(no subject)
Sep. 29th, 2002 02:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kuangningThere are nights when I wonder what the job is worth.
I've worked security for three years, all told. It is a crazy, wonderful, sometimes weary and thankless job. But a necessary one, and one I love. A security officer sees a little of everything, depending on where they're stationed -- more than a cop, sometimes, because this uniform doesn't carry as much weight, and everyone knows it. The client knows it. We, if we are smart, know it. And the people we come up against know it.
Fifteen minutes ago, for the first time since I took a security position, I had my life threatened.
No, it doesn't happen often. Drunks rage at us, some offenders sneer at us, the "rent-a-cops" in our "wannabe police" outfits. But, stone cold sober, to all appearances, a stranger whom I asked to leave the building after a domestic disturbance situation got out of hand looked me in the eye and told me that I was going to "lose my life for my seven-fifty-an-hour job."
My response, more than his threat, scares me.
It's not that I didn't consider the threat. It's not even that I don't, somewhere inside me, know that it might be true. If there ever were a situation that causes or at least contributes to just the sort of circumstance in which someone comes back with a gun, a domestic disturbance is that situation. I'm not a cop. No-one tells contract security they're expected to risk their lives. But a week ago, the night guard at another hotel did just that, and he died.
Knowing all that, I'm looking at a yellow slip of paper on the desk in front of me. What's written on it isn't as important, I don't think, as what it really says.
What it says is that I did the job I was hired to do.
What's the job worth? What's any job worth? Is there any job worth dying? Or even the threat of dying? Damned if I know. I have a feeling my father would say no. My kids, if I could ask them, would probably say the same thing, when it comes to me or anyone else they care about. But my dad was a cop for a long time, took three bullets during those years, and I know he did the job he was hired to do. Twenty years from now, I'll know I've done another job right if my children, despite fear, can say the same thing. The job may not be worth it. Carrying on when you'd like to sit down and just shake for awhile -- that is.
Donna just called in a noise complaint, so this is where I'm going to leave this thought right now. Three hours into my shift, and I've still got a job to do.
I've worked security for three years, all told. It is a crazy, wonderful, sometimes weary and thankless job. But a necessary one, and one I love. A security officer sees a little of everything, depending on where they're stationed -- more than a cop, sometimes, because this uniform doesn't carry as much weight, and everyone knows it. The client knows it. We, if we are smart, know it. And the people we come up against know it.
Fifteen minutes ago, for the first time since I took a security position, I had my life threatened.
No, it doesn't happen often. Drunks rage at us, some offenders sneer at us, the "rent-a-cops" in our "wannabe police" outfits. But, stone cold sober, to all appearances, a stranger whom I asked to leave the building after a domestic disturbance situation got out of hand looked me in the eye and told me that I was going to "lose my life for my seven-fifty-an-hour job."
My response, more than his threat, scares me.
It's not that I didn't consider the threat. It's not even that I don't, somewhere inside me, know that it might be true. If there ever were a situation that causes or at least contributes to just the sort of circumstance in which someone comes back with a gun, a domestic disturbance is that situation. I'm not a cop. No-one tells contract security they're expected to risk their lives. But a week ago, the night guard at another hotel did just that, and he died.
Knowing all that, I'm looking at a yellow slip of paper on the desk in front of me. What's written on it isn't as important, I don't think, as what it really says.
What it says is that I did the job I was hired to do.
What's the job worth? What's any job worth? Is there any job worth dying? Or even the threat of dying? Damned if I know. I have a feeling my father would say no. My kids, if I could ask them, would probably say the same thing, when it comes to me or anyone else they care about. But my dad was a cop for a long time, took three bullets during those years, and I know he did the job he was hired to do. Twenty years from now, I'll know I've done another job right if my children, despite fear, can say the same thing. The job may not be worth it. Carrying on when you'd like to sit down and just shake for awhile -- that is.
Donna just called in a noise complaint, so this is where I'm going to leave this thought right now. Three hours into my shift, and I've still got a job to do.
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no subject
Date: 2002-09-29 12:38 am (UTC)Re:
Date: 2002-09-29 01:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-09-29 01:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-09-29 06:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-09-29 01:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-09-29 06:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-09-29 01:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-09-29 06:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-09-29 04:09 am (UTC)You're right, it's not a matter of dying, more one of performing one's duty. And, you certainly did that!
no subject
Date: 2002-09-29 06:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-09-29 05:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-09-29 06:21 am (UTC)Re:
Date: 2002-09-29 07:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-09-29 01:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-09-29 11:42 am (UTC)And yet they continue to teach, because it's one of the most important jobs they could have.
Another uncle is a fireman and has been a police officer.
My father has saved more lives than I can believe, outside of any job.
I feel I can't live up to it, but I have to admire that kind of bravery.