by Mike McKay
***
I return my chair to the proper position behind the desk (the wheels complain again) and try to read through Tan's report scribble. No, today I can't concentrate any longer. Besides, the clock shows 4:59, my day is over. I'd rather slither home. The old report returns to its native pile.
I switch off the Police-issued tablet and lock it in the desk drawer. The cell phone goes into my bag. I am ready to go. Squeezing the desktop with my left hand, I lean forward and extend my right arm towards the designated landing zone. In the hospital, they called this trick ‘chair to floor transfer for short above-knee amputees’. It's a controlled fall of sorts. This world is not designed for girls, who are halved to the butt and now stand only thirty-two inches tall (or rather thirty-two inches short?) But I am almost used to it. My abandoned office chair rolls to the wall, sadly squeaking with its wheels. Don't cry, buddy. I will be back on Monday. From under the desk I extract my trusty transportation kit: a pair of fingerless leather gloves, an oversized skateboard and two wooden blocks.
Next to the entrance door a cracked plastic label on the wall reads: ‘SAVE THE PLANET. Switch off air-condition, lights, and computer screens before leaving.’ Of course, there is nothing to switch off in the Beat office now, except for the tablet. There has been no AC and no computer screens for many years, and the only lights we have are solar-charged lanterns and emergency flashlights. But our Sergeant likes this label for some reason and does not allow us to peel it off. This time, the useless label reminds me of something I have forgotten. Leaving my bag, gloves, and wooden blocks at the door, I push the skate with bare hands. The floor in our Beat is exemplary clean. One of the things I do here besides sorting papers and calling the Dispatch once in a while. I approach the coffee table, reach into the storage compartment under it and pull out my Wonder-weapons: a spray bottle and a rag. Thirty seconds later, the glass surface is shiny. Viruses and bacteria from the bloodied gut-driver are on the way to their Microbiological Heaven. Or their Microbiological Hell, depending on the bio-hazard level. I roll to the desk and wipe the water jug. Pull a plastic sink from under the desk and wash the used glass. All shipshape. Now the Beat will survive without me through the weekend.
Outside, the steaming-hot September day slowly turns into pleasantly-warm evening. I lock the Beat door and zip the key into the bag pocket. On the way back, my hand automatically reaches inside the main compartment for my very special tobacco box. The voyage will be long. Over one-mile long (back in March I would call it ‘one-mile short’). Well, after the Cruise, for one-mile long voyages I make careful preparations. First of all – load the mandatory ammo. Surface-to-air missile, code name To-Ma-Gochi. ‘Ma’ is for ‘marijuana’ and ‘To’ is for ‘tobacco’. Wonder-blend, three-to-one. Since 2023, it's completely legal in Texas. Even the Police officers may use one occasionally, but not while on-duty and only for medicinal purposes. About me, the Police brass can't say a word: phantom pain, sir! Once in a while, my absent left foot makes me jumping on the absent right.
Besides the tobacco box, my bag holds a lighter: the military macho type, handicraft version of Zippo. The nickel-plated body has an engraving: a naughty mermaid. The creature sits not on your usual sea rocks, but on a pile of ammo boxes. As any self-respecting mermaid, she does not care for a bikini top, but has her Navy cap and holds her favorite weapon. Exactly my choice in the goddamn Venezuela: the M240D machine gun with turret mount, nine hundred and fifty Freedom-and-Democracy servings per minute. Below the ammo boxes, the ship name is stenciled: ‘Piranha-122’. Our Piranha is gone. Out of seven naughty mermaids on board, only three are alive. Including this one, who lost her tail, and now has to ride home on her skate, pushing the dirt with her wooden blocks.
Talking of which… I pull the fingerless gloves over my hands.
“Hey Kate! Targeting home? Want a ride?”
A cargo tricycle stops in front of the Beat. Two young men look like our neighbors from the Koreamerican Patch-3. To my shame, I have no idea about their names. But they know mine. Well, on the West side of the GRS, many people know the Police by our first names, and in my present legless state refusing the ride is simply impolite.
“Sure. If this half-girl is not too heavy for your trike.”
“Hey, you call yourself heavy? I can throw you in with two fingers!” One of the boys replies, readily getting off the cargo platform.
“Don't help, bro. I'll manage.”
They surely don't teach this in the military hospitals: ‘skateboard to cargo tricycle transfer for short above-knee amputees’. Slide from the skate to concrete. Throw the skate, the blocks and the bag to the cargo platform. Right hand on the platform railings, left hand on the front wheel. Sharp push with both arms. A little flip in the air. Bang! And I am inside! Not too bad: have not caught much dirt and even my To-Ma-Gochi is intact. Well, the dirt – the boys have plenty. On the platform, there are bent bicycle wheels, rusty frames, sprockets, chains and other such stuff. Returning from the Landfill, what else.
“Nice jump,” the second man says, pushing the pedals.
“Experience, bro. You must see how I deal with toilet seats. Are you coming from the 'Fill?” I throw my magic tobacco box to the first man. We all know the Slum Rule: if you share the ride, you must share the smoke.
“Sure thing.” The trike's top speed is around three miles per hour. On the concrete path, I can go way faster. But, why complain? Besides, the concrete will be over at some point, and pushing the skate on dirt is not too easy.
“Good catch today?” I puff my ‘medicinal’ cigarette.
“Excellent. A freshly discovered bike grave! Nice parts, all pre-Meltdown. Those frames – see? Japanese steel! They are the best.”
The cell phone from my bag interrupts our relaxing mood with the Police call tone. As always: as soon as you settle with a lazy chat and a smoke, you get an urgent call! The phone screen shows the standard Sheriff's star icon and the caller ID: ‘GRS-2’.
I press the green button. “Hey Tan.”
“Kate? What's the freaking address, again?”
“What address?”
“The stubbing. I got an SMS from the Dispatch. Came to the address – there is nothing!”
“What do you mean: nothing?”
“Nothing means: nothing. Well, almost nothing. Several tiny spots on the floor, like dried blood, that's all.”
“But… The body?” I extinguish the half-finished cigarette.
“The body! There is no freaking body! Whatsoever.”
“Wait a sec, Tan. Did you read the SMS right?”
“Just repeat me the goddamn address.”
I repeat the address.
“Positive. I was at the right place.”
“And what place are you now?”
“In the Chinamerican-Three. I did a little loop, just to be sure. Then, got on my bike and went to give you a call. In the Patch-Five the phones don't work, as you may know.”
Oops! I have screwed up again. I imagine how the Homicide guys arrive to the address, just to have a good laughter. Kate Bowen! That legless Beat girl! Dead-bored with her papers, right? Well, here is free entertainment for you: call the real policemen to catch a ghost!
“Are you one hundred percent sure?” I ask. As if Tan suddenly laughs and says: oh, here it is! The body is behind the cupboard, I just didn't see it.
“One hundred and ten. Unless it's a wrong address.”
“What do I do? Call the Dispatch and cancel the Homicide Emergency Response?”
“Too bloody late, partner. They are on the way, for sure.”
“OK, fine. Sorry I wasted your birthday. Will try Kim now.” I disconnect the call and turn to the trike driver, “Can you stop here, bro? It looks like I don't need a ride anymore.”
“Problems?” The first man throws me the tobacco box. At least, he has managed to roll himself a s
moke.
“‘Problems’ is a bloody understatement. That's what I call the perfect Friday the thirteenth. Fire in the hole?” I click my macho lighter. “Thanks for the ride, boys.”
The men leave me at the road and depart on their trike. I dial Kim's phone. ‘You have dialed the Harris County Police number. Currently the phone is switched off or in the area with service temporary unavailable. For transfer to an operator, press one or hold the line. To leave a message, press two.’ Surely, Kim and Chen are already at the place in which the cell phone coverage is ‘temporary unavailable’. In our Houston slums, ‘temporary’ often means that nobody cares to fix it for months.
What if there has been no stubbing? An elaborate prank? But what for? Why would one pull a prank on the local Police? The Taiwamerican looked genuine enough: out of breath, scared, upset, shaken. Then, his adrenaline rush was over, and he looked deflated. To act like this, you got to be a movie star with few personal Oscars on the shelf. Well, we have no more Hollywood and no more Oscar, only the old movies from twenty-something years ago plus few remaining TV soap operas. But what about the gut-driver and the bloodied rag? By the way, what did they use in the real movies if they wanted to show blood? Tan insists it's pig blood, but I think it must be some food dye.
What do I do? Call the Dispatch and ask for the Operator One-Niner? I imagine how the Looney Tunes Granny, only with dark skin, says: ‘No worries, sweetie. Everyone can have a little mistake, dear. I will make you a good excuse – right away.’ Then, she will disconnect my call, chuckle, and create some plausible coded diversion for the Station. Her little Afro grand-niece has screwed up and needs some help!
No, I will not ask to cancel. I must believe my eyes and my head. The gut-driver is real. The blood is real. The shaking hands are real. And if the old man is still alive, and somehow managed to get away or call for help, – hey, he still has his quarter-inch hole! If the quarter-inch hole is not an emergency, what is the emergency? Of course, for a stubbing without a dead body – the Homicide Unit is excessive. The standing orders are to call a case investigator from the Station. The investigating officer can ride a bike. Horses are not cars. Horses cannot go to every stupid little case. People can, but horses – cannot. I try to call Kim once more. ‘You have dialed the Harris County Police number. Currently the phone…’
But really. Why do I panic? So, I overreacted. The Homicide Unit had to harness a horse. Let's call it a practice run. The horse cart instead of the emergency response truck is a recent brilliant idea of our Station Chief. Diesel fuel is too expensive, he says. No more cars, except for some real emergency. As the result, the Station now has two nice horses, a source of endless jokes and horse shit. Unfortunately, very few Police officers know how to harness these fine animals to carts. Even if you served in the Mounted Police, they don't teach officers much about carts and wagons. OK, gentlemen, so shut up and practice. Myself, I can withstand a joke or two. My personal space engineer Scotty will jury-rig some Stale Joke Deflector or Who Gives a Damn Blaster.
They can't kick me out of the Police. I am not a Deputy, just a Records Clerk. My position is a low pay, low responsibility plug-that-hole-role. The Garret Road Slum vast area and dense population require at least three deputies, but the budget can only support two and a half officer's salaries. I came handy, so the Personnel conjured this: a half-time records clerk position for a Navy veteran girl, halved by the war. The fact that I am not a whole girl, but just a half, can be conveniently established by direct observation. Or you can check me with a measuring tape, if you prefer not to trust your eyes. The half-time multiplied by the half-person multiplied by the girl-factor equates less than one-fifth of the full deputy's salary. Think all the delightful budget savings!
Well, I am not necessary a black sheep (despite my skin color, no offense). At the Personnel, I was told: ‘This position is perfectly suitable for a disabled vet. You will do fine, no problems.’ No problems, aye-aye! All my life I have been doing exactly this: trying to do fine and have no problems under the most adverse circumstances. In my twenty-one years of age, I have achieved something many people can't do in a lifetime.
When I was ten, I decided to read all the books in our school library. They had quite a few – one hundred and forty-nine different titles. Half of the books were total crap, but I was lucky to discover the Sherlock Holmes stories – still my favorite after eleven years. Believe it or not, I read all the books! The library lady nearly went bananas. In Detroit, the ten-year-olds didn't read books.
No, I wasn't a wonder-child. In the high school, my marks were all solid ‘C’. But strictly – no ‘D’! I struggled with my Math. I hated English Literature. Romeo and Juliet were OK, but for Prince Hamlet – this sadistic Shakespeare deserved a slow death through torture; what a shame they let him die on his own. The English teacher finally gave me my ‘C’ for ‘non-standard approach to classics’. I cheated my way around the History teacher. She had problems with her mental math and miscalculated the number of my test attempts. But, I have to repeat this proudly: I graduated from the high school! I was the only Afro at the grad ceremony, along with fifty (mostly white) boys. In Michigan, few Afro girls even bother to start the high school nowadays, and even white girls can be counted by fingers of one hand. And, you may call me a shameless liar, but it's true: through the entire school, I managed not to get pregnant (as all the other girls in my class did one-by-one, before leaving the school for good) and not to become a drug junkie (as my older brother did, with all the logical outcomes).
After the school, I firmly decided not to die of starvation along with many thousands of losers in Mitch. Instead of complaining at charity soup kitchens, I volunteered to the Navy – and served in a war zone for over two years! With my beloved machine gun, I killed many enemies of our Freedom-and-Democracy. I have no idea how many, but many – for sure. If you are on a river monitor and dispense nine hundred and fifty Freedom-and-Democracy servings every minute, it's difficult to count all the recipients. Well, the recipients got a bit mad at me. One direct hit by a laser-guided missile, my left leg went into the river together with the sinking Piranha, and I was sent to my free Cruise. On a floating hospital! One day later, my remaining leg became a fish food too, and two weeks later the upper part of me found itself nicely planted in warm asphalt of the welcoming Galveston harbor. I have no hard feelings about the Latino enemies of our Freedom-and-Democracy. War is just business, nothing personal.
And I have two decorations: the Purple Heart from Venezuela and the Lifesaving Award for the hurricane five months ago. Yes, I can do something better than pulling a trigger. I saved lives, goddammit! Although, the hurricane hit everybody, so we had to do something anyway. Kim and Tan did way more than me, and rightfully got themselves Medals of Valor. OK, I admit, two years and three months out of the five-year volunteer contract plus the Purple Heart for being halved don't count for much. Any clown can get herself shot in the aft and lose both legs. But my Lifesaving Award is one hundred percent honest achievement. Nothing in common with my History ‘C’.
I dial Kim again. ‘You have dialed the Harris County Police number…’ Wile E. Coyote smiles from the screen, the little pink hearts rotate above his head. And what did you expect, Road Runner? By the way, why this stupid Road Runner left such a wonderful cargo trike? You could do perfectly well with your panic while some unnamed fellow from the Koreamerican-3 was puffing on pedals. And now – you must finish the ride on your own! I pull the gloves and throw my body on the skate, ready for my little Tour de France. Back during my middle school years, they kept showing this on TV. Presidential program Bicycle-2020: every American must get a bike. Bike propaganda, my ass! Before the Meltdown, there were idiots who raced bicycles over mountains, while other idiots paid good money to watch the racing idiots. And even the bikes were impractical, totally idiotic: with thin tires and no cargo platforms.
It was like a TV soap opera, only about riding bikes. Unbelievable.
The good news, I am pretty close to home: one hundred yards on concrete, then four hundred – on the dirt road. If only concrete, even two miles on skate is no big deal. Unfortunately, nobody builds any new concrete roads now, and even fixing the old ones is not on a priority list. No probs, our tailless mermaid will have very strong arms.