High Desert High

by Steven Schindler

  “Just get some rest and think about it.”

  Paul watched Mickey drive towards the northbound Major Deegan and wondered if that was the last time he’d get a ride home from work.

  Steven Schindler

  Chapter Two

  Paul failed penmanship many times at Visitation Catholic Grammar School, which is one of the reasons he hated paperwork so much. He thought the fallout from barely legible handwriting on forms that he constantly had to fill out during police work would improve once they switched over to computers. But of course, that turned into an even bigger nightmare, because the number of forms quadrupled once they went on-line. That and the fact that he was a hunt-and-peck single-finger typist.

  Nevertheless, the retirement forms were to be filled out by hand at the police pension office in lower Manhattan. He had already filled out his forms twice, but each time the clerk found too many mistakes and illegible scribblings, and had him correct his mistakes. Paul handed the corrected stack of forms back to the clerk at her desk for the third time.

  “You know, you’re worse than Sister Annunciata back in third grade,” he said to the friendly middle-aged African-American woman who proofread his forms.

  “I feel sorry for the nuns who had to grade your chicken scratchings. Did she pass you?”

  “No. But I’m still trying.”

  “Well, once you complete these forms all nice and pretty you won’t have to worry about any more of those crazy police forms. All you’ll have to do is press the buttons on your remote control while you sit there drinking your Budweisers, watching the Yankee games ‘til kingdom come.”

  “God forbid! I drink Guinness Stout and I’m a Mets fan.”

  “Whatever. Choose your poison. And neither team’s going anywhere this season.”

  “And I’m not gonna be one of those retirees that sits in the Barcalounger waiting to die either. I’m finally gonna live my life. Do the things I always wanted to do.”

  “That’s what I love to hear. What?”

  “What what?”

  “What are you gonna do? After you retire?”

  “That, my darling, is a very good question, and something I am going to start trying to figure out on my subway ride back home. Did I pass?” Paul asked nervously as she ran her finger down the last page of his paperwork.

  “It all looks good. You passed! Congratulations! You are a free man! Start living your life! I just have to give you the copies and you’ll be on your way.”

  Paul stood there and gazed out the windows of the 47th floor office of the Woolworth Building, which faced west across the Hudson River and New Jersey. From that height you could see many miles into the distance towards the horizon where the sun sets and rest of America sits, still unexplored by Paul.

  “Here are the copies,” the clerk said, smiling. “And the final paperwork will be in the mail in a day or two. They owe you some time I see, so you can retire immediately.” She handed him a packet with all his paperwork and shook his hand.

  “Yeah, well, they owe me a lot of time. Like my whole life. Thanks for your help. You would have made a good third grade teacher! Do I get some kind of ID card saying I’m a retired cop?”

  “That will be in the packet.”

  From 1913 to 1930 the Woolworth Building was the tallest building in the world. Now it’s not even in the top 20. As Paul exited the building he realized the last time he had been in that neighborhood was the tenth anniversary of 9-11, where he and Mickey and some other guys from the old neighborhood held vigil by the names on the memorial – Johnny Collins and Wally Travers – two close friends who were incinerated on that fateful day. Johnny, a fireman, and Wally, an executive with Cantor-Fitzgerald, were in the wrong place at the wrong time like the nearly 3,000 other poor souls just trying to work for a living. The streets were buzzing this sun-drenched day with tourists, mostly foreigners judging by the men wearing black socks and sandals. Paul felt about as obsolete as the Woolworth Building, which was named for a worldwide retail empire that no longer existed.

  Paul had one more stop to make before he considered himself officially retired. He needed to go back to the precinct and pick up his gun, which he left on the captain’s desk last night. As he meandered his way north through Little Italy, everything just seemed a little too buttoned up. A little too corporate. But what really blew his mind was how even the Bowery was overrun by franchise eateries and upscale retailers. Mugsy and Satch never would have recognized it. But maybe it was him. Maybe it was his problem that he hadn’t changed with the times, and still, somehow, pined for the city that existed 30 years ago, as filthy and crime-ridden as it was.

  He looked down Fifth Street and gazed at the precinct with new eyes. Cop cars were double-parked everywhere, with cops rushing in and out of cars and into the ancient doorway. He remembered the day he stepped into that doorway for the first time. It was raining like hell on that first day in September, just like it was when he reported for his first day at Visitation grammar school. But his last day going through that door would be a glorious sunny afternoon.

  “Johnson, you’re out of uniform!” he said to a young black officer as he pointed to one of his shoelaces being untied.

  “Hey, Lieutenant! Is it true? Are you retiring? For real?”

  “What’s real? What isn’t real? I don’t know. Do you?” Paul said bounding up the steps into the building.

  “Can I talk to the Captain?” he cheerfully asked the desk sergeant, busy on a phone call. The sarge looked towards the office and nodded it was okay.

  Paul knocked on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Paul entered and smiled broadly. “Good afternoon, sir. I was just downtown signing my papers and….”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Dead serious, sir. It’s time.”

  “I’m going to miss you,” Captain Vasquez said, rising and reaching out to shake hands.

  “Thanks. Sir, I came by to pick up my gun. I’m sorry about mouthing off.”

  “Right.”

  Vasquez took out some keys, unlocked a drawer in his desk and handed Paul his .38 service revolver. “You have enough time saved up to start immediately I assume?”

  “And some,” Paul said placing the revolver in the holster he keeps in the small of his back.

  “All I can say, is …,” Vasquez paused as he fished for words, “thank you and good luck.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Paul exited the office and waved to the desk sergeant. He saw a group of cops he knew to the right, and turned a quick left. That was it. He was done. He looked at the spot where his car was usually parked and it was empty. He took out his phone and punched in some numbers.

  “Brielle! It’s me, Paul. Give me a call back so I know what time you’re driving my car to work. If it’s too much later, I might just take the train home. I’m walking over to St. Mark’s Lounge now. Talk to you soon.”

  Paul didn’t know what to expect as he got further and further from the police station. But once he turned the corner and started walking up Second Avenue, it became apparent that he had a bounce in his step. It was more than a bounce, he was bounding. If he had a basketball he’d be dribbling with both hands through the defense, even going between his legs and doing a no-look behind-the-back pass like he did on the Bailey Park courts. If he was playing ice hockey, he’d be deeking-up ice, doing ring turns around those clumsy d-man goons, and going five-hole on the flummoxed goalie. He felt so good, he actually gave a drunken bum in a doorway five bucks, which he knew would go for some MD 20/20. He usually only gives out McDonald’s gift cards, which he kept in his wallet for just such occasions.

  There wasn’t much of a crowd at St. Mark’s Lounge in the afternoon. It was strictly an after-work hang out. The beautiful barmaids didn’t work the day shift. It was usually some out-of-work actor. He took a seat by the TV, which was turned to Judge Judy. The bartender, who looked like he could star in any number of the silly superhero movies Pau
l wouldn’t be caught dead at, plopped a Captain Morgan coaster in front of him.

  “You’re Brielle’s cop friend, right?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “You’re not her friend anymore? What happened?”

  “I’m not a cop anymore.”

  “Oh shit, did you get fired or something?”

  “Yup. I got caught stealing quarters from the parking meters on Fifth Avenue in front of the Met.”

  “Oh, okay. What can I get you?”

  “Guinness. Pint. What time is Brielle on?”

  “I’m not sure. She might be off tonight.”

  “Hey, could you change the channel to SNY channel 639?”

  “The Mets don’t play until later.”

  “That’s okay. Anything is better than Judge Judy. I’ve had my fill of courtrooms for a lifetime or two.”

  Paul took a sip of his Guinness and overheard the bartender telling the old guy fixing the beer tap he was busted for breaking into parking meters in front of the Met. Through the old guy’s laughter he heard him say there were no parking meters on Fifth Avenue in front of the Met. The bartender walked over to Paul smiling. “Very funny. There aren’t any parking meters in front of the Met. Ha ha.”

  “I’m not a cop because I’m retired. In fact, I just signed my papers this morning,” Paul said proudly.

  “Retired? Already? You look like you’re in your forties!”

  “Not quite, but thanks anyway.”

  “Man! I want that deal!”

  “They’re giving a test next week. You want the website for information?”

  “Nah. I don’t think so. I’ve got some auditions coming up.”

  “Lots of cops become actors.”

  “Like that Steve Buscemi guy.”

  “He was a fireman. That’s part-time work. Cop is full-time.”

  “Fireman is part-time?” the clueless bartender asked.

  “That’s a joke.”

  Paul liked jerking people’s chains. Especially about the fire department. Why? Who knows? But all the different departments constantly break each other’s chops. Cops, firefighters, sanitation, corrections, court officers, bridge and tunnel guys all make fun of each other. But since 9-11, when so many lives were forever destroyed, and people are still dying of assorted cancers from days, weeks, and months digging through “the pile” for anything – bones, teeth, laundry labels, anything from those pulverized in the inferno – everybody knows somebody who died. And almost everybody lost somebody near and dear to them. The kidding had taken on a new significance, a way to express a teasing kind of camaraderie with no hint of pathos.

  Paul’s flip phone rang. ”Dugout, Casey speaking. I’m here with …,” Paul motioned towards the bartender.

  “Dylan,” the bartender said.

  “I’m here with Dylan waiting for you. Okay, see you in a little bit. Yes, I’m officially retired. You don’t have to ask me twice. Yes, a dinner celebration would be great! P.J. Clarke’s? No, that’s fine. I’ll see you over there in an hour. Bye.”

  Paul hadn’t planned on celebrating his retirement with anyone. Both his parents were gone. He wasn’t even talking to his brother somewhere in Arizona. And letting his ex-wife know wasn’t a remote possibility. He knew she was in a bad way, because Mickey’s wife gave him unsolicited updates on her, which were never good. It hurt Paul that he was a lousy husband, but that was his first year on the force. He was working non-stop and she was taking drugs and drinking non-stop. Thank God she took a breather while she was pregnant. She divorced him fast. Soon after the baby was born.

  P.J. Clarke’s was not one of Paul’s favorite places. Okay, he hated it. Yeah, it’s been around for over a hundred years, but it has been a yuppie hangout for at least 90 of those years. He decided he’d walk there even though it was over 50 blocks away. It would take about an hour and would give him time to transition. It’s been a while since he had made such a long walk through Manhattan. For the past several years the only path he had worn was from his car to the precinct, the precinct to St. Mark’s Lounge, and back to Kingsbridge. Oh, he loved walking, but not through the concrete canyons of the city. He preferred the tree-lined streets of Riverdale, or the cross-country running trails of Van Cortlandt Park. He still went for horseback rides at the stables in Vannie once or twice a year. And when he really wanted a long run or bike ride, he’d go up the bucolic Bronx River bike trail that went for a good 20 miles. Those were the places he preferred to walk, run, ride horses, and ride bikes.

  Manhattan had lost its charm for him a long time ago. With everybody and everything madly rushing by or in your face, he couldn’t relax. Every questionable-looking character was a potential criminal and every tourist a potential mark. He couldn’t even count the times he was out with a date or a buddy having a beer or a cup of coffee at a sidewalk café and the next thing you know, he was chasing some skel purse-snatcher through traffic with his gun out. Then there was P.J. Clarke’s. Sure, it was a fine establishment; beautifully old-school in décor, friendly wait staff, decent food, clean bathrooms. But the clientele? No thanks. Despite that fact that Paul was one of NYPD’s most decorated lieutenants, there was something about the Scarsdale/East Hampton/Harvard/Yale/Wall Street/City Hall vibe there that made him uncomfortable. Those one-percenters had no idea how many guys like him either lost their lives or their sanity beating back the scum that once ruled the dark corners of this city, which is now crowded with Disney Stores, Olive Gardens, Applebee’s, and gazillion-dollar condos built on landfills. But maybe now he wouldn’t care about those people. Maybe he could just enjoy the food, the pleasant atmosphere, the polite servers, and the harmless clientele of P.J. Clarke’s. Just for tonight at least.

  As he walked through the east thirties, Paul remembered dating a girl who lived just off Lexington Avenue in a walk-up. Back in the 1980s, as soon as the sun sank over Hoboken and the streetlights came on, there were more hookers walking the streets than law-abiding citizens out for a stroll. Then after a few dates, he realized there were no more hookers on the block in front of his date’s building. She told him that a guy across the street in one of the apartments started shooting at them with a BB gun. Okay, maybe they were still hooking, but not on that block. That was before Paul was a cop, but it was a lesson in criminal justice 101.

  There are no street hookers now in the east thirties. In fact, street hookers aren’t seen anywhere in Manhattan anymore. Oh, there’s still plenty of prostitution. More than ever. But now it’s all done on the internet: Tinder, Grinder, Craigslist, and who the hell knows what else is being invented in some Silicon Valley social media lab to perpetuate the world’s oldest profession.

  Paul took a seat at the end of the bar next to the where the servers get their drinks for the tables. He liked to eavesdrop on their chit-chat to get a read on what was going on; who the A-holes were, A-list celebrities trying to hide, D-list celebrities trying to get noticed, guys who needed to get cut off, and the women trying to prevent it. He got a tap on the shoulder. It was Brielle but he almost didn’t recognize her. She didn’t look anything like the quasi Hooters/Vegas Strip bartender she dressed up like while serving drinks at St. Mark’s Lounge. She looked … amazing! If she was wearing makeup, he didn’t notice. Her raven hair was pulled back and then draped across one shoulder. She wore a faded jean jacket over a black t-shirt and a white cotton skirt that went below her knees and ankle-high cowboy boots.

  “Wow!” Paul said taking it all in. “You look … great! I like that look. Is it like a cosmic cowgirl thing?”

  “I guess. How are you? Congratulations!” She said, leaning over to give Paul a peck on the cheek. “Let’s get a table.” She waved to a waitress across the bar, who smiled and made a beeline towards them.

  They were seated at a tiny table for two by the window, which looked out onto Third Avenue, and Brielle ordered drinks. She didn’t drink alcohol when she worked, but she was pounding Margaritas down like they were San Pellegrinos, and Paul t
ook notice.

  “Where’d you park my car?” he asked, nursing the first Guinness he had ordered while waiting for her at the bar.

  “In your usual spot. I took the bus up from there.”

  “I’ll take the keys.”

  “You don’t trust me with them?”

  “I want you to have a good time, so I’m driving,” he said, taking the keys from her and stuffing them in his pocket.

  “You’re the boss,” Brielle said as she finished off another Margarita.

  Several plates of assorted fried appetizers came and went, as did salads, and the main entrees. It was dark outside, and the bar was so crowded that people were bumping into the table as they stood there babbling away.

  “I can’t believe it!” Brielle shouted, noticing a thirtysomething guy wearing a pink polo shirt, pleated khaki shorts, leather shoes, no socks, and two of those earlobe-stretching plugs in his ears. “Todd, come over here!” she said, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. “Pull up a chair.”

  Brielle was kind of drunk. Okay, pretty wasted. Todd looked to be on something, but he was holding bottle water.

  “I am so stoked to see you, Brielle,” Todd said, slurring his speech slightly as he sat down. “I haven’t been to St. Mark’s Lounge in a while. I’m back to the Connecticut office. It’s so boring there.”

  “Todd, this is my good friend, Paul. We’re celebrating his retirement tonight.”

  “You look young for retirement. You must have made a killing in something! What was it? Hi tech? Currency? Hedging?”

  “I had a different line of killing,” Paul said, not very friendly like. “NYPD.”

  “Oh.” Todd said flatly. “So how are things at St. Mark’s Lounge, Brielle? Any of my old gang there?”

  “Not lately. None of them.”

  “Yeah, we’ve had some troubles. Hedge funds aren’t performing like they were. What’s your name again?”

  “Paul.”

  “Paul, maybe you heard of my uncle, Lance Beaumont? He was in the New York State Assembly and City Council for years.”