather have a prost.i.tute working the street. This is her trade and it's been going on since Adam and Eve. If I were President, I'd legalize it. As long as she's operating, I don't have to worry about someone being raped or a child being molested. They render a service as long as they're clean and don't hurt people.

I used to call the girls at two in the morning and say, "I need four or five for the night." And they'd say, "Okay Vince, we'll be here. Come back in about two hours." They'd all be lined up and I'd lock 'em up. I'd grab one of the broads off the street and I'd say, "Charlene, you'd better hustle because I'm coming back later and if I catch youse around-boom-you're gonna get nailed. The beef is on."

The good suffer for the faults of the bad. You get one hooker out there that's a bad one, starts jackrolling, working with a pimp, you've got a bad beef. As long as the broads are operating and n.o.body's hurt . . . If Sam wants to go out and get something strange, he's gonna go. I can't put a ball and chain on this man. His own conscience has got to be his guide.

I don't discriminate, black or white broads. They were good to me. They were my source of information. They can go places where my eyes and ears can't go. The best eyes and ears the policeman has got is the street, because the blue is known even when you don't have it on. So you send your other people out.

When they get pinched, they're not hurt so much. When they put up a twenty-five-dollar bond, they know I'm not gonna be in court and they get their money back and they're back on the street. They take the bust and it's a cover for them.

There was a gang of thieves in Old Town. At the time, there was sixty or seventy unsolved robberies. They were working in conjunction with prost.i.tutes. They'd rob the trick. They would sometimes cut, beat, or shoot the victim. My two partners and I set out one night and I was the decoy. I was picked up by two prost.i.tutes. I took on four guys in a gun battle. One guy stuck a shotgun in my stomach and it misfired. The other guy opened up on me with a .38. I killed the man with the shotgun, wounded the other guy, and took the other two. I volunteered. I was decorated for it and given a chance to make detective. But I didn't make it.

I'm human. I make mistakes like everybody else. If you want a robot, build machines. If you want human beings, that's what I am. I'm an honest cop. I don't think any person doing my job could face the stuff I face without losing your temper at one time or another. I've used the word n.i.g.g.e.r, I've used the word stump-jumpin' hillbilly, I've used vulgarity against 'em. It depends on the element.

I've never studied psychology, but I apply it every day of my life. You can go into an atmosphere of doctors and lawyers and educators and get a point across verbally. They understand. You can also work on the South or West Side,* where you can talk your fool head off and get nothing. They don't understand this nicety-type guy. So you walk with a big stick. Like the adage of a mule: He's a very intelligent animal, but in order to get his attention you have to hit him on the head with a stick. Same thing applies on the street.

You walk up to some of these people and they'll spit in your face. If you let them, then I've lost what I am as a policeman, because now I've let the bad overrule me. So I have to get physical sometimes. It isn't done in a brutal sense. I call it a corrective measure. You get these derelicts on the street. I've dealt with these people for years. You whack 'em on the sole of the foot. It isn't brutal, but it stings and he gets the message: he's not supposed to be sleeping on the street. "Get up!" You get him on his feet and say, "Now go on back to junk heaven that you live in and get some sleep." Someone coming down the street sees me use the stick on the sole of his foot is gonna scream that I'm brutal.

There were five gentlemen standing on the corner, all black. One guy stepped in front of my car, and said, "You white mother so-and-so, you ain't goin' nowhere." Bleep-bleep on the horn. I say, "Listen fella, move!" He didn't move. The challenge was there. I'm alone, I'm white. And he's one of these people that read in the magazines: Challenge the policeman. I got out of the squad car and I told him, "You . . ." (Hesitates.) I rapped to him in his tongue and he understood. I called him everything in the book. I said, "Get up off the curb or you're gonna go to jail." He made a very emphatic point of trying to take me physically. It didn't work. When his four buddies saw him go on the ground, I got the message across: I'm the boss on the street. If you're the jungle cat, I'm the man with the whip and the chain. If that's the way you want to be treated, I'm gonna treat you that way. If you want to be physical, mister, you better be an awful good man to take me.

From now on, I'd walk up and down that street and the guys'd say (imitates black accent), "Hiya mister po-lice, how ya doin?" I don't care if you're yellow, pink, or purple, I'm a policeman and I demand respect. Not for me as an individual, but for what I represent. Unfortunately, the country's going the other way. They'll be throwing bricks and bottles at you and you'll be told don't do anything, they're merely expressing themselves.

Now this bit about advising people of their const.i.tutional rights. I have been doing that for years. n.o.body had to tell me to do it. I did it because I felt: Listen, baby, you open your big mouth and anything you tell me, I'm gonna use against you. I didn't come right out and say, "Sir, I must advise you of your const.i.tutional rights." I didn't stand there and let them go bang-bang and stick-stick with a blade while I'm tellin' 'cm. I'm just as much a policeman to the black man as I am to the white man, to the yellow man, to the liberal, to the conservative, to the hippie or whatever. I choose no sides.

I was respected as good cannon fodder. But where do I lack the quality of leadership? This is what bugs me. Is there something wrong with me that I can't be a leader. Who is to judge me? I've had guys on this job that have begged to work with me as a partner. If that doesn't show leadership . . .

Remember when you were a kid and the policeman took you across the street? What is he doing in essence? He's walking you through danger, is he not? Okay, I do the same thing. If I take you by the hand and walk you through Lincoln Park, n.o.body's gonna mess with you. But if I don't take you and walk you through the park, somebody's gonna mug you. I protect you from the dangerous elements. All these do-gooders that say, "Oh yeah, we respect you"-you have the feeling that they're saying yes with their mouth, but they're laughing at you. They don't respect me.

I'd love to go out on the college campus and grab some of these radicals. It's more or less a minority. When you apply logic and truth and philosophy, they cannot come back at you. You cannot fight truth. Who's being brutal? Before I make an arrest, I'll tell the guy, "You have a choice. You could be nice and we'll walk. If you become combative, I'm going to use physical force against you to compensate. In fact, I'm gonna have to break some bones. You forced the issue."

Oh yeah, the Democratic Convention. (A show of hurt appears, in the manner of a small boy's pout.) There was this radical garbage piece of thing, dirty, long-haired, not a human being in my book, standing by the paddy wagon. Not a mark on him. He spotted the camera and disappeared. In thirty seconds he came back. He was covered with all kinds of blood. He's screaming into the camera, "Look what they did to me!"

Lincoln Park. This group was comin' down on me. I'm by myself. They're comin' down the hill, "Kill the pig! Off the pig!" Well, I'm not a pig. There's only one of me and a whole mess of them. Well, c'est le guerre, sweetheart. I folded my arms, put my hand on my .38. I looked at them and said, "What's happening?" They stopped. They thought I was gonna pull out my weapon and start blowin' brains out. I didn't lose my cool. I'm a policeman, I don't scare. I'm dumb that way. (Laughs.) These kids were incited by someone to do something. They said, "Those guys up there with the cameras." I blame the media.

There's a picture in the Loop-Sweet Sweetback's Bada.s.sss Song-it is strictly hate-white. n.o.body pickets that. You can imagine an anti-Negro flick? These people can get away with anything they want. But if you try it, zero, you'll get nailed. The radicals and the black militants, they're the dangers. They could be standing here on the street corner selling this Black Panther thing. (Imitates black accent), "This magazine is fo' de black man." He wants to off the pig. And I'm standing there. How do you think I feel? You know what off the pig means? Kill the pig. I look at them and I laugh. I'd like to break his neck. But I'm a policeman, a professional. I know the element they are. They're like the n.a.z.i was with the Germans. The SS. No good.

To me, when I was a kid, the policeman was the epitome-not of perfection-was a good and evil in combination, but in control. He came from an element in the neighborhood and he knew what was going on. To me, a policeman is your community officer. He is your Officer Friendly, he is your clergyman, he is your counselor. He is a doctor to some: "Mr. Policeman, my son just fell and b.u.mped his head." Now all we are is a guy that sits in a squad car and waits for a call to come over the radio. We have lost complete contact with the people. They get the a.s.sumption that we're gonna be called to the scene for one purpose-to become violent to make an arrest. No way I can see that. I am the community officer. They have taken me away from the people I'm dedicated to serving-and I don't like it.

The cop on the corner took you across the street, right? Now, ten oclock at night, he's still there on the corner, and he tells you to get your f.a.n.n.y home. He's not being nice. The next time he tells you, he's gonna whack you with the stick. In the old days, if you went home and told your dad the cop on the corner whacked you with a stick, you know what your father did? He whacked you twice as hard. He said, "You shouldn't've been there. The policeman told you to go home, go home." Today these kids defy you.

I handed one parent a stick. I said, "Lady, when I leave this room and you don't apply that stick to this young lady's mouth, I will. I'll also sign charges against you for contributing to the delinquency of this child. You don't know how to be a parent." If I was sitting at a table with my father and threw a temper tantrum, I got knocked on my rear end. When I was picked up I was told, "You eat it, 'cause it's there." The law is there. If you don't want the law and you don't like my country, get out.

Take an old Western town. I just saw a thing with Richard Widmark on TV, which I thought was great. A town was being ramrodded by baddies. So they got ahold of this gunfighter and made him their sheriff, and he cleaned up the town. A little hard, but he was a nice guy. He got rid of the element and they told him he could have the job for as long as he wanted it. Then the people that put him in got power and they became dirty. They wanted things done and he said no. He wound up getting killed. This is what I feel about me and these do-gooders. They get power, I'm in their way.

I'm the element that stands between the legitimate person and the criminal. Years ago, he wore a .45 and he was a gunfighter and he wasted people. Okay, I don't believe in killing everybody. But I do believe we've gone overboard. They can shoot a guy like crazy but we cannot retaliate. I'm a target for these people. Go ahead, vent yourself. That's what I'm here for, a whipping boy. I'm not saying life in itself is violent, but I deal in the violent part of life.

There is a double standard, let's face it. You can stop John Doe's average son for smoking pot and he'll go to jail. But if I stop Johnny Q on the street and his daddy happens to be the president of a bank or he's very heavy in politics or knows someone, you look like a jerk. Why did you arrest him? Do you know who he is? I could care less who he is. If he breaks the law, go.

I made a raid up at the beach. The hippies were congregating, creating s.e.x orgies and pot and everything. The word went out, especially about hitchhiking. Okay, we used to raid the beach and lock everybody up, didn't care who they were. One fella told me, "I'm gonna have your job. My father is out on the lake with the mayor." I said, "Fine, when you go to court bring your father and the mayor. But as far as I'm concerned, mister, you're doing a no-no, and you're going to jail."