Lord, how I loved stomping a foot pedal at the dispatch console.
The sweet feel of untamed rage assuaged for all to experience.
Instantaneous in its fulfillment.
The gratification bordering on addiction.
Beads of sweat begin to pepper my brow and my fingers begin to perceptibly tremble as I long for it.
I digress.
To be clear, I wouldn’t just stomp the pedal willy-nilly. Any dispatcher will tell you that when you hear (or feel, as a pre-earthquake tremor in the floorboards) someone anger-hoof a foot pedal, you know a few things to be true:
- It’s either going to be the foot pedal or a computer screen – either way, there will be violence.
- That dispatcher has been pushed decisively into the red and a price must now be paid.
- The foot pedal is engineered to accept the angriest foot at exceedingly high velocity.
- Everything is going to be better now. For all of us.
Nothing immediately communicated AND salved my stress/rage/belligerence more quickly or decisively than bringing the sole of my foot down with the force of a motivated hydraulic press onto that metallic, clanky but oh-so-rewarding hunk o’ metal and rubber (or whatever the hell it was made of).
When you gritted your teeth as you stomped, it amplified the dopamine hit that instantly flooded your system, resulting in an immediate sense of pure release that I can only compare to the “zoomies” my cat accelerates into immediately after befouling his litter box.
Sometimes, the single stomp was all I needed. My heart rate, once galloping along like a pack of Clydesdales on asphalt, would slowly return to its normal rhythm. My grip on the pen in my hand (the one I hadn’t already destroyed – an unfortunate side effect of my fury) would begin to slacken. My breath, which moments before had approached Darth Vader levels of amplification, returned to inhalations and exhalations that were no longer perceptible in my radio traffic.
The sheer power of the single stomp could do that some nights.
You had to connect just so for that to be possible, though. A side-shank wouldn’t get the job done. You would immediately know it, as the discordant sound it caused would result in dispatcher heads popping up from their consoles prairie dog-style, desperate to be released from the state of cognitive dissonance that the mis-stomp had caused. Their faces pained, they would silently plead for a redo, desperately needing the wrong to be righted. Typically, an abrupt re-stomp, properly centered and executed, would return them to the consoles from whence they came.
There were nights when it was clear that the single stomp wasn’t going to bring me down from the high cliffs of anger to which I had been driven. While those multi-stomp evenings were few – fortunate, as they carried a heightened risk of both hamstring and Achilles injuries — they were sometimes compulsory.
On those nights, having over-binged, I would drive home, bleary-eyed and headachy, and find my way to bed where I would lie sleepless and unsatisfied by too much of a good thing.
The foot pedal giveth.
The foot pedal taketh away.
Sure, there are other things I miss about working in the comm center.
I miss the people I worked with. And, of course, the work itself gets into your blood.
Once a dispatcher, always a dispatcher, as they say.
But once you’ve hammered that foot pedal, awash in a fury that simply melts away after contact, there is no letting go of it.
Though I am now physically removed from the foot pedal, it still sits metaphorically near, desperate to be annihilated by a stomp engineered to go through the floor and remerge from the ground in rural China.
Sometimes, I’ll talk to dispatchers who are retired or otherwise removed from their comm centers. We’ll talk about all the things that unite us from having worked in such a unique environment – the food, the chaos, the sheer pride in doing all the things that we did and all the amazing people with whom we did it.
Inevitably, the topic of the foot pedal comes up.
We’ll laugh and mimic the motion of the stomp, trying to make the sound. We’ll agree that we didn’t ever do it – only the angry people did! Haha!
We’ll act like it was a minor accoutrement of little importance as we say our pleasantries and depart.
I always look back as I’m walking away to see if there is the slightest perceptible tremble in their fingers.
About Kris Inman:
Kris Inman is the Director of Program Development for The Healthy Dispatcher. A 29-year veteran of 9-1-1, Kris retired in July 2023 as Director of Springfield Greene County 9-1-1 in Springfield, MO. An awarded speaker and instructor, Kris has delivered standout educational sessions, keynotes, motivational talks and yoga instruction to dispatchers across the country. He is also a long-time college adjunct instructor, teaching courses in communication and public safety leadership. Kris holds a Master of Arts in Communication and a Bachelor of Science in Electronic Media from Missouri State University. He is also a registered yoga instructor.
