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Waiting for my ride gave me time to ponder my future. Four months from today, I’d be retired! Retired…what did that mean? I did not have any specific plans, other than being freed up to go fishing with Marty and the guys when they called. I was never much of a golfer, but who knows; maybe I’d pick that up. 

 

A couple of retired buddies had coached me that you can’t depend on golf and fishing to fill your time. You have to have some more interests.  I had never had much time for travel, which had potential. Problem was, who would I travel with? Most 55-year-olds are working.

 

My girlfriend, Maggie, was only 48, and gainfully employed at the Jobs Corp helping veterans, reformed cons, and hardcore unemployed find jobs and training.  She had four weeks of vacation a year, but theoretically, I’d have 52 weeks a year to occupy.  Who was I kidding…had I forgotten my rant to Marty about my pay cut?  I was told that when my salary went down, I could re-negotiate my alimony, but I’d still be way behind making all the ends meet.  I knew I would need to find something part-time to fill multiple gaps…time and financial.  That didn’t scare me at all, as long as it was something I wanted to do, and with a whole different level of pressure than I had experienced as a cop. 

 

A lot of guys like me end up working part-time in the DA’s office as investigators, trying to dig up information or following up on leads for their cases.  That didn’t appeal to me. I even considered signing up to be an Uber and Lyft driver. I knew the City, and the whole Bay Area for that matter, like the back of my hand.  I could drive when I wanted, and if Marty and the guys said, “let’s go fishing”…well…I could just say, “No Uber or Lyft driving today” and go fishing! 

 

I didn’t have any problem feeling safe. I’m 6’1,” 200 lbs, retired SFPD, 4th degree black belt who’s licensed to carry.   I would almost find the situation comical for any rider to try to pull some bullshit on me.  Not like I was hearing too many horror stories. The good thing about the rideshare model was everyone was registered and rated…drivers and riders.  Nice idea, whoever thought of it!  Right then, my potential Uber competitor driver pulled up and I hopped in. Mom’s place wasn’t far, but too far to walk, plus we’d be catching another driver to take us to dinner. No way did I chance driving on bar nights. Never knew why anyone drank and drove, but cops have a lot to lose if they screw up. Saw that mistake too many times over the years.

 

We were only 7-10 minutes from Mom’s house, depending on lights and traffic.  I settled into the back seat as my thoughts about being just four months from retirement swirled about.  Being that we were heading to the house I grew up in, it reminded me that we were just two weeks shy of the anniversary of Dad’s death.  Let’s see, mental math with Jack and Coke in me. It was still easy to figure out, as I know I was twenty-nine when he died and I’m 54 now…wow…25 years. I have resigned myself to the fact that no matter how long it’s been, it will always give me an emotional tug.  Losing your dad, even at 29, is hard…I think it’s probably hard no matter how old you are. 

 

My dad having been Frank Hunter had some real plusses for me. Dad was a legend around San Francisco, at least in the circles I ran in.  He was a firefighter. Not just any firefighter, but one of the best.  He was fearless. He was the guy you’d see on the nighttime news carrying someone down those huge extension ladders.  He was the guy giving someone’s dog mouth-to-mouth and the dog coming through.  He led the way and carried the load.  He didn’t have to die to become a legend, but when he died at age 54, his lore was cemented in tight. 

 

Big apartment fire they were on.  Reports were, they thought everyone was accounted for, but then he heard there might be one more person inside. By that time, the building was totally engulfed, but Dad ran in anyway. If it were today, he might still be alive. Not back then.  That macho thing that firemen and policemen have is what contributed to his death.  The trucks, even back then, were equipped with the Scott breathing apparatus, but those were for pussies.  Real firemen didn’t need them.  So tradition, peer pressure, stupidity, whatever you want to call it helped contribute to Dad’s death. 

 

We heard he was found very close to where he ran in; intense heat and smoke immediately dropped him.  The actual fire never reached him, as his team hit the front hard with water as soon as they saw him go in.  That small fact only meant that his body was intact.  It meant that we could see him one last time to say goodbye and pay our respects; reach out and touch his once powerful hand that was now cold; and none of us would have to hear those horrifying words, “Sorry, he was burned beyond recognition!”  My brother, sister, and I were all in our 20s, so our daily life wasn’t affected…just all the other days you have with your dad after you’ve moved out. Holidays, birthdays, grandkids, vacations.

 

Dad’s pension and life insurance were enough that Mom’s lifestyle never really changed. She stayed right where she had lived since before we were born. We just didn’t have our dad being a part of it anymore.  Having a firefighter for a dad is not a bad thing. Sure, they live at the station a few days a week, so when they’re gone, they’re gone, but the other days, they are there 24 hours a day.  There for breakfast. There to drive you to school. There to pick you up at 11:00 am for the dentist appointment, allow you to play hooky a bit longer by taking you to lunch after the appointment instead of driving you right back to school; there for most of your games, plays, activities. 

 

Of course, if it’s a work time for them, they miss it, but firemen are like a family, so trading days to make important events for your kids could happen.  That had been our life as kids and it was special.  Now there was just that big hole, where our larger-than-life, hero-dad had once been.  I reached up and quickly wiped away a tear from my eye, hoping Charlie, my Uber driver, was not looking in his rearview mirror. 

 

We were almost at Mom’s so I needed to gather myself anyway.  As we came around the corner of her street, a commotion caught my eye. Being a career cop, my focus on the event came quickly, and it wasn’t good. Mom was being robbed.  Some guy with a black ski mask was snatching Mom’s purse. He took off running around the corner of the next block.  I told Charlie to floor it and was jumping out of the car to my mother before he stopped.  Mom was standing, which was good, but was hysterically yelling, “He got my money, he got my money!”  I quickly took my 80-year-old mom by the shoulders and looked her square in the eyes. “Mom, are you hurt? Are you okay?” 

 

“No, I’m not hurt…I’m fine, but he took my purse with my mortgage payment in it and my BINGO winnings! I won the big jackpot today and now it’s gone!” Mom screamed.

 

That was going to be a point of discussion later with Mom, about carrying large sums of cash around. The main thing was, she was okay.

 

“Mom, wait here, I’m going to see if I can get this guy!”

 

I didn’t think the guy had seen us coming around the other end of the block as he was headed in the opposite direction.  That gave me a little hope that he might assume no one saw what happened, and an old lady wasn’t going to chase him. I ran two houses down to the corner and headed right, in the same direction he went.  I knew the MO. He’d be looking for a secluded spot to pull out cash, credit cards, phones, valuables, and dump the purse before he could get caught with it.  I grew up here, so I immediately knew that two blocks up on the right was an old pathway that cut between the two blocks.  Full of trash and not used much, it was a perfect place to go through a purse. 

 

As I turned to go into the cut through, I saw him. He was no longer running, figuring no one was after him and not wanting to attract attention. He was turning left onto the next block, not looking back to see me. I ran down the path, and about halfway I saw Mom’s purse lying on the ground.  I had gotten a little glance at the guy’s profile as he turned out of sight, and was hoping his confidence, that he was getting away, would allow me to catch up with him. I figured Mom’s valuables were gone, and I could come back to the purse, so I hightailed it town to the end of the path and turned left onto the next street.  A block up, this street T-boned into another. As I ran around the corner, I spotted him right away. He was standing next to a car, lighting a cigarette.  He got into his car and immediately pulled away. 

 

That one instant when he lit that cigarette and took the first puff gave me the chance to see his face, clear as day.  As luck would have it, I knew this punk.  I knew his name, and I knew where he lived.  As Mom would say, BINGO!