I once met a man who killed Chuck Norris in 58 seconds; spoke 16 languages fluently; was revered across China for his martial arts prowess; fended off a horde of armed thieves with just a machete; was represented in court by Donald Trump, John Lewis and Elijah Cummings on a $20 parking ticket; and flew two planes into the World Trade Center, coming out unscathed. He called himself Nikola Alexander Tesla.

The more-known Tesla’s middle name was Milutinov. Still, it was a strange coincidence. He called the police to say he’d knocked out his girlfriend in self-defense after she tried to use that same horde-fightin’ machete against him inside their small apartment. Ultimately, there was no reason for the police to get involved. Mr. Tesla had hallucinated it all. And when we got on scene, aside from giving the above autobiography, he was completely in the know. He was also kind enough to share his covert name, John Simons, which returned in our system to a guy who looked just like him. He understood his surroundings, didn’t live in squalor and had no actual violent tendencies. His girlfriend said they’d simply had a barely argumentative argument with no threats and he was off his prescribed drugs … and likely on some others. No grounds even for an emergency detention.

For so many people I encounter on this job, addiction is their way of life and has been for most of their life.

I never fully appreciated my own mental and physical health until I began working as a cop. It’s a challenging world to make it in even with a fairly healthy mind, body and support system. I can only imagine the state I’d be in were I missing even one of those crucial prongs. The way I drank as a college kid, it’s a wonder I’ve retained all three.

In my sophomore year of undergrad, I joined the club rowing team at Indiana University. We weren’t physically imposing, our facilities were nonguaranteed rentals and we were far from good, but we trained hard and had fun. That close-knit group created some of my fondest memories and kept me in probably the best shape of my life. We rowed through the spring and fall, had summer to ourselves and erged throughout the cold winter months. Ergs are purportedly indoor rowing machines. You’ve probably avoided them at your own gym. If you did try one, you found out they’re not actually exercise machines at all. They’re medieval-inspired torture devices. We’d practice five days a week, and at least one of those practices included a 40-kilometer erg workout for time. Essentially, close to an hour of hard-as-you-can rowing. It was ass-kicking and soul-sucking. I loved it.

Despite the sports focus, the rowing team was, at times, more of a social drinking club than an athletics one. We partied at least as hard as we trained. Rowing 40Ks in the morning, Edward 40 Hands in the evening (and by evening, I mean noon). A handful of rowing guys lived at the intersection of three streets and a parking lot entrance. One of the roads was a one way, another two, and one transitioned from one to two right at the curved portion of the intersection. It wasn’t exactly a safe road, so predictably, accidents happened there all the time. A handful of my teammates, living in a house at that intersection, decided something ought to be done. So, every Friday at noon, they’d move the entirety of their living room from inside the house to outside in the front yard. Couches, tables, recliners, lamps, TV, video games, dice games, even framed pictures. And, of course, plenty of booze. Then they’d take markers and poster boards and make signs directed at driving passersby. “Use Turn Signal.” “Curve Ahead.” “One-Way Road.” “Current Temp.” And on important gamedays, “Phuck Purdue” or “Beat Kentucky.” Who am I kidding, it was “F*** Kentucky.” People loved it. Local reporters wrote stories about “Traffic Safety Friday,” though it probably helped that those reporters regularly attended the parties.

Restaurants offered free food. Teachers dropped off after-school treats. Attendees supplied copious amounts of Busch Light, Hamm’s and Kraken rum, surely nearly cancelling all of rowing’s benefits. Half a case of beer or a full 30-pack case race on one particularly noteworthy — read “stupid” — day, was nothing back then. Hangovers were barely a thing.

Nowadays, I get a hangover just reading the words “Busch Light, Hamm’s and Kraken” in succession. Still, as much as I hate ‘em, I’m thankful for hangovers and for aversions to things like hard drugs. Those deterrents keep me from making the occasional habitual turn into addiction. However, when it comes to this job, after-work drink occasions have a way of becoming routine. 

For so many people I encounter on this job, addiction is their way of life and has been for most of their life. Time has multiplied whatever bad habit they developed or addiction they’ve unearthed. And addiction is a mean bitch. The crack and opioid epidemics made this all too clear. Alcoholism in almost everyone’s family has long made this clear. As a society, we’re still figuring out the role police ought to play in all this. Detention? Redirection? Nothing? Situationally dependant, I’ve done all three, even within the span of the same run.

A guy calls in and says he’s drunk, high and going to kill himself. He says he’s been high for weeks and has a gun but doesn’t want to hurt anyone else, and there is no one else in his house. He won’t give his address, but we ping his phone and check that spot. My partners and I arrive on scene, and best we can, try to contact him from a safe distance. No luck. Do we have any further interest in intruding into this guy’s business? By phone or from a distance, sure. In person? No. What good is it having officers potentially forced to shoot him if he turns his weapon on them? Unable to make contact, we ultimately leave after doing basically nothing.

But nothing is nothing to him, so after failing to garner the police response sought, the guy calls in again. I’m able to speak with him by phone this time, but he refuses to confirm where he’s at or come outside of the pinged address. He reiterates that he only wants to harm himself. I try to talk him down. He’s sobbing and making comments about loved ones, so I think I’m gaining some redirection traction. We wait a while longer but never get him to come out to us. A growing run list beckons, so we once again leave.

Then redirection takes a wrong turn. The guy calls in an additional couple times and ups the ante. “I’ve got two juveniles held hostage, and I’ll kill them both. I’m at 49th and Primrose.” I don’t believe the guy and still don’t immediately find him, but the slight chance that he’s actually holding hostages definitely outweighs the risk of our involvement. Eventually, a sergeant finds him in a nearby alleyway. No hostages. “I think I’ve got him over here,” the sergeant chimes in on the radio as we’re leaving the spot the guy said he’d be. “This is definitely him. One at gunpoint. He’s got his hand in a brown paper bag like he’s holding something, and he won’t pull it out. I need another car.” “268 around the corner.” I was right around the corner, and sure enough, there’s my sergeant with this guy at gunpoint, and the guy’s refusing to show his bag-buried hand.

With nothing between them, I decided to approach the situation like a high-risk traffic stop, placing my vehicle between them. I speed toward the guy, slam it in park, bail out of my vehicle to help avoid getting shot through my windshield, draw my gun on the guy, too, and order him to show his hands. He immediately does, dropping the empty paper bag. We quickly get him to the ground, cuff him up, and slow down the additional cars running hot to us. I think the guy truly believed I was going to run him over. I can’t exactly blame him. I was coming in a little hot. Emergency detention … and arrest.

It’s no coincidence that incarcerations have increased in direct correlation with institutional admission decreases. Nowadays, jails are oftentimes communities’ largest mental health care providers. Outside of that, utilizing loosely monitored mental health homes positioned next to liquor stores and trap houses on rough streets doesn’t seem to be a working alternative to professional or institutionalized care either. Nor does reintroducing chronically debilitated mentally ill folks into society by placing them in crummy apartment complexes on par with homeless camps to avoid proximity to respectable backyards. Until we revamp this model by reintroducing safe, stable facilities funded at an appropriate level with plenty of oversight and transparency not unlike the transparency provided by police bodycams and review boards, we’re stuck with police responding to convince the person in crisis to put down the gun. But for now, who else is willing to do it, and usually, do it well?