A Visit to the Slammer

New York Police Department… four words that instill fear and anxiety in some people under certain circumstances. Not me. A trip to an NYC police department spelled F-U-N. I needed to be fingerprinted for a job and the 20th precinct seemed like an opportune place to go. Why venture all the way to the Board of Education in Brooklyn when I could get fingerprinted with the best of them – in the slammer. Alright, not technically the slammer, but it sounds better.

As I moseyed my way to 120 West 82nd Street I enjoyed the sights and sounds of the city, relished the warm afternoon weather, and inhaled the aromas from a nearby vendor. I reached my destination, opened the door to the station, and immediately realized that this little tart was in Kansas no more. The interior building was straight from a movie set. Where’s HGTV or Ty Pennington? Our public protectors deserve the best we can afford. They risk their life to serve the city. At least we could provide them with a cheery décor.

I timidly approached the front desk. The receptionist raised her eyes and flatly said, “what.” More like a statement than an inquiry. My blonde ponytail stopped bobbing. I responded that I needed to be fingerprinted. A policeman came over, looked me up and down, and gruffly told me to enter behind the desk. My purple Pumas led me into unfamiliar territory.

I sat at a table amid several other officers, two in street clothes and one in uniform. At first, the men seemed gruff. But, they softened and livened up when my license revealed a southern belle in their midst. What an eclectic group of men underneath those tough, tattooed exteriors. They joked. They dropped the “F” bomb every three seconds. They offered me water from a Dixie cup. They taught the ins and outs of being a New Yorker. They were fun, really fun. I would have forgotten I was in a police station if the large screen TV quit flashing New York’s “Most Wanted” or the twenty mug shots of men waiting for incarceration stopped staring at me.

I was a little sad when we completed the paperwork and began the fingerprinting process. It would all be over too soon. Though, not everyone in the joint had fun. One man, arms crossed in his holding cell, stared intently at me and shook his head. He wasn’t entertained. Two officers brought in a small man in large clothing. As they frisked him he proclaimed, “Man, I haven’t been brought in on drug charges since the 80s.” As the officer rolled my index finger across the black ink, I considered this experience my initiation to New York City.

Sadly, my initiation ended 45 minutes later. But, I can guarantee that I left as the happiest civilian ever fingerprinted. Oh, I forgot to mention. The kind officer that helped me gave me a gift as I exited – an application for the New York Police Department.