The spring of 1962, age 21, I became a policeman for the summer in Ocean City, Maryland, a ten-mile-long island on the Atlantic and the state's most popular summer resort.
To hear cops on TV shows like "America's Most Wanted" tell it, they all joined the force because they wanted to "give something back to the community" or because police work is "about helping people." Etc., ad barfum. TV cops these days all sound like that scary-looking Dr. Joyce Brothers.
Also, they are lying. They wanted to be cops so they could be paid to be adrenalized; to see trouble and drama and dark emotion; to chase cars and people, to exercise authority, to exact a little justice, maybe to impose their will on somebody else. Or maybe they just needed a job.
I certainly had my motives. The strongest of them was that I wanted to be a writer. I thought being a cop would help me psyche people out, license me as a kind of pragmatic shrink to analyze the orb's patients up close.