No Fashion Statements

There are some legal differences as defined by New York State, but as far as the New York Racing Association goes, the only difference between a Peace Officer and a Security Guard is the pants. Both jobs require you smile at the patrons, don’t escalate a situation and keep your shirt tucked in. Oh yeah, and it is critical that your t-shirt doesn't show at the neck.

Since I promised to go through Peace Officer training, I was issued the ubiquitous gray pants with the blue strip. But tight budgets prevail at NYRA (aren’t the maintenance guys running around in new crisp cyan shirts), so the size selections are slim pickin’s. In the gun cage the smallest on the rack was a men’s 32. They were so old they had pockets. Years ago in an attempt to make the Peace Officer force look a little more authoritative, they eliminated all but the hip pockets. NYRA wasn’t going to have their Officers standing around with their hands in their pants. These pants had pockets, thread bare around the openings.

The issuing sergeant said I could take the pants to Roxy’s, the local dry cleaners, to have them taken in. I could jam a truckload of doughnuts into those pants. A lot had to be altered. However, when you try to take that much out of the waist, the back pockets end up sitting on top of each other. The cleaners promised they would leave about a quarter inch between the pockets. The best they could do.

A week later I picked up the pants. Neatly pressed, with a crisp crease down the legs they once made some officer look sharp. At home I tried them on. The waist fit comfortably. Add a belt and from the front they looked good. I came out to show Dad, but when I turned around, even he noticed the snag in my drawers. Now Dad has never been known for having any great flair for fashion, being one who would wear plaid with stripes, but fashion faux pas was so bad, it even caught his eye.

In the ass the pants drooped like a gang banger’s attire. I comes from da’hood wid trooper pants. I could have tucked a couple of Depends in there and still had room for my assault rifle. It would have been a total embarrassment to wear these to work. Who would take me seriously when I asked them to remove their beer cooler from three foot line by the white fence? But when I complained to the sergeants they looked at me like my cat looks at me. What? Back at the cleaners I received hands-up-in-the-air shrugs. (I have purposely not suggested the cleaners was a tailor.)

To the sewing room I went. Yes, I can swing a hammer and run a needle through my fingers. I couldn’t make them look any worse. Armed with a gross of pins I gathered up the bulk. Gingerly, I stepped into the legs and pulled them up. Much better. I managed to take in the droop without leaving the couch below my knees. That would compromise my ability to run after bad guys. In the end, I wouldn’t look like a middle-aged women with a medical condition.

The track issues one uniform for the summer (This is why I let my t-shirt show...a protest of sorts)and the wool pants must be dry cleaned. The first hot day of the summer occurred on opening day. I could feel the sweat run down my legs. These pants were not going to work. So this morning I went to WalMart to find a dark blue pair that would be acceptable uniform attire.

In the boy’s department I found an eleven dollar pair that fit like they were made for me. Who knew that at 55, I could wear Boy’s 16?