by A.R. Rivera
There’s no way this is actually happening. I couldn’t believe my ears when they said what I was being arrested for—I don’t even remember the names for the charges they are so ridiculous—something to do with attempted forced entry, harassment, and the taxi drivers’ complaint, which is the most ridiculous charge of all.
“For the hundredth time, I got the money from a bank. How can it be counterfeit?”
I’ve never used the word weary in my life. It’s a girlie word. But right now, cuffed to this uncomfortable, rusty metal chair, feeling the weight of all my troubles, the mysterious way everyone’s been looking at me as I explain myself and getting nowhere, I can say that I am truly weary. Yes, weary is just right.
This investigator seems to take a certain level of pleasure at my frustration with the repetition. I swear it’s like something out of a movie. This guy, this cop, looks almost exactly like Burt Reynolds from his Smokey and the Bandit days, if the Bandit was six inches shorter, fifty pounds heavier, and wore a badge on his gun belt.
“Alright, let’s say for the sake of argument that a bank actually handed you this,” Smokey raises the ten dollar bill confiscated from the taxi driver. “How did you get it, being that you have no proof of identification?”
I watch, hopeless, as he sets the bill back on top of the rest of my confiscated life savings. “I got it before—and I told you, I don’t know where my wallet is.”
“Oh yeah, you said . . . ” he turns his eyes down, scornfully looking into the notes he’s been taking throughout the conversation, “you lost it in or after you got into the crash we have no record of—which coincidentally should have killed you and about a hundred other people, which we also have no record of. Then, you ran from the hospital to see your girlfriend, who you say lives at the house you were attempting to break into. But the man who actually lives there says he’s never heard of this Abigail Winston.” He looks back to me, “Does that sound right?”
“Are you mocking me?”
He squints. “Don’t you think that if there was a pile up like the one you’re describing that I would know about it? Wouldn’t you be soot?”
“Exactly!”
His eyes are wide and wild, though his castigation is given with deadly calm. “I’m done with you.”
He snatches the hospital records and money from the table, stands up and roughly leads me out by the cuffs. I’ve been in this room for hours. I have a million questions and objections—where is he taking me and for how long, why am I the only person who will acknowledge the bus accident, why was I wanted for questioning if it wasn’t about the accident and what in the world makes him think my money is counterfeit? I’ve already given them my date of birth, social security and drivers’ license numbers, so why won’t he just call the bank to verify or run my prints through the DMV database?—But I’m so tired right now, I can’t make myself care enough to complain anymore. My head is foggy. All I want is sleep. I need it.
When they finally get me to a holding cell, I’m able to think up one good question. “What about my phone call?”
He laughs and slams the metal door. The clanging reverb aggravates my headache. I set my hands near the bars, as ordered, and he proceeds with removing the handcuffs.
I’m content to be swept aside like yesterdays newspaper and settle into the small bunk and cover up with the thin sheet. Sleep overtakes me immediately, but I wake often to the sounds of shuffling feet, ringing phones, and conversations near and far.
Some of them are about me. There’s too many voices to differentiate one from another but from what I gather, I’m not the only one baffled by my situation. From the pieces of conversation picked up between blocks of sleep, I decipher that most of the officers have all taken turns “examining” my money. At first I was yelling, telling them to leave the evidence alone, but quickly grew sick of being ignored. At this rate there will be nothing left for me when I get out. I still have no idea what the problem is or what I’ve done to warrant being arrested.
Dad might tell me I just need to be patient, that all of this nonsense should be taken care of by morning.
But still, I can’t help noticing how peculiar the conversations are. Most remarks aren’t even based on why I was carrying such a large amount of cash. Shouldn’t that be the first question: why do you have so much money? Followed by: what are you going to do with it? Yet there are next to zero assumptions of illegal dealings. I first found this comforting, but then it just seemed strange. Most people would assume I was a drug dealer or something.
Contrarily, the comments I’m hearing seem centered on this fascination with the color and quality of the bills, as if they really are fake. It makes me wonder if I really looked at them. I remember taking the bills from the bank teller and putting them into my pocket each time I cashed my paycheck. I saw, but didn’t really look. I had no reason to be suspicious; banks don’t hand out funny money. And wouldn’t I have noticed, while handling them if they looked unusual? Maybe not. I am concussed and haven’t really been able to make out shapes as sharply as usual.
No, I’m sure they’re real.
I think.
Even if I managed to somehow miss the fact that I was carrying around three thousand dollars worth of counterfeit bills, I can’t overlook the situation it’s gotten me into or why an entire group sworn to uphold the law would go to such lengths to mess with me. That makes no sense.
Dad is gonna be pissed, though. I hope he’s alright. I need to call, and soon, before he starts making Jeanine’s life miserable.
After another few hours of tossing and turning I have to sit up. I can’t rest anymore so there’s no use lying down. The clock at the end of the hall says it isn’t even five a.m., though it feels like it should be closer to lunch. I want to scream. Every second in this place feels like an hour. It doesn’t help that the lights are always on and people are filing through every five minutes.
I do feel better, though. My head is much clearer and the prominent lump on the back is not so tender. Still, the clarity that is supposed come with distance is running behind. I don’t want to keep thinking about my extreme turn of luck and try to distract myself with other things.
The work I don’t have.
The home I won’t have much longer.
I don’t think Abi will take me back this time.
My Dad and his freaky predictions.
More frustration is all I get since my life happens to suck at the moment.
I need to shut-off my brain for a while and watch some television. I want to play a game on my phone and listen to music. I want to mindlessly search the internet while blasting the stereo or watch stupid videos of animals acting like humans and play my guitar.
I want. I want. I want everything I cannot have.
I can’t think of anything else, so I work my way off the uncomfortable cot and walk to the bars. All the empty time has me lost. I can’t calm my nerves with a smoke and have no idea what to do with my hands.
Pacing now, I swing my arm, trying out the improved range of motion on my recovering shoulder. As I do, my image in the foggy mirror stops me. It might be just the dull sheen of the polished metal obscuring the finer details but I think my color looks better today. The red blotches in the whites of my eyes seem to have disappeared. The only traces of the accident are the bruises and scrapes on my arms.
The sound of feet shuffling up the hall gives me an idea. I stuff my face between the bars and call out.
“Excuse me!”
A younger looking man in a blue uniform comes into view. He stops and stares with his small, interested eyes.
“Do you allow access to television?”
His cold face lights. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me break things down for you: no, you don’t get to watch TV.” He spins, heading back the direction he came from.
“Wait, please! You have to help—I’m losing my mind in here.”
>
He stops, turns his head to one side in a half-look back. “I hear you lost it before you got here. What do you expect me to do about it?”
“Do you have a magazine or a newspaper? I’d really like to find out what’s happening . . . with my game.”
He turns to look me full in the face. “Which game is that?”
“Football,” I shrug. “Have the Bears started training camp yet?”
His hand automatically touches the collar of his uniform, where sets the small orange pin I noticed just a second before. “You’re a Chicago fan, huh?”
“Of course.”
“You from L.A?”
“Born and raised.”
He laughs, “You really are crazy. Figured you for a Raider fan.” As he’s talking, he walks to a space obscured by a partition and reaches inside. “I hope they get you outta here soon.” He turns back and steps closer, setting a folded newspaper between the bars. “We need the room for the real criminals.”
“Thank you.”
After slightly tipping his hat, he walks back out of sight.
Someone would have to report on a crash that size. It was too big to ignore. I unfold the quartered paper and hungrily search line by line of each section and column. Most of the articles are completely unrelated nonsense. The impromptu probe leaves me with nothing, but just because there isn’t anything in this particular days paper doesn’t mean anything. If I remember right, it’s been about a week. It could be in any number of issues over the last several days. While contemplating on exactly how I might get my hands on other papers, my eyes wander to the upper right corner of the page.
“Aw, what the hell?” I grumble, looking up to see the same young officer is now sitting in front of a desk sipping at an over-filled mug of coffee.
“Hey!” I call.
His hardens. “What now?”
“Where’d you get this, the National Archives?” I hold up the paper pointing to the date, “this paper is nearly twenty years old.”
His thin lips become non-existent with his scowl. “You don’t want it, smart-ass? Fine.” He walks pointedly towards me, snatches the paper, and returns to his chair. Tossing it on the desk, he resumes the former position, now with his back to me.
I’ve met my limit. There’s no way to find what I need when my access to information is so tightly controlled. I have to bite my tongue, though. No need to further irritate my jailer.
A few minutes later, another man comes in. He’s in plain, casual clothing so I can’t tell if he is off duty or a detective, but I know he works here because he’s wearing the standard issue black work shoes and carries himself with the same proud posture embraced by most peace officers. He walks past, completely ignoring me. I am nothing more than a fixture, a picture on the wall. I move closer to the bars hoping to catch a bit of conversation.
The plain-clothed man looks down at the uniformed officer. “Is that the paper, Rookie?”
“Yes, sir, but it’s yesterdays.”
“I don’t care.” He plops into the empty chair behind the desk and takes up the remaining portion to read.
“Are you sure? It’s not good enough for Princess over there.” He points a thumb in my direction and they both turn.
“What are you looking at?” The rookie says, cocking his head to one side. The whites of his eyes glow flaxen under the old track lighting.
Shrinking away from the bars, I intend to make it to the edge of the bunk before sitting but miscalculate, finding the edge of a metal toilet at my back.
“If you puke you better make damn sure it’s NOT on the floor!”
Without a mind to do anything else, I find my way to the bed and lie down.
They’re messing with me. They’ve been acting funny since I got here, playing up the whole crazy thing because I have a concussion. That has to be it.
As soon as the two jokers leave the area, I’m up, searching. There’s a man in an expensive suit pulling a wheely-briefcase. As he makes his way up the corridor, I notice his crooked silk tie has a brown splatter down the front. He reeks of coffee and cologne.
“Excuse me.” He doesn’t look as he passes. “Excuse me, are you a lawyer?”
He stops and turns. “Yes, but I can’t help you.”
“Oh, I don’t need an Attorney.”
He looks at me over the rim of his large squared lenses, gesturing with the movement of his eyes at my surroundings. “No? Are you sure about that?”
I shake my head. “I just need to know today’s date.”
“The thirteenth.”
Sometimes, it’s really difficult to see things that are right in front of you, reason being that you can’t imagine them ever happening; like, not seeing the forest because of all the trees in the way. It’s too close, too ‘in your face,’ to make sense. In this case, there’s a good reason for my blindness, because the reality is simply impossible.
“What month?” I ask.
He carefully examines me. “September.”
My throat tightens. It makes no sense.
Then I get it. “They got to you, too, didn’t they?”
His wide eyes turn doubtful. “Who are ‘they’?”
“Who is the President?”
“Bill Clinton. Are you okay?” The lawyer sets down his load of files and moves out of sight.
In an instant there are people all around, hovering above me in a circle.
“What happened?” Someone asks.
“He asked me the date and when I told him, he started shaking.”
Another voice breaks in; trying to explain something I can’t understand.
This makes no sense. How can it be 1996?
Their voices blend together in a high-pitched racket.
I feel as if I’m floating. My heart is pounding. My lungs feel as if they’ve stopped working. I’m breathing, but find no relief. The room around me is all chaos White noise. A nonsensical chorus pressing me toward a void.
I run to the edge and disappear into the bliss of unconsciousness.
You Can’t Make Me