By the time you reached fifth grade at Lakeridge Elementary in Woodbridge, Virginia, the Powers That Be had decided you were mature enough to handle some major responsibility.  Yes, prepubescent ten year-olds could now handle life or death decisions regarding their peers.  Hostage situations on buses, kindergartners chasing balls into the street, lines of students dangerously unformed - they were now our purview.

We were the safety patrol.

Our mandate was simple - maintain order wherever students roamed, be it hallways, buses or crosswalks.  Having completed at least forty-five minutes of training, we were handed our marks of power - the neon orange sash.  As we walked through crowds of unruly children, our mandarin scythes cut through the masses and brought order to chaos.  We were feared, and not just because of our freakish overbites and greasy hair.

Each day much of the fifth grade gifted class would pack our bags fifteen minutes early - we were the chosen ones.  We walked out the door, book bags firmly secured over two shoulders, lunchboxes held solidly in our right hands, sashes blazing across our chests.  As we turned the corner marching three across and arrived at the school front door, time slowed to a crawl, and we strutted in slow motion to our positions.  Teacher and student alike took a step back, jaws dropping as we took control of the halls.

The safety patrol didn't take shit from no one.

The last Friday of each month our adviser brought us together for a briefing where she adjusted assignments and awarded one top performer "Safety Patrol Member of the Month".  Going into December's meeting, I felt the award was firmly in hand.  My section, the first grade hallway, had the lowest incident rate, and she had praised my work numerous times.

As the meeting was closing, the adviser began singing the praises of that month's winner.  I sat rigidly, looking at her and smiling, ready to spring up as soon as she called my name.  "This month's Safety Patrol of the Month goes to . . ."

Not me.  Not me!  My heart stopped, I couldn't breathe.  How could this be?  Everyone else in the room was worthless.  They weren't even fit to carry my book bag!  What do you mean I wasn't the winner?

I walked out of the meeting reeling.  As I took my post my head was spinning; I thought I might pass out.  How could I continue?  There had never been such an injustice in the history of mankind.

The weekend passed slowly; I dreaded returning to school on Monday.  My cockiness around my fellow patrol members had turned to humiliation.  I had loudly bragged that the award would be mine; now I had shame to wear instead of a shiny silver badge.

Monday morning after duties I slipped into our adviser's office.  "Yes Brian?  What can I do for you?"

"I just don't understand," I stammered.  "I was so good in December.  You said so yourself!  How could I not be Safety Patrol of the Month?"  Tears welled in my eyes and my body began to shake.

"Brian, of course your performance is phenomenal," she replied.  "The reason I didn't choose you for the award is because, beginning in January, I plan on promoting you to Captain of the Safety Patrol."

In the distance a cadre of coronets played their salute.  A chorus offered a triumphant Hallelujah.  Cymbals crashed, angels wept. 

It's possible that was just our school orchestra practicing down the hallway in the cafeteria.

Two weeks later, I stepped off Bus 14 on the first day after holiday break.  The winter sunlight gleamed off my chest, where a glorious blue badge announced to all of Lakeridge Elementary that there was a new sheriff in town.  For the next six months, the incidence of skinned knees and food fights dropped to all time lows under my strict no tolerance policies.  Students marched in formation, fearing punishment with any misstep or sideways glance.  That school ran like clockwork.

Have I mentioned I didn't have any friends at the start of sixth grade?  I've never figured out why that was.

But I sure know where my cop fetish came from.

Lock me up and throw away the key.