Sunday
May 6, 2012
Drive
Seven hours and suddenly the sun was creeping in between the blinds. Shreds of light cut across the room, highlighting random objects. A weary hand stretched out and clutched the cord hanging inches away. James pulled hard and the Venetian blinds flew up with an eagerness he couldn’t manage to share. The sinister sun broke in, full strength, and wrapped its greedy self around everything in sight. Light ricocheted off of a mirror in the corner of the room, next to the bathroom door, blinding James, forcing him to scrunch his eyes closed tightly just moments after his gritty eyelids had forced themselves apart.
James slithered off of his bed and wobbled to his feet. Still partially hunched over, he shuffled and lurched towards the bathroom. The cheap black-framed mirror above the white ceramic sink was nothing fancy, and completely unforgiving. Familiar longing writ itself across his ragged face, the birds nest atop his head pled for a shower. He put his hands on the sink to steady himself as he felt his stomach lurch. He choked down the bile. He knew he needed to get cleaned up. Get out of the house.
The sound of the kitchen drawer clattering open sounded like evil maracas amplified through a megaphone. Its forced closing, despite being overfull, first screeched obnoxiously then slammed shut, gigantic symbols crashing against one another. A spoon scraped against the interior of his father’s cereal bowl like overly loud nails drawn torturously across a chalkboard. James flinched; the milk carton had been banged down, rather than set gently onto the table, another earthquake in James’ skull. He hadn’t seen his father in a few of days. He wished today wasn’t reunion day. Some reunion; it was killing him already.
There was a time he’d have looked forward to Sunday morning breakfast. Stacey would sit and talk about school. Mom would make chocolate chip pancakes, get everyone ready for church. Back then, his father spoke. Not that he’d been all that much more loving in his behavior, but at least he spoke. Now, conversations were dampened with self-pity. Melancholy morning sounds in the Kent home were little more than the noises of inert objects - noises so overly loud now, that they shook James’ core and threatened to undo him if he couldn’t find a way to escape; as it was, he could barely walk.
James shut the front door behind him, and nearly tripped down the few front steps. He didn’t think he was still drunk, but knew with certainty that he should have slept more. He told himself there’d be no more black and white labels for a while. No more failed attempts to drown his many sorrows. What a fabulous lie that was; he’d probably end up at a liquor store within a few minutes, if, that was, he could manage to drive.
He skittered his way down the cement embankments. He walked, if it could be called that, across the dried out front lawn. At least he was doing better at putting one foot in front of the other than he had the night before. He chirped the custom-colored Nissan sedan out front. Blacked out windows and tinted lights contrasted against satin black paint; matte black rims grounded the newly leased Maxima. One of the first things James had done after getting sworn-in was to use his newfound New York City paycheck to trade in his old hooptie for a typical Staten Island ride. Less than a week after getting his new V6, 3.5 SV, limited edition, James took it to the next level, customizing nearly every inch of it, transforming it into the murdered-out attention getter parked on Joline Avenue.
As James’ right foot tapped the pavement behind his car, a yellow blur hooked a left off the intersection at Truman Street. He stumbled back as it came around onto his block. The car whizzed past.
“Fucking asshole,” he shouted. The car screeched to a halt not far from him. James regretted cursing aloud immediately. “Great. Here we go.” He wasn't in the mood for a fight.
Inside the yellow VW, gleaming teeth slowly victimized the driver’s pouting lips. The car had stopped but the driver’s mind still raced. It had been weeks since she’d heard from him and now she’d almost run him over.
James stepped out next to his car, stared at the tail end of the Bug a few feet away. Something had him staring, as if his brain knew more than it could yet relay. Then it clicked. Hallie.
She zipped the car backwards. Her window came down slowly, sounding like a small pet mouse being tortured. It pierced James’ tired ears. His bewildered eyes still stared at the roof. He struggled to break the standoff with the inanimate yellow object, then flinched when he heard her voice sheepishly speak his name. He placed his focus then on something more majestic. Stacked, chin length, brilliant red hair framed her pristine face. New haircut. Thick, choppy bangs plunged down and enveloped her eyebrows, just enough to meet blue eyes heavy with thick black eyeliner. Her eyes, it’d been too long since he’d actually seen them staring back at him. He hated those two assassins.
She moved her lips; they’d quivered. He hated those lips too. He hated all of it, mainly because he wanted it all so damned much. Hallie Winters, with her little yellow car, looked not all that terribly different than she had back when she’d first rolled by on her little yellow bicycle so many years ago. The last time they’d seen one another, though, wasn’t as good a memory. She hadn’t thrown the punch, hadn’t said the wrongs, but she hadn’t defended him either.
And yet there she was, staring back at him like nothing had ever happened. Like they could just go on. He stood wondering if they still could.
“Um. I’m going out to Jersey. Bubble tea run. You want, maybe to…”
“Yeah,” he answered softly. “Yeah, fuck it. I’ll go.”
Still half awake, the next thing James knew, they were turning off a side street onto the main road to the Outer Bridge. The VW smelled like jasmine, the dangling air freshener bounced with the various potholes Hallie couldn't seem to miss. James smelled her sweet, fruity perfume too. He took a deep breath. Hallie drove with her hands on the wheel at two and ten, just like her daddy taught her and she looked brilliant doing it. Like a goddess she sat still, fixated on the task before her.
At the first red light, they looked at each other, but neither spoke and the tension between them was palpable. Behind them, someone beeped three times in rapid fire. Trance broken, Hallie looked to the road, drove on. A fourth beep bleated as a sorry-looking purple Neon passed by, the driver’s middle finger on display. Hallie’s hands tightened on the wheel. James smiled.
“Eh. I’ll remember ’em, fuck with ’em when I finally get in the bag.” The most either had said thus far.
She had liked it when he first started speaking cop talk; it made her feel like she had an inside track with the police. The first time he’d referred to his uniform as a bag, she’d asked if he would have to wear paper or plastic. They’d both had a good laugh over that corny joke. Now she felt left behind and she could neither crack a joke nor smile big enough to ease the tension she felt.
The old tattoo shop flashed by on their right; another traffic light overhead, this one green, came and went.
“Where were you going?” she asked as they stopped at another light. Her voice was a welcome reprieve from the storm within his mind.
“Ugh. Nowhere, really, I guess.” He stretched his left arm behind his head, moved down to rub the base of his neck. “I didn’t realize how bad I still am. I wouldn’t have driven… like this.” He pushed back the vision flashing into his head from that night, Stacey in his arms.
Hallie made a turn, two more lights to go until the bridge. A black BMW made an illegal U-turn in front of her, cut out from the food truck parked on the overpass, never looked her way even when she held the horn. Her face flushed, adopting a harsh expression as she cursed.
“Staten Island,” James whispered.
Hallie mouthed an agreement.
“Why are you still with him, Hallie?”
Her face tightened up. The question came with no precedent, no warning. Unless she counted the fact that he had dodged her for as long as he had, and that Nick was the main reason. She knew that. She’d known it; she’d avoided it, but it wasn’t going anywhere.
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br /> Hallie stammered out James’ name, but said nothing else. She missed her last left, went into a parking lot instead. They sat silent, pulling into the expansive designated area of the Target lot. She didn’t bother to pull in to a legitimate spot, but instead, put the car in park over two white lines, then she huffed loudly.
“I don’t know, James.” She wouldn’t look his way and held her head down, staring at her pearlescent white shoes. Hand-made, imported from Israel, gorgeous and utterly useless in the moment. They wouldn’t work for running and running was all that she wanted to do.
At least she was honest, he reasoned. Still not much of an excuse though.
“Stop, Hallie.”
“Stop?”
“What? As if that isn't a realistic possibility for you?” James stared out the passenger window as he responded condescendingly, didn’t look her way.
“James,” she pleaded.
He sighed, shook his head left to right a few times, then turned to face her. He spoke, his delivery staccato bullets. “If you want really want that kind of bullshit, then fine. Stay with him, Hallie. Whatever.” He squinted hard. “The fuck if I need you.”
His words cut like a hot knife through chilled butter. Wide eyed and with a trembling bottom lip, she glared back at him.
Her words weren’t loud or forceful, rather those of someone defeated. “Fuck you, James Kent.” Overwhelmed and overcome, “You’ll never change will you?” Tears came to her eyes.
James looked out his window again. “Maybe. I doubt it, though,” he said, seemingly unaffected by Hallie’s pain. “He’s a jerk-off though, and you stay with him. Maybe I’m not the one there who needs changing, am I?”
She was speechless. James looked straight into her watery eyes. He clenched his teeth, seemed to continue doing so while he talked. “You’re the one who said she was there for me. ‘You’re not alone, James. Never again.’ But that was total bullshit, wasn’t it?”
Hallie just bit her lips and stared out the front windshield; she wouldn’t blink for fear she’d set loose a waterfall of tears.
“I texted you…”
“What’d you text? ‘Hi! What’s up?’” he said harshly. “What’s up? How about this? Your fucking boyfriend punched me in the fucking face! That’s what’s up, Hallie.”
“Don’t yell! I was trying,” Hallie said, fighting back the waterworks with every scintilla of self-control she could summon. “I didn’t know what to say,” she said softly, almost an afterthought.
“Yeah. Guess that was your problem the day it happened too. When you just stared at my fuckin’ blood on the fuckin’ carpet! Whatever, Winters. Whatever. It doesn’t mean shit and you know it.”
He shook his head and grabbed the door’s armrest.
“Why’d I even come here with you?” he snapped. “I was better off avoiding you.”
Tears on the very precipice, she remained adamant that she would not release even one tear. Not one. She wasn’t about to give him that much satisfaction. Who the hell did he even think he was? Jesus.
Although she didn’t yell, her voice was nonetheless forceful. “Then go, James. Why don’t you just go? Get the hell out of my car!”
He paused, then cocked his head as if testing the verity of her words. Decided it didn’t matter if she was serious or not. He looked away for the last time, opened the door, and exited the VW. He strutted through the parking lot without looking back even once. He pulled out his phone on the way into the building and called his cousin. He kept walking, through the store, then out the other exit and waited for Chris out of view from the place he’d just left Hallie. He didn’t want to risk seeing her if she had a change of heart. She might, but he wouldn’t. James wasn’t going to change.
Saturday
June 2, 2012
Precinct
The anti-crime Sergeant stepped away from the small, beat-up desk. One of his men was busily stuffing random items into plastic bags and labeling them, vouchering property from an arrest. Sergeant Miggio was young, only a few years further on from Kent. He wore old beige cargo shorts, an oversized, faded navy t-shirt and running shoes. Miggio grabbed his radio from the desk before he walked away. A worn-out, green wrist-band was wrapped twice around the equipment. Miggio motioned for the rookie to follow. He was nicer than Kent had expected, his only experience with bosses so far having been the poor examples at the Police Academy.
“Yeah, your dad’s a good guy, he called yesterday,” Miggio said as he guided Kent through the precinct. The building was cold and small, yet nonetheless a labyrinth to anyone unfamiliar with its secrets. Fluorescent bulbs illuminated the entire first floor, not a corner of darkness, but plenty of filth and grime at every turn. They walked past the visitors’ seating area and complaint room, the front desk, around a wall that didn’t quite reach the ceiling, and into a small room. It was tucked between a staircase behind a closed door and another smaller adjoining room. Sergeant Miggio told a story of having been on patrol with Kent’s father as the two entered through a door propped open with a huge wad of folded paperwork. Two desks took up most of the room. An oversized photocopier and shelves with summonses and other miscellaneous paperwork took up the rest.
“These are some of my boys. Laurent,” Miggio said, pointing first at the tall, Clark-Kent-looking cop in his mid-thirties who was sitting at the right desk; he wore a green short sleeve tee shirt and jeans. A tattoo peeked out from under his right sleeve; it looked like a Green Lantern logo. The cop winked and nodded.
“Welcome, sir,” he said politely.
“And this is Bishop,” Miggio said, pointing to the short, muscular African American cop who was leaning back in a gray and black swivel chair. He wore a standard uniform, top button undone, tie barely clipped on, hanging off of the button hole. His hands were crossed behind his head; his feet propped up on the desk.
“Laurent, where is everyone?”
“In the back.”
Miggio grunted. Bishop smiled and slapped his hands down against the arms of the chair; next, both fee slapped onto the floor.
“Let me introduce him to the rest of us, boss,” Bishop said as he stood.
“Then tell them to get their asses up here right now. ASAP.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Bishop waved for Kent to follow him.
“I’m not one of his crime guys. One of the delegates is here. There’re three of us, one for each tour. Did they explain to ya in the Academy just what it is we do?”
“Sorta.”
They walked out of the room and down through an adjacent narrow hallway, then into a locker room.
“You fuck up, we cover your ass. Just do everybody a huge favor, though, and try not to fuck up until you’re off probation. You do that and you might get yourself gone regardless of what we can do.”
An extremely overweight Hispanic cop with a bad mustache looked over; he was in the midst of snapping his gun into place on his duty belt. He nodded recognition towards the duo walking through. Kent reciprocated likewise, then again acknowledged Bishop.
“Good,” the veteran cop said. He walked with a smooth swagger, Kent trailing behind, starry-eyed. Bishop turned, grinning hugely as they reached an extremely worn out blue door with a tarnished silver handle. He ushered Kent inside as he pushed the door open with his back. The lounge was filled, including a pool table, a few dingy couches, a matched pair of dining tables, and some wooden chairs, some of which were still in use, despite being broken. In front of Kent, a uniformed cop laid out on an ugly brown sofa, his shirt completely unbuttoned. His gun-belt hung over a nearby chair; his vest lay on the seat. The guy didn’t once take his eyes off of a cracked flat screen TV, which was playing Southpark far too loudly in the far left corner of the room. Two uniformed cops to his left seemed enmeshed in a heated debate. The one with a cropped Mohawk had his back to Kent. The other cop, a stocky brown haired guy pouring coffee, listened with a smile to Mohawk talk about something having to do with “a shit
ty Roman outpost where only five percent of the world lived at the time.”
“I think it was only two,” the fat man said with a laugh before Kent glanced to his right.
Two more cops in jeans and tee shirts played pool there. They had wrangled Bishop into their conversation, asking his opinion about some police procedure, paying Kent no mind. He could have cared less; he was still trying to take in everything else anyway. The delegate stepped over to the pool table and the couched cop swung his legs down onto the linoleum floor.
“You’re new.”
“Yeah. James. Kent. I’m starting here, in like, three days.”
“Santos. Welcome to the Deuce, bro,” the Filipino kid said before glancing back at the TV to catch a joke he obviously thought was wildly hilarious. He didn’t look much older than twenty-one and Kent thought he looked sort of like some kid who’d starred in a Peter Pan movie he’d seen as a child; he had the same smirk and everything.
“Just wanted to grab a locker before your fellow rookies, huh?” Santos asked, just as the show went to commercial.
“Um, yeah.”
“Cool. Smart guy. Want some help?”
Kent glanced back at Bishop, who was still chatting it up with the guys at the pool table, nodded towards the group. “Uh, I think he is.”
“Cool. Cool. Bishop’s a good guy. Good command, too. You’ll like it here. There’s gossip and shit, sometimes it gets kinda juvenile around here, but overall, you’re gonna like it. Just stay away from the Satellite.”
“Satellite?”
“That thing, the annex. Behind the mall? You know?”
“Oh. Yeah. Right.”
“Stay here. You’ll like it just fine. That other place? Hell. It’s a hot-mess.”
“Didn’t know I’d have an option.”
D.O.A. Page 3