But I never forgot.

Now, approximately fifteen years later, I found myself again standing in front of that small classroom of children, with forty-thousand little blue fingers pointing squarely in my direction, and still no way to prove that once again, the chewing gum was still not mine.

What's the lesson here, Fate?
Are we destined to repeat this stupid stage play until I figure out exactly what you want me to do? Must we go through this farce again a decade or two from now?

I hope not. Because my answer will always be the same.

The gum's not mine.

March 20, 2003.
Mom read the book. Terrific, she said, but worries about a lawsuit. I changed about ninety percent of the names, but people close to me then or now will probably recognize themselves or others. I hope no one will be offended.

Four years ago, this month.
An update is in order, I guess.
Next entry, I'll give some details about my current life.

Still no official release date. Grinding my damn teeth.

March 28, 2003.
The media blitz has begun, as I infect the world. I am told by Vantage that my book is ready, that orders for LOST WINGS will be honored. And so, it begins at last.

My life is simple now.
I have a girlfriend named Denise, nine months of happiness. Keeping my fingers crossed.
I am returning to school in the Fall, for my Master's Degree in History. I was enrolled in my first class back in the Spring of 1999, but the events of that difficult season caused me to withdraw from the class. Time to finish what I started.

For about six months, I work as a Karaoke Jockey, with my own system, my company. Smartest thing I ever did.

 

I still shoot video.
I make a good living at it.
What more can I say?

April 5, 2003.
Welcome to the wide ugly world of book publishing.
Foolish me... I thought that if a book was available for retail distribution on March 10th, that meant that someone could actually go to the largest bookstore on the planet and order the damn thing. Um ... guess not.

You see, it bascially works in three steps.
Step One is the warehouse at the publisher, where the book begins its long and arduous journey. Step Two is the warehouse at the book distributor - which is a place called Baker & Taylor in NJ, which monopolizes the entire East Coast - where the book will sit only if and when they decide to order some copies from the publisher, that being Vanatge Press in this case. Three, of course, is the bookstore, either a brick building or an internet site.

Unfortunately, LOST WINGS is currently stuck somewhere between Steps One and Two, like a broken-down bus waiting for one of those massive tow trucks to arrive and save the day.

Since my name is not Stephen King, my book is not very high on Baker & Taylor's list of books to buy. People cannot order LOST WINGS on Amazon.com or BN.com or even at the major bookstores because their lovely computers says that Baker & Taylor currently has no books to stock, so they put up a stone wall. Barnes & Noble refuses to deal with publishing companies directly, because they have a bad history of making orders for rare and/or limited-market books, then people forget to pick them up and they end up being stuck with a book they can't sell. On top of that, no one can force Baker & Taylor to stock my book. This country has a free marketplace system, and they can buy as many or as few copies as they damn well please.

 

Unfortunately for me, Amazon.com will not have a listing for LOST WINGS until Baker & Taylor buys some copies because they are the ones that submit the listing. Does that seem backwards to you, or is it just me? Actually, a mini-Mama and Papa's bookshop in upstate New York would have a better chance of getting my book because they would probably call Vantage Press direct, just to make a customer happy. Those days are gone in NYC, I'm afraid.

Anyway, I'm told that the tow truck will arrive eventually, but that I have to sit back and be patient because there are other broken buses on more important routes that must be rescued first.

The only sure-fire way for you to buy a copy is by calling the publisher at 1-800-882-3273 and ask for LOST WINGS. I just wish they had told me that before I jumped the gun and ran my fool mouth.

Oh well, thanks for letting me vent.

April 12, 2003
I sign on last night to find that not only is B&N.com selling LOST WINGS, but that it's 20% off and will ship in 2-3 days. Only twelve hours later, I return to find it "Not Available" again.

I can only assume that Baker & Taylor ordered maybe a half dozen copies of the book, so B&N changed the listing. Then, once those few were soaked up with a sponge, they put the wall back up. If that means that people are buying the book when they are available, I guess that's good news, overall.

April 20, 2003.
Thank God for small miracles.
LOST WINGS is now available on AMAZON.com.
They are even discounting it 30% off the cover price.

Finally.

May 4, 2003
Recently, I went with my girlfriend for a night out in Yonkers. I'm not much of a bar person, but we found ourselves inside a place called "Rory Dolans," on McClean Avenue. Before long, I was approached by a face from my past.

Tommy Pasano (not his real name ... first mentioned in Chapter 6) strolls up to me with a smile, looking exactly the same as he did four years ago, the last time we stood in the same room together. In the past, I've always found it uncomfortable bumping into cops from my former life, unsure of how they'll react or what they know or don't know about my story.

He treated me like a true friend, as an equal. Before I left the bar, we shook hands and hugged, exchanging contact information and promising to stay in touch. Tommy told me that he saw one of my yellow flyers hanging inside the Four-Eight where he works, and that he would definitely buy the book.

I can't describe how good that night felt.
I won't even try.

May 9, 2003.
Yesterday, I visited my page on AMAZON.COM. Every item has a sales rank. It was in the neighborhood of 1,300,000, meaning that over one million products are selling better than LOST WINGS. Not all that surprising a number, considering the volume of stuff they sell.

Today, it's hovering around 6,000.
That's one-point-three million to six thousand, in twenty-four hours.

 

Woah.

May 10, 2003
Up to 77,000. Still not bad at all.
But they took off the 30% discount.
Damn. Guess the honeymmon is over.

May 30, 2003
I was visiting my local Barnes & Noble to check for the availability of the book and I bumped into a cop named Jimmy, originally from the Four-Six, from Club Twenty-One.

Actually, this was the third time that I had randomly stumbled across him since my exit. The first time was at RCR Game & Sports Empire, on Halloween Y2K. I was dressed up as a vampire for the spirit of the holiday, and I'm sure that under the dubious circumstances, my powdered skin probably freaked him out a bit. The second time was a year later a red light on East Tremont Avenue. In thirty seconds, I learned that he had done well on the sargeant's exam and was about to be promoted. Both times he was very pleasant and willing to chat, but he never asked about my dismissal from the Department. I can only assume that from his point of view, a conversation was unnecesary, as he already had the cold, hard facts laid out very neatly in front of him from a long time ago. In this case, I would have preferred the question - a simple "Did you do it, Chris?" - for a fraction of a second given the benefit of doubt. Unfortunately, for the rest of my life, that assumption will be an ongoing battle
that I will most often lose.

This time at the store was our longest and friendliest conversation. He looked exhausted, and I asked him why. He was studying for the lieutenant's police exam, which was just over the horizon. As a matter of fact, he was currently with a group of off-duty bosses, temporarily away from their table and his mini-Patrol Guide that is the main key to his ascension in rank. He seemed very interested in the book, so I gave him some cards with the link to this website and left him to his studies. Still, no questions.

If I were to say that there is not a moment that goes by that I don't wish I were sitting at that table, studying for that exam, I wouldn't be lying. But it goes far deeper than just a simple wish.

I know in my heart that I belong there.

June 9, 2003.
Spoke to the Wagonmaster the other day, on the telephone.
Nothing ever changes. Great guy, to the bone.

When I mentioned in the book that Frank Sumner was an Irish giant, and "three hundred pounds on a generous scale," even that was a kind assessment. Truth be told, Frank was frighteningly obese. Actually, he might have been closer to four hundred pounds. As a gung-ho recruit out of the Academy hoping for my first taste of the streets, I was almost embarassed by the size of him. He can't even fit into an RMP, I silently told myself upon our first meeting. Without any true basis for an opinion, I assumed that Frank was pretty much a useless uniform, assigned to Prisoner Wagon duty not by choice, but by default. However, like many other times in my life, I was wrong yet again.

One night, while returning from Central Booking in the van on the Grand Concourse, a burglary-in-progress came over the police radio, only a block or two from our location. Before I knew what was going on, Frank had slammed the accelerator and was jumping the big bulky van over the center island, cutting across several lanes of opposing traffic to pull up onto the sidewalk in front of a bodega that was supposedly being held-up by men with guns, before any sectors had arrived.

 

Now, keep in mind that "Prisoner Transport" is strictly an administrative duty, as we were not expected to do anything other than bring processed perps to Central Booking and return to the house, not answer dangerous radio runs. But that didn't stop Frank from leaping from the driver's seat with his Glock in his hand like a possessed man a hundred pounds lighter and without a debilitating knee injury to storm into the unknown, without a bullet-proof vest and before back-up arrived, all without a single thought for his own safety.

In the end, the crooks were long gone by the time we got there and the workers were bound and gagged in the meat freezer, but none of that is important to this particular story. The point is, my partner and I followed and watched a real cop do his job, and I learned not to judge a book by its cover, as the old-but-very-true saying goes. From that night on, I was proud to be allowed to wear his uniform, and I hoped that when the time came, I would have half as much courage as him under similar circumstances.

Anyway, we talked for a long while on the telephone, and it was good to hear a friendly voice from the past. A lot can change in four years, let me tell you. For instance, remember how I said that Frank was four hundred pounds? The scale now says 218. And that's no typo.

I probably wouldn't recognize him if he sat across from me on the bus. But he was still the same old Wagonmaster, weaving stories, cracking jokes, spouting years of wit and wisdom.

Like I said before, some things never change.

June 24, 2003.
I saw a car today that had a "www.LOSTWINGS.com" sticker on its bumper. A car that I've never seen before, owned by someone that I've never met.
I wish I could say thank you.

July 2, 2003.
According to my mother, my lifelong fear of heights and falling comes from my uncle. When I was five or six, I was walking down the street and my uncle snuck up behind me and hoisted me into the air and ran down the block, full-tilt, his hands on my waist with me screaming up a storm, or so I'm told. I don't remember the incident, but I have always shared a bucket seat with fear. Guess it had to come from somewhere.

Anyway, this week my girlfriend and I went to Rye Playland. I haven't been there since I was maybe sixteen, and back then, I avoided all the rides. Hell, even the ferris wheel was taboo. Uncharacteristically, this time I found myself yelling and laughing on rides such as the Whip, the Mind Scrambler and the reviled Dragon Coaster.

After you've been a police officer, of course you're still freightened of things. It's certainly not a cure for all ills. I'm still terrified to the bone of unemployment, high credit card bills, pick pocketeers, taxes, the Bush Administration - the list goes on and on.

Carnival rides, however, just don't make the list anymore.

July 13, 2003.
People ask me if I had a "ghost writer" when I wrote LOST WINGS.

It's a fair question, bit I still need to set the record straight.

I wrote the book on my own.
Actually, in writing the book myself, I'm making a statement to the world.

I created this homepage.
I bought and designed www.LOSTWINGS.com from scratch.
I purchased the internet banner ads that have been flooding AOL and Time.com and many other markets, from by own pocket.
I decided on what some call a vanity publisher, i.e. the author pays for the publishing of his or her book, not the publishing company, and it's not a cheap process, by any means. Imagine buying a brand new Honda Civic without the wheels.

And yes, I wrote the book, all by myself.
My statement to the world is as follows:

A drug addict would not have taken the time and energy to painstakingly craft a three-hundred page document, let alone do any of the things that I mentioned above to promote it.

And why is this so important to me? Because if I were just an ex-cop that told a story to a ghost writer and he did all the work, then all I am is a some piece of trash that is looking to capitalize on a bad situation that he stupidly brought upon himself - and the guy could have been stoned when he made the audio tapes.

My primary goal is to tell the truth, and if I should make a few dollars in the process, then God Bless America. Honestly, I think I deserve it.

However, if you already read the book - and if I've done my job as a writer - then you may have already known that for yourself.

December 12, 2003.
Great experience yesterday.
My girlfriend, who was hosting a Karaoke show, was not feeling well and asked if I would help her in with the equipment at a local bar in the Bronx called "Frenchy's" on East Tremont Avenue. When we got to the bar, there was a private party going on in the adjoining room, and there were many familiar faces from a long time ago. Cop faces, but more than a few were from the IN-TAC program at the 49th precinct, my last stop before everything changed forever.

Now, even though the truth is on my side, there is still a sense of shame that follows me whenever I am confronted by cops that I used to work with. This is because I know how I would have felt about a guy in my situation, if the "shoe was on the other foot." I would have been polite and smiled, but deep down inside, I would have wondered exactly how long it was going to take for this dumb perp to shut up and just go away. So, as a result, I avoid confrontations.

However, yesterday was different because, this time, the cops were approaching me. First, the leiutenant from IN-TAC walked up after I sang a song, to ask a few questions. He was genuinely nice and friendly, with questions about my exit and such, telling me that I had balls for singing Karaoke. But he also said that the dole test was infallible and "how could you have failed it if you didn't do it?" I survived the criticism because the scar is almost fully healed and I can at least respect him for being honest and not sugarcoating his true beliefs. But the night got much better.

Next was a big Italian cop from IN-TAC, with a very "Andrew Dice Clay" vibe working for him, whether it was intentional or not. He grabbed me by the shoulder and reeled me in like a fish as I made my way though the crowd, to ask questions and satisfy his curiousity. He was a little on the drunk side and made crude jokes, but I could tell what he was really saying, underneath it all: "I'm not judging you, one way or the other. If you see me in public, you don't have to act like you never met me." So, I laughed and called him a gentleman, because he truly was.

But the best of all was the party's guest of honor, an 11-year veteran that was retiring from the Department because of a work-related injury, with that magical three-quarters that almost every cop sees as a virtual pardon from the governor. He was overly friendly, and expressed a real interest in reading the book, saying that he would keep in touch in the future through e-mail. A very smart and articulate guy, he said that he was going back to college to get his Master's degree, and perhaps become a teacher. In a most amazing gesture, he asked me to sign the reverse side of a plaque that his peers had custom-made for him in honor of his retirement - in doing so, he was essentially calling me his peer.

 

I am so used to seeing myself as a castaway or even a leper in the eyes of other cops, I almost refused, fearing that I would somehow "infect" his plaque. Holding back a tear, I signed a quiet corner and haven't stopped smiling since.

All day, I have been wondering why he was so damned nice to me, and I think I may have figured it out. At that party, looking at the family of cops that had congregated to see him off, he probably felt a tiny bit of that peculiar feeling in the pit of his stomach that I have been forced to live with, that irrational feeling of "aloneness" that has mostly faded but never truly disappeared. In talking to me yesterday, surrounded by those who respect him, he might have realized how lucky he was to have a retirement party, to have such a plaque.

As the saying goes, the man with no shoes had met the man with no feet.

 

Forgive me Father, it's been a year since my last ... journal entry. Sorry, I thought you were someone else.

 

Yes, I've been neglecting you. A year passes so quickly, some things stay exactly the same, but some things do change. I've conducted an experiment, of sorts.

 

I just finished a class that trains you to become an EMT, at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital in the Bronx. An EMT is the guy who takes you to the hospital in an ambulance, in case the acronym is unfamiliar. I myself thought they were all called paramedics, but those are the advanced guys that give medicine in the field. EMT first, then you buff out and become a paramedic later on. Anyway, five months, twice a week, a whole bunch of tests. I have a pretty certificate that I can hang on a wall, but I have to wait until January to find out if I passed the state exam. Tough test, but I think I did enough to pass.

 

An EMT? Why, you ask? Is my video business in dire straits? Well, no. I still make decent money. I had to ask myself that very question several times over the past few months.

 

I miss being a cop. That shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone reading this. However, I had to ask myself long and hard about what it was exactly about being a police officer that I missed so much.

 

Was it the gun? Well, it is nice to have, but that's not it. An insider tip: Having the right to carry is cool for a few days - maybe even a few weeks - but then it's old hat. It becomes an extension of you that you take pretty much for granted. You lose it, it sucks. But when you have it, it actually means very little.

 

Was it the authority? No, I hated writing tickets. FYI, that's why alot of guys want to become detectives, so that they can rid themselves of the "meter maid" bullshit. And locking people up - most of the time, unless the guy is a true asshole - makes you feel like shit, and doesn't accomplish a whole hell of a lot other than to put a number in a column on your monthly productivity sheet which nobody even looks at ... and maybe a couple of extra overtime dollars in your pocket.

 

For me, the coolest thing about being a cop was that you get to be a superhero once a week. The radio comes to life, and you save the day. You spend Monday through Friday cruising around with another guy, getting paid to talk about sports and porn websites, and then the radio suddenly speaks. On go the lights and sirens, you feel that adrenaline rush, that fear of the unknown ... and every once in while, you actually make somebody's life a little bit better. Yes, idealistic as all hell, but that's how it all felt to me. And I'll never forget it, for as long as  I live.

 

Well, I realized that - as an EMT - the radio will speak again, along with the lights and sirens and adrenaline and all that. And every time they call you, it's because they need your help. You don't take money out of their pockets or steal away their freedom. You get to be a hero, on every single call.

 

So, we'll see. I'll get my grade back, and maybe I'll go find myself a job somewhere. I'll give it six months, see if it fits. If not, I'll always be able to shoot. My grand experiment.

 

Keep your fingers crossed.