Dragnet, 1967 series

Joe:
It's awkward having a policeman around the house. Friends drop in, a man with a badge answers the door, the temperature drops 20 degrees. You throw a party and that badge gets in the way. All of a sudden, there isn't a straight man in the crowd. Everybody's a comedian. 'Dont drink too much,' somebody says, 'or the man in the badge will run you in.' Or, 'How's it goin' Dick Tracy? How many jaywalkers did you pinch today?' And then there's always the one who wants to know how many apples you stole. All at once, you lost your first name. You're a cop, a flatfoot, a bull, a dick, John Law, you're the Fuzz, the heat, you're poison, you're trouble, you're bad news. They call you everything, but never a policeman. Maybe she's right. It's not much of a life unless you don't mind missing a Dodger game because the "Hotshot phone" rings. Not unless you like working Saturdays, Sundays, holidays at a job that doesn't pay overtime. Oh, the pay's adequate. You count your pennies, you could put your kid through college, but you better plan on seeing Europe on your television set. And then there's your first night on the beat. When you try to arrest a drunken prostitute in a Main Street bar and she rips your new uniform to shreds. You'll buy another one out of your own pocket. And you're going to rub elbows with all the elite: pimps, addicts, thieves, bums, winos, girls who can't keep an address and men who don't care. Liars, cheats, con men, the class of Skid Row. And the heartbreak: underfed kids, beaten kids, molested kids, lost kids, crying kids, homeless kids, hit-and-run kids, broken arm kids, broken leg kids, broken head kids, sick kids, dying kids, dead kids. The old people that nobody wants: the reliefers, the pensioners, the ones who walk the street cold and those who tried to keep warm and died in a three-dollar room with an unvented gas heater. You'll walk your beat and try to pick up the pieces. You have real adventure in your soul, Culver? You better have. Because you're going to do time in a prowl car. Oh, it's gonna be a thrill a minute when you get and "unknown trouble" and hit a backyard at two in the morning, never knowing who you'll meet: a kid with a knife, a pillhead with a gun or two ex-cons with nothing to lose. And you're going to have plenty of time to think. You'll draw duty in a "Lonely Car" with nobody to talk to but your radio. Four years in uniform, you'll have the ability, the experience and maybe the desire to be a detective. If you like to fly by the seat of your pants, this is where you belong. For every crime that's committed, you've got three million suspects to choose from. Most of the time, you'll have few facts and a lot of hunches. You'll run down leads that dead-end on you. You'll work all-night stakeouts that could last a week. You'll do legwork until you're sure you've talked to everyone in the state of Calfornia. People who saw it happen, but really didn't. People who insist they did it, but really didn't. People who remember. Those who try to forget. Those who tell the truth. Those who lie. You'll run the files until your eyes ache. And paperwork? You'll fill out a report when you're right, you'll fill out a report when you're wrong, you'll fill one out when you're not sure, you'll fill one out listing your leads, you'll fill one out when you have no leads, you'll make out a report on the reports you've made. You'll write enough words in your lifetime to stock a library. You'll learn to live with doubt, anxiety, frustration. Court decision that tend to hinder, rather than help you: Dorado, Morse, Escobedo, Cahan. You'll learn to live with the district attorney, testifying in court, defense attorneys, prosecuting attorneys, judges, juries, witnesses. And sometimes, you're not going be happy with the outcome. Maybe your girlfriend's right, Culver. But there's also this: there are over 5,000 men in this city who know that being a policeman is an endless, glamourless, thankless job that's gotta be done. I know it, too, and I'm damn glad to be one of them.