Cop’s Eyes: Please Support WEJB/NSU!

When I’m out of the house, I have “cop’s eyes.” That means I see certain things—crimes being committed, potential danger, etc.

Mind you, I don’t have they eyes of today’s mangina and butch cops. Mine are the ye of a cop born prior to The War. Today’s PC police see a black felon, who just chased a white man and his young son into a police substation, and think (and even lecture his victims!), “He’s a black man worried about his reputation in America,” insinuates that the white man is the criminal.

The Irish police impersonator in question was an obvious lesbian, about 5’1,” wearing a bullet-proof vest under her uniform shirt, with Glock on her hip. If I were a bad guy, I could take that gun from her and make her eat it.

Instead of enforcing the law, which she can’t do, she supports black felons, and abuses law-abiding whites.

During the late 1980s and early 1990s, I had a friend who lived in Greenwich Village in Lower Manhattan. Once I was walking with her outside in broad daylight. I spied a Hispanic drug dealer and a Hispanic customer exchange dollars and drugs in a handshake. My friend noticed nothing.

During the mid-1990s, I was traveling home the Rockaways in Queens, from seeing my Dominican girlfriend, Mary, in Sunset Park, Brooklyn. The trip required three different trains, and two to three hours even during the early evening. I would look for company, for safety’s sake.

One evening, I hung out on the platform and the train with a short, chubby Hispanic (probably Puerto Rican) woman wearing old sweatpants (probably a working girl), and a tallish, skinny, black guy with prison shank scars on his face. I made no bones about why I was hanging out with them. The man revealed that he’d been convicted two or three times of robbery, as if to suggest that my judgment wasn’t as good as I thought it was. I responded, “But you don’t have dollar signs in your eyes.”

That satisfied him.

The first time I saw cops lacking cops’ eyes, it was in 1978. I had taken a bus down from college in the Catskills, to visit my big sister on the Lower East Side (just a few blocks south of where my friend would live ten years later).

I don’t remember if the building in question was near the Port Authority, or in my sister’s neighborhood, but I came upon a large, granite-style, gray apartment building. Two youngish, white cops were standing in front of the entrance, looking straight ahead. Meanwhile, just a few feet to their left and right, respectively, Hispanic drug dealers were openly plying their trade.

It wasn’t clear to me at the time, but years later, my hunch was that, due to the drug corruption police scandals uncovered by the Knapp Commission just a few years earlier, street cops had been ordered to avoid all dealings with drug dealers and their clients, unless some sort of violence broke out. It would have been a New York-style precursor to Los Angeles’ Special Order 40.

If you like reading work written and/or published by a guy with cop’s eyes, please hit the PayPal “Donate” icon at the top of the page, and make a generous contribution.

I thank you, and your posterity will, too.

Sincerely,

Nicholas Stix