Here in the year 2001, police officers who just happen to be women are as routine a part of the Chicago police force as the unisex blue trousers. But back in Hays' early days, women were not only oddities on the force, they carried a special badge and did special duties under a title that now seems as passe as their beehive hair: policewoman.
"I can't," said the friend. "I'm taking the policewoman's test."
Policewoman? Who even knew women did such a job? And what woman would want to?
"Sounds like garbageman," thought Hays, who a few years earlier, at 17, had married just to get out of the house.
But the job sounded better than her work at a trucking firm, so she told her friend, "I'll come too," and before she knew it she was decked out in the most adorable dark-blue skirt, matching cropped jacket and pillbox hat, strolling the city sidewalks in pumps with a gun packed in her purse.
"Citizens didn't know what to make of us when they saw us on the street," Hays says, all these years later, leaning on a pool cue at Chris's Billiards on North Milwaukee Avenue. At 60, she's cigarette skinny and exceptionally fond of both the butterfly tattoo on one heel and the rhinestone butterfly barrette in her light brown hair. She can clear balls from a pool table as swiftly as a short-order waitress clears plates from a counter.
"Citizens mostly asked us, `Where's the nearest women's room?'" she says. "If they saw us running after a prisoner, they thought we were nurses. And I can't tell you how many pairs of pantyhose I went through."
There had been a few policewomen and a job called "police matron" before Hays, but in 1966 she was part of the first female class to train at the Chicago Police Department Training Academy. The "girls" as she calls them included nurses, teachers, even a nun--women who managed to imagine their lives beyond the boundaries of the kitchen.
Hays doesn't know exactly why she was one of those oddball dreamers. Maybe it was simply because, growing up in South Bend, Ind., and then on Chicago's South Side, she too often heard her drunken father rage at her mother, "You're a non-entity!" At an early age, she vowed, "I will be an entity."
Like all of her fellow policewomen, Hays was assigned initially to the youth division. It was the family beat. She searched for runaways. Arrested men who beat their wives and kids. Sometimes arrested negligent mothers, though over the years she came to believe that most of them needed counseling, not jail. She worked a lot in poor neighborhoods, in projects. She got to know black people for the first time in her life.
And sometimes she'd go home as exhausted by emotion as a ditch-digger is from shoveling.
"Once there was this little kid, this Appalachian white kid," she recalls. "He'd been dipped in scalding water. Poor little thing, he was just cooked. His little fingers were like boiled sausages."
The boy died. Hays was convinced the killer was the girlfriend of the boy's father--"one of those teeny bow-legged gap-toothed men of the South that women fight over"--but the woman ultimately went free. It was the kind of experience Hays often had on the job, an education wrapped in a defeat.
"I got real about how much you can actually affect people," she says.
As a policewoman, she was often summoned to strip-search female prisoners--not her favorite job.
"I wasn't always the best searcher," Hays recalls, lighting a cigarette under a sallow lamp in the dark pool hall. She grimaces. Prostitutes could hide the strangest things in the most private places. Cigarettes, matches, money, knives.
By the 1970s, the sexual revolution that changed the world had changed the Chicago Police Department too. At last women could be police officers, just like the guys. Walk a beat, just like the guys. Work homicide, just like the guys. The role and title "policewoman" were phased out.