Tom Busillo

THE PLAN

No one ever asked me if I wanted to be a cop. It was just assumed I’d go into the family business, as it were. If you’re from a certain type of South Philly family, that’s just what you do. The fact that I’m an only child sealed it. I had my obligations. I mean, who else was going to carry on Pop’s storied legacy of wearing a badge for the city?

But I wanted to be an English teacher. And from the day I stepped into the Academy, I knew I was never meant to be a cop. After two years on the force, I’d become more convinced than ever that this wasn’t what I wanted to do. Friends on the Force aside, you’re not exactly dealing with a lot of pleasant characters on a daily basis. If they do happen to be pleasant, they can turn pretty unpleasant pretty fast if you need to get up in their grill for something.

The great irony is, as much as I hate what I do and wish I was at The Prep walking 16-year-olds through “The Wasteland,” I happen to be good at it. I’ve got a few citations that you wouldn’t expect a young cop to have after two years. Part luck. Part genes. Part fear of failure, specifically failing to live up to my Pop’s expectations for what was expected of Carmine DiVincenzo’s progeny.

What’s even more ironic is that some of the biggest shitbirds I work with? The kind who’ll give a handcuffed subject a nightstick deep to the stomach just to re-emphasize who’s in charge? They always wanted to be cops and couldn’t be happier. Most cops just want to get through a shift in one piece and head home to their lives and their families. But you’ve got a tiny fraction of bad dudes – and a few ladies – who end up being what Philly cops are in the public’s mind. That’s what leads to the attitude when you tell someone to pick up the hoagie wrapper they just blatantly dropped on Chestnut St.

My dilemma was this – I wanted out, but I couldn’t just quit. It would ruin not only my Pop but our entire family dynamic. No matter what I did or how good I was, the old man would have thought I quit on him. I couldn’t have him thinking of me in that way, the kid who let him down.So, I couldn’t outright quit. I also wasn’t about to have an “accidental discharge” of my service issue into my knee or anything ridiculously stupid like that. I looked at it from every angle, and the way I saw it, there was one way for it to go – I needed to get kicked out of the Force.

You’re probably thinking that’s counterintuitive for a guy concerned about keeping up his Pop’s reputation, and it was, but you’ll have to understand my desperation to leave didn’t exactly leave me thinking clearlyI did have very specific conditions for getting thrown out, some of which led to my future problems – as if the whole hair-brained idea wasn’t a problem enough in itself. First, I needed something that in the end would look like I got screwed over because of some misunderstanding or misinterpretation so it wouldn’t look like I was disappointing the family. I needed something that left my Pop telling me for the next thirty years every Sunday dinner, “You would’ve had a glorious career, except for the shafting they gave you.” I needed something slippery, something ambiguous, something with room for interpretation. Second, I couldn’t do anything that harmed anyone. That was an obvious one. Third, I couldn’t do anything that would leave a permanent blemish on my character. I needed to make a living, preferably one teaching kids, but who knew if I wouldn’t end up hating teaching more than policing, and I wanted to go to med school.

Which left me in a pickle. And then it hit me. Indecent exposure! Me dropping my drawers in a public place, but not really on purpose. More like accidentally on purpose.

At the time, it seemed like a good idea. You remember me saying I was desperate, right? All I had to do was carefully orchestrate a scenario in which I blatantly exposed my private bits in public, in full view of anyone who’d like to make a complaint, but–and here’s the tricky part–leave enough wiggle room that I could get thrown off the force without losing face entirely.

I was sipping hot coffee in my car when the modus operandi hit me. Hot coffee!

Suddenly the whole thing crystallized in my mind like the scene out of a Woody Allen movie. I’d spill hot coffee on myself in Dilworth Plaza outside of City Hall in the middle of the day, strip off my seemingly hot coffee-soaked clothes, and let as many people see me as possible. Since we’d been in the teens with no end in sight, the coffee wouldn’t even need to be that hot. I just needed it a tiny bit warm so it would be steaming off of my clothes. Some old bird, or better yet, a group of old birds sees me and presses charges. I don’t necessarily hire the greatest lawyer in town. When the smoke clears, I’m free of the Force and have maybe a year of probation with expungement of my record if I keep a clean nose.

Looking back at it with 20/20 vision, it was close to the worst plan in the world. Even if everything went exactly as planned, what were they really going to do to me? Maybe a reprimand, a brief assignment to desk duty, or a visit to a police psychologist. Maybe all three. It probably wouldn’t even get me suspended, let alone thrown off the force. But inspiration combined with desperation made a bad plan look like a rational solution since I wanted so badly to believe it was going to work.

When the day came, I had cold feet like you wouldn’t believe, and I’m not talking about the weather. But I wanted this to happen. If I had a better idea (which, in retrospect, I wish I had), I would have gone with that. I didn’t.

Everything needed for the plan went off without a hitch. I bought an extra-large coffee at Dunkin and waited for it to cool in front of the Justice Building. When it was just right, I set off on the short walk to City Hall’s Dilworth Plaza. The spill was flawless.

My acting? A young Pacino could not have sold it better.

The problem came with the reaction. I know city dwellers are jaded, but I’d underestimated how jaded they were – at least as these things go. There I was as naked as a jaybird with my dog and buns on display for everyone to see and all I got were two open-mouthed stares. Nothing more than that. Maybe a handful of quick looks, some with head shakes. That’s it. And the two people staring at me were not the demographic I’d been hoping to offend enough to warrant a police complaint. They were both men who could have been middle-aged pipefitters down at the union hall. I needed outraged old ladies. What were the elderly for if not to be outraged at a display of public nudity?

Each of them started to make their way toward me – a good sign! Maybe they were coming to beat me to a pulp? That would be fantastic! I could legitimately fight back without feeling any guilt and also be charged with assault against decent hard-working citizens, without that really being the case. If I were charged, I’d beat it on the grounds of self-defense. But public exposure and assault charges? Twice the more reason to kick me off of the force.

When they were within 15 feet of me, both took off their heavy jackets. Yes! The rumble was on!

But my heart sank as one of them came up to me and said, “Here, officer, take my coat. I seen everything that happened. You’re gonna freeze out here.” I could only stare ahead blankly as he wrapped his North Face parka over my shoulders.

“I seen it too,” said the other guy, “Here, put this around your waist. Cover yourself up.”

I numbly did as he said. Feeling the ice-cold nylon fabric against parts of me that had no business touching anything so cold.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, thinking about throwing everything off and just making a run for it, a good old-fashioned streak down Broad Street.

Suddenly, it happened. The freak twist of fate that would permanently turn everything on its head.

“DiVincenzo? DiVincenzo?”

I’d know that prick’s voice anywhere, but couldn’t bear to turn around.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Mother of god, if it wasn’t Mahoney – with Jackson along too for good measure. On the verge of enthusiastically spitting out “I’m getting ready to do the Broad Street Run naked. You wanna come too?” so they’d think I’d completely lost my mind, I was waylaid by one of my “saviors.”

“I seen the whole thing, officer,” said North Face, holding his arms crossed in front of himself with his hands under his armpits. 

“He didn’t do nuttin’ wrong. He spilled his coffee.” Then leather jacket piped up.

“That’s right. Weese seen the whole thing” he said. “Nuttin’ happen here but an accident.”

Mahoney and Jackson faced it each, neither saying a word, and then it happened. They both broke down laughing so hard each of them started to cough.

“The hell DiVincenzo?” cracked Mahoney.

“Guys, I think I may have some serious burns,” I said, trying to cut off the ribbing I knew I was in for. I didn’t have to wait long.

“Why does – why – why does DiVincenzo want an early Christmas?” chortled Jackson, barely able to get the words out because he was laughing so much.

“Tell me.”

“Because he’s already got his twigs and berries out.”

That brought both of them to their knees.

I heard repeated variations of the joke throughout the rest of the day at the precinct house.

As expected, nothing happened discipline-wise. The Captain was the only one who asked me how I was doing, and once I said I was fine, he launched in with his own riff on twigs and berries coming out early for the holidays.

I thought it would have blown over by the next day. Boy, was I wrong.

It didn’t take long to see how wrong I was. There it was on my locker door. And above every urinal in the bathroom. And in the elevator. And anywhere else you could hang a piece of paper. The shot was taken from a surveillance camera at Dilworth Plaza. There was me, or I should say, “Little Me” on camera with my member circled with a magic marker. And when I say “Little Me” I mean little. Minute. Like a turtle that had almost gone all the way back into his shell.

Now I was no John Holmes, but I never heard any complaints from the ladies in that department. But from that day forward I came to be known as “Short-Dicked Frank.” Within three days they had shortened it to “SDF,” which was a little bit of an improvement when it came to the case of my alleged little bit I guess.

And then came that Sunday’s dinner with my parents.

“Guess who gave me a call this week?”

It was my Pop asking and by his look and tone, I got the impression it hadn’t been the type of phone call he’d classify as “good.”

“Who Pop?”

“Bobby Mahoney.”

Oh, great. Mahoney’s pop is calling my pop. This is not going to end well for me.

“He asked me ‘How does it feel to be the father of Short-Dicked Frank?’ Can you believe that?” he asked through clenched teeth.

Part of me wanted to let him know that they had shortened it to just SDF, but I thought any positive aspects of this development would be lost on him.

“And then he starts questioning my equipment! Me! He says ‘You know how the saying goes, Carmine, like father like son.”

He slammed his fist down on the table so hard our bowl of spaghetti took on air.

“I’m hung like a horse! Like a horse!” he said, slamming his fist again on the second horse. 

“Isn’t that right, Theresa?”

My Mom took being a prude to an entirely different level. This was not a conversation she wanted to have.

“This is not a conversation I want to have at the dinner table,” she said, pursing her lips and shaking her head.

“It won’t sound any better in the living room.”

“Well, I won’t be a part of it. Excuse me.” Then she got up, went into the kitchen, and left us alone.

“You ruined my name, Frankie. It takes a lifetime to build a good name then you’re such a buffoon you can’t even hold a cup of coffee – ”

“Pop, listen I – “

“No! No ‘Pop listen.’ You’re going to listen to me,” he said, leaning in closer to me across the table. “You’re going to go out there and you’re going to bust your ass and want four citations by next Christmas. No, five! That’s how you earn me my good name back. I want Mahoney to ring me up and ask me how it feels to be the father of a hero, not Short-Dick Frank. Understand?”

What he was asking was impossible. I had no chance. Except fate can take you into situations you couldn’t even imagine.

The shooter is seen entering a school. I’m a block away when I get the call, so I’m the first officer on the scene. What am I supposed to do? Sit outside on my ass waiting for backup and let the worst happen?

So I rushed in hoping to find the guy before anything bad happened. It’s just what you do. I’m a Philly cop. That’s what a Philly cop does. This ain’t…well, you know the place. He stood staring at a locker in the first hallway I came down, right finger on the trigger of an AK-15 he cradled in his left arm. Thank god this nut job ends up getting sentimental over what I surmise must be his old locker. I tell him to drop his weapon. He turns to me and raises it. I had no choice. My nickname became “Heroboy.”

The story went national, and every news-type TV show imaginable ended up interviewing me. So, it briefly became “TV Star” for a while.

Now it’s two years later and I’m back to plain old DiVincenzo. Needless to say, my Pop was thrilled. He got a “How’s it feel to be the father of a hero?” call from Mahoney’s dad and nearly everyone who knew him. 

“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it, Carmine?”

So he got his good name back, and I finally got the balls to do what I had wanted all along. I quit the Force. But I quit on top. No second act was ever going to top that. When I broke the news to him, my Pop’s reaction surprised me.

“I knew you hated it and were only doing it for me. You’re a good son. A loyal son,” he said. “Now you go get whatever degrees you need to get and start putting some sense back into the heads of these kids.

I ended up at The Prep. Not immediately; I had to earn my stripes in some public schools, but eventually, I got here. As a bonus, my years on the force gave me much-needed expertise in the one area a lot of new teachers have trouble with – classroom management. So no regrets there.

Now I have a job I love, and there’s an art teacher whom I’ve been having lunch with fairly frequently. I don’t quite have a plan for trying to take the next step with her, but I can be sure of one thing – I’m not going to overthink it.

Tom Busillo’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in McSweeney’s, PANK, The Broadkill Review, and elsewhere. He is also the author of the completely unpublishable 2,646-page conceptual poem “Lists Poem,” composed of 11,111 nested 10-item lists. He lives in Philadelphia, PA, with his wonderful wife and son.