On September 22, 1991, I was sworn in as a Special Agent of the FBI on the first day of New Agent training in Quantico, VA. I somehow stumbled through the next four and half months and was turned loose on the world.
I was issued a Sig Sauer P226 9mm - my class was the first to go through after the 1076 was recalled, so we got whatever DEA was issuing to their guys - their Academy was also at Q'tico.
I got to my first office, New Orleans, and qualified with my trusty Sig P220. I turned in my 226 and it was reissued to a guy on the white collar squad since we were transitioning out of revolvers. All Bureau issued Sigs have been recalled and most likely transformed into manhole covers. Since my 220 is personally owned it is grandfathered in. It is rare to see anything but a Glock in today's Bureau, but my Sig is still on the job.
I still have the kid (now a 20 year old college student), the wife, the shirt (though it has shrunk), the shoulder holster and of course the Sig. I have lost the dark hair and the porn moustache. I have also added a son and a daughter.
After New Orleans I went to Browning, Montana, on the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. I found I really liked working Indian Country (that's the actual legal Federal term in the statutes) and have continued in Idaho and now in New Mexico.
I was the first one in the office today. I made a pot of coffee and drank most of it. I met with a prosecutor and a rape victim. I made paper, checked my email, and helped my partner look for a guy on the reservation who has a manslaughter warrant. I took the back of the house and for the millionth time slid the Sig from that old holster. It would have made for a better story if the guy was home, but he wasn't. Maybe tomorrow.
I'm eligible to retire as of today, but I'm not mandatory for five more years. I'll stick around for a while, at least until they really piss me off.