A second-floor office with a view. Let’s go! I had finally arrived. I vaguely remembered a college psych course I had taken back in the mid-90s where Maslow’s “hierarchy of needs” was discussed. I’ll try to spare you the psychobabble, but the gist was a tiered, pyramid-shaped diagram pinnacled by “self-actualization.” You know, the fulfillment of one’s potential as a human being. Yes, it sounded like a bunch of bullshit back then, too. But there I was, in April 2022, moving into my new office, when, suddenly, I realized that Maslow had been on to something.

I had taken over as president of our local FOP lodge and inherited the office of that fine organization, which occupied prime real estate on our main station’s second floor. After a decade and a half punching out investigation reports from a gray cubicle, I finally had a workspace with a window, walls and furniture made from actual wood! You could even see a bird’s nest in the tree just outside that bright window!

I know, I know, it was just an office — pathetically underwhelming, I’m sure, to the academics who spend time pondering Maslow’s hierarchical rankings of what life is all about.

But look, I was, and yet remain, a simple, cavemanish, knuckle-dragging cop … who had his own office! And damn it, I understood Maslow, which, by itself, proved me deserving of this workspace for the elites. Yes, I had finally become an office-occupying somebody. And the view from Maslow’s peak was brilliant.

And then, a week later, the chief called me into his office and told me he was moving me into the old fingerprint room off the downstairs lobby.

Now, when I say fingerprint room, I want you to picture a glorified broom closet — tiny, no natural light and, of course, no damned bird’s nest. “Chief, I’m like a week into the labor release position, and you’re already big-leaguing me,” I protested.

He reminded me that office space wasn’t a negotiated item in our contract and that our recruitment officers needed more room. And so, just like that, a smiling recruitment officer was moving into that nice office at the top of Maslow’s pyramid. Simultaneously, I got busted down to a first-floor box and, symbolically, the first floor of Maslow’s stupid pyramid — the “basic human needs” tier — where cavemanish, knuckle-dragging cops are apparently satisfied to exist on little more than air, food and water. “I bet those recruiters don’t even know who Maslow is,” I thought to myself while stuffing boxes into my new hole-in-a-rock.

Now, I had some thinking to do, which can be difficult for my tier-one brain, given the draw on mental bandwidth my pursuit of air, food and water creates. But I had an idea.  Something with the potential to drag this cave dweller back out and into the glorious light of self-actualization. Hell, at that point, I was willing to settle for Maslow’s tier four of “self-esteem.”

I decided that my membership of dedicated cops didn’t want me sitting in a second-floor office gazing at a bird’s nest. They wanted somebody willing to lead from the front.  Somebody visible, available and approachable. So to hell with the first-floor closet. I would start working out of our substations, right out of debrief, face to face and in person with my folks. I had everything I needed, including a cellphone, laptop and a hotspot (I know, heavy gear for a caveman). My plan was to work an entire shift, at least once a week, right out of debrief, and to find other ways to get out from behind a desk and be directly available to my membership. The approach paid off across several metrics.

Officer morale

My regular presence in our substations generated significant buzz. Countless officers commented about how it had been a long time since they had seen one of their labor representatives in person. I got a lot of thank-yous. And the resulting face-to-face interactions provided opportunities for me to share updates on all of the positive things our organization was doing within the department and out in the community. Positivity, as you know, is a good thing in a police substation. If my presence could provide even a glimpse of encouragement during a challenging 10-hour patrol shift, it was well worth it.

Recruitment

My presence afforded a natural opportunity for officers to ask questions about the LEO labor organization I lead. My department allows me to recruit on duty, so of course I was happy to spend time talking about the benefits our members enjoy. I always finished these conversations with a simple question: “You want to sign up?” About 75% of the officers I asked signed up on the spot. Our membership numbers are up well over 30% since the chief booted me from that bright office with a view.

Problem-solving

“Hey, Dave, I’ve got a question for you.” I hear this a lot, and it’s OK because solving problems is my business. Making myself available for my members’ questions and/or concerns equates to good service. Look, I’m elected to lead. My members expect service, and rightfully so. They have entrusted me with an important position. And truthfully, I enjoy working to solve problems or concerns that come from the membership. These are the wins that keep me going. And officers aren’t the only ones pulling me aside to pick my brain. Working on the front lines provides opportunities for me to interact with command staff and quickly resolve problems with them, too.

In addition to working out of the substations, I also try to attend briefings as much as possible. In fact, I’ll do anything to get face to face with my members in their environment. I’ll even occasionally slap on the monkey suit and “Adam-up” with one of our officers, an experience that reminds me very quickly how old I am. But a caveman never forgets how to rub sticks to make fire, and I still have that in me.

You know, I’m not sure where I would stand with Maslow anymore, but none of that really matters. What does is where I stand with my members. At the very least, they know who I am, that I am approachable and how to reach me. And I think they would agree that, together, we have built an organization that teeters not on some symbolic point conjured up by a thoughtful shrink but instead rests firmly on the high ground of results.