“Oh wow, Taryn… I’m so sorry.”
Taryn had once again been dethroned, and this time, she hadn’t even gotten accustomed to wearing the new fangled crown.
“So I wasn’t about to let everyone know that today in group… not because I’m ashamed or can’t process it; believe me, I have. It’s because I hate whining about my job, which I hate and love at the same time.” She toyed with her fingernails once again. “If I can’t get a decent gig, a designer to hire me for their show, catalog or advertisement, I will go broke, Frieda.” She threw up her hands in frustration, let them fall fast and slap against her thighs. “I have to take care of myself. I’m a grown woman, and I don’t want anyone’s help to do it! I don’t want any handouts, loans from my friends, or to become a damn charity case. I’m not an invalid! I want to be hired because the photographer or whoever thinks I’m the best woman for the job! It’s…it’s just so frustrating!” She scratched at her forehead as her mood shifted from bad to worse. “My treatment bills are six figures, Frieda! Six damn figures!
“And my health insurance company is dicking me around, trying to weasel out of some of the bills. I’ve had to hire a lawyer and that is costing me an obscene amount. I’m racing through my savings like it’s the hundred-yard dash. Most of these places know I’m desperate now, that I need the gigs, so they propose shit offers for days and days of work with crappy amenities. They want full layouts and spreads, runway shows, editorials—the works—and for me to pay for my flights upfront and hotel and meals, too. That never used to happen to me.” Her eyes narrowed as she recalled the good ol’ days. “They think I’d be happy just to get the measly check they cut, chump change. Sometimes I barely break even.”
“And this scares you because you don’t have control over your income, your career, your livelihood. Thus, you have no control over your stability. I get it, Taryn. I really do. An independent woman like you is suffering in more ways than one.”
“Yes…that’s exactly what’s going on and since my time is running out…” She looked away once more, smiling sadly. “When do I get cut some sort of break, huh? When does the time expire on bad luck and bad times?” She shrugged, her eyes brimming with fresh tears. “It seems good times are always too short, but the bad shit, well…that just lasts forever…”
They were silent for quite some time.
“And where does that leave you, Taryn?”
“Where does it leave me? Stuck. Jammed up.”
“And how do you feel right now?”
“Afraid. I feel very afraid, Frieda.” A lone, slow tear trekked down her freshly made up face. She didn’t swipe it away, ask for a tissue. No, she just let it be free, allowed it to do what it needed to do. “And… and I’m so tired of being scared, too…”
Chapter Two
The place smelled of burnt plastic and the type of perfume old ladies doused themselves in before an early afternoon jaunt to the corner grocery store. Nick stood in the chipped doorway of the place after his partner secured the perimeter. The victim, twenty-five year old Maria Rodriquez, he’d seen a time or two before. Maria’s puffy dark burgundy eyes were practically swollen shut, and her lower lip had ballooned to three times its normal size. On one hip, she carted her eight-month-old daughter about and in her free hand, she held a bottle full of what appeared to be watered down formula, frothy with bubbles.
“He didn’t mean it,” she whispered between blubbery lips that could no longer fully close. He marched past her, ignoring the bullshit bellowing out of her bloody mouth and helped Officer Tomas handcuff the son of a bitch responsible for the ferocious display.
“What type of man are you, huh?” Nick barked. “Beating up on your woman! Your kids are in the goddamn house watching this shit!”
“Maaaan, you don’t know what she did!” the guy screamed out. “And some of that shit I didn’t do to her!” He struggled a bit, trying to plead his case as his legs drooped then bounced about as if he were jimmied from some chain. “She fell! Tell ’em, Maria! Tell ’em the truth!” he hollered out, twisting and turning, the veins in his neck looking like they’d soon burst as he struggled for his damn freedom. The bastard kept right on, putting all of his lying heart into his star blazed performance. “She fucked around on me! She’s uh whore!”
“…Shut up, Miguel.” He snatched his wrists hard; the motherfucker howled in pain and Nick enjoyed his wailing so much, he twisted him a bit harder, and then again, getting off on the encore.
“You got ’em too tight, damn it! You got ’em too damn tight, Nick! Goddamn it! Fuck! Nick, come on, man… come on!”
“Don’t call me by my first name, you piece of shit. Only friends can call me that and no guy that beats up on his wife is a friend of mine!”
“But I’ve known you since—”
“I don’t care how damn long we’ve known each other! You beat the crap outta her. It’s amazing that she’s still standing. I’ve already told you that you and Maria need to leave each other the hell alone.”
“I tried, man.” The guy smirked. “But she loves my lovin’!” His heavily hooded eyes turned to dark slits as a kitschy grin snaked over his face in a twisted sort of way.
“It’s not funny…it’s not even close to funny. The constant arguing, the physical fighting…you’re messing up your kids, Miguel, messing them up bad.”
He turned him towards him, made him look him dead in the eye.
“Be a fuck up on your own time!” Grabbing the man, he hauled his stiff body past Maria who was now leaning against the wall, bawling her bruised eyes out. He paused and stared at her a bit harder, sickened and feeling sorry for her all at once.
“Maria, please,” he stated calmly as Officer Tomas took over and dragged the bastard away like the trash that he was. “Get away from him, okay?” He pointed towards the darkened, graffiti covered hall as the screams for mercy and tainted lies continued to pour out of the coward’s mouth. “One day, he’s gonna kill you… Your kids will have no mother; you are all they really have. They’ll have nobody if you’re dead. Is that what you want?”
She hesitated, looked towards the ground, seemingly a bit self-conscious, vulnerable, then answered in a quiet sort of way, “Por supuesto no.” (Of course not.)
“I’ve seen this too many times to count, Maria. You are headed to one place and one place only: the grave.”
A long time ago, I was once told the same…
She simply stared at him, and he knew he was wasting his time, trying to drill for oil in a well run dry. But he had to say it, for he had to know that he’d tried, didn’t give up on her. “I’ve had to keep kids at the precinct for hours at a time, trying to locate their next of kin or call child protective services so they could get a foster family on the horn. And you know why?” He swallowed a wad of spit, becoming suddenly queasy from her overpowering, cheap fragrance.
Perfume won’t cover the stench of your life, baby…
“Because they had to watch their mother get murdered by their own father or their mother’s boyfriend who decided to snap one fine day. It happens all… the damn… time! You’re not special to this man, Maria!”
She sniveled, wiped another tear away as she ran her hand along her baby’s back.
“You and this man’s relationship isn’t kissed by God! ¿Qué es lo que van a hacer?! (What are you going to do?) You’re not exempt from what really happens with stuff like this, Maria! For your children, if not for you…leave him, and don’t look back. Dios del mayo le ayuda. (May God help you.)” He walked out of there, knowing the two would be back in each other’s arms in a few days…and he and Tomas would be right back at the apartment too, going through the same shit all over again. Only, the next time it may result in a call to the coroner.
He marched out of there, racing down all ten flights of uneven, broken down steps, cursing the malfunctioning elevator the entire way. The blustery air burst against his face like a balloon full of ice, kissing him with the love and hatred of a
cold front that simply wouldn’t take ‘No’ for an answer. He gripped his jacket, zipping it up a bit higher to keep old man winter’s mitts off him, but it was no use. The hoary son of a bitch took his frozen gums and gnawed right through the material, getting down to his stiff bones, licking them clean and leaving everything damn near close to frostbitten in his wake.
“Fuck this fuckin’ snow!” he cursed as he headed to his police car and took a gander at the blowhole in the backseat, not looking even a smidgen remorseful. He daydreamed of driving off somewhere remote, dark and private, maybe to a back alley or near some abandoned building, and fucking up little Miguel real nice and proper. Swallowing down the sordid thoughts, he got into the driver’s seat and looked in the rear view mirror at the slumped over son of a bitch who wore a silly smirk as if he knew a special something, got in on a coveted secret.
“I think you need to battle with a real man…” Nick stated as he pulled away from the curb. “Only pussies beat up on women.”
“Yo, fuck that noise she said, okay?! Women swing, too! Maria ain’t applying for no sainthood ya know, Nick. She runs off at the mouth and she smacked me. She put her hands on me first.”
“Yeah?” He smirked as he regarded him through the rear view mirror. “Well, funny thing is that Maria is about five foot even, and weighs no more than ninety pounds. You are at least five foot eight, and weigh upwards of one-eighty, and not only that, you throw bows on the street practically every weekend. I saw her face you fucker. Even if what you said were true, how does a smack on your face equal that bullshit?!” His anger roiled within him, turning into some toxic, black milkshake in his gut.
“Hey Nick,” Tomas smirked as he readjusted himself in his seat. “Settle down. He’ll be with us again and we’ll get our chance.”
“Chance for what?” The man didn’t miss a beat. He hopped on the slightly veiled threat like a flea in a circus.
“Oh, you’ll see. Hit her again, and we’ll make sure you find out ASAP.” Nick grinned, no doubt his teeth gleaming like white lights strewn across the miserable town. He was a sly fox on the prowl and he wanted nothing more than to draw blood from a lousy bastard that deserved it. Miguel fit the bill. The fucker slumped further back in his seat, drew quiet, almost disappearing from sight. When they arrived at the jail, Nick jumped out the car and snatched him up by the arm so hard, the asshole hollered out as if he’d been snapped in two.
I could only wish…
“Ohhh, did that hurt?” He grinned a bit harder as he dragged the dirt bag into the place, dropped him off like the sack of shit that he was. He wanted to punch him in the middle of his pathetic face, furious he had to fill out another report; more damn paperwork because of him.
He didn’t have one stinking cut! Not one damn bruise!
She refused to go to the hospital…
She stood there looking like something forgotten in a meat locker on a hot, summer day. Jesus!
As minute after minute sailed past, Nick typed away, feeling a wave of irritability that wasn’t easy to shake. He found himself itching for much wanted relief, needed to break away. He’d seen too many domestic violence victims to count, but for some reason, this one tore him up a bit more inside. Maybe it was because Miguel didn’t give a shit, danced around his responsibility, played the role of victim and exonerated himself; or maybe because Maria looked so much like Ma… So much so, when he’d first seen the woman long ago, he literally gasped…
His jaw tensed as he pounded the keyboard:
Name: Miguel H. Vega Sex: Male
Birthdate: March 28th, 1987…
He needed to get away, get done…
Get right…get down…get high…
Please…
He pleaded with his damn self. Begged himself to stay cool as he went through the contrived motions. He kept on, working through it, convincing himself it wasn’t so bad, but then, tickling pools of sweat gathered around his brow and his face turned him into a clammy mess and his head fogged, constrained by his own sordid thoughts. Twenty-five minutes later, the report was done and he was none sooner on his unsteady feet, stating he wasn’t feeling well. Captain O’Sullivan took a slow steady look at him, up and down, dawdling, dragging out the moment.
“Yeah, you don’t look so hot,” he finally conceded, his lips parted and short, fat tongue darted out. He placed his large, heavy hand on his shoulder. “Ya sick?”
“Yeah.” Nick nodded as his keyed-up body tried to rat him out. “Ate some bad chili, I think.”
“That’ll do it every time. Go home. See you in the morning. Get some rest.” The man turned away, leaving him feeling like a big ass pile of fresh steaming shit. He’d never lied to the face of his boss before. This was a new all time low. He’d looked that man in the damn eye and laid a story on him; he hated himself a bit more for the whole damn situation. He’d always been able to contain himself, to wait until he got home to jump into his stash and relax for the evening.
The blow was his nightcap, the thing that calmed his mind and nerves just so. If he missed a week or two, that was fine; he wasn’t wired for a fix, but the alcohol—well, that was a whole ’nother matter altogether. He had to drink. It had to happen morning and night and if he got the chance, he’d sneak an afternoon taste or two in a bathroom stall, too. It had become part of his routine during fits of registered exhaustion. He’d jam himself in the back of some hole in the wall covered in thick, gang related writings as the stench of old, funky piss crawled up his nose like a maggot and burrowed there, making him sick to his goddamn stomach…
…but it was worth it.
By the time Nick arrived home that evening, he had no recollection of how he’d made it there. He drove, but the streets, sounds and people were mere moving blurs and distant murmurs never to be recalled again. He fumbled and cursed out his shaking hands as he dropped his keys several times in the omnipresent snow. Finally getting his bearings, he burst into his place as if it were a police raid on his own goddamn self. Several minutes later he had downed three sizeable glasses of vodka and snorted one line of premium cocaine to top it off, make himself forget, come down a bit, make everything alright. He turned on his tunes. The Police’s, ‘Roxanne’ began to play. It soothed him somewhat, the music of long ago; however, some of the tetchy, disconcerting images from earlier in the work day held tight to him like lint balls on an old, forgotten Christmas sweater. Maria’s face kept flashing in his mind, haunting him…
Ma, who did this to you? Who hurt you? Maria, did Miguel do this? I’m gonna kick his ass, Ma. I mean, Maria…
The heated confusion spread across his brain like fungus. He was hell bent on flushing it away for good.
Roooxxxaaannne! You don’t have to put on the red light! The music droned…
The brand spanking new beauteous bottle of Patron he’d just purchased the night before—or was it last week?—called his name. Just what the Devil in the details ordered. He poured a tall glass of the stuff, prompting the deliquescent gates of heaven to creek open right before his soon-to-be bloodshot eyes. He drowned in the hallucinogenic clutches of the rapture until his face numbed and his body morphed into nothingness.
Calm after the internal storm.
He had more where that came from and now, he no longer cared.
From a sweet heat, mellow and warm, his cells incubated and cared for one another with the sweetest kisses delivered via inebriation. A few moments later, he was back in his bedroom, hyped and ready to roll. The shit in the room grew vast wings and spun around him like tiny rock star angels, making him laugh with spirit manufactured mirth. He continued to burst out in fits of deranged laughter, his eyes glossing over in strange delight. He swiped at his nose, removing the chalky residue, as if he wanted to look presentable for no one in particular. Lying back on his bed in his uniform, he tossed his police hat across the bed like a newspaper from the paperboy’s route. He felt like a mountain that couldn’t be moved.
My name is Officer Nick Vitale,
and I’m a spectacular motherfucker! The motherfucking greatest!
Fuck the world! None of you appreciate SHIT!
Fuck Miguel and everyone else, too!
He shifted back and forth, casting his arms into the air as if in a boxing ring with a million and one opponents.
Fuck Santiago for killing my best friend! Fuck Dad for never showing his rotten face! I didn’t need you anyway! I don’t need NOBODY!
…Fuck everyone who said he’d be nothing but a petty, two-bit half Wop, half Jabaro son of a bitch. A crooked thief who tore up the Brownsville streets as if he had scissors for feet!
Fuck!
Them!
All!
His high began to even out, and his anxiety dissipated as several more minutes passed, rendering him finally still after his violent, albeit brief outburst.
Silent.
He could barely move, but his thoughts turned sensual and hedonistic nevertheless. Sumptuous contemplations took over. He curled his hand over his thickening cock, deciding to get the motherfucker some service as his deviant deliberations turned more and more sexual, borderline perverted. Before he could fumble about and make the call for some pussy delivery on speed dial, his cellphone rang, interrupting his internal proposals.
“Yeah?” he answered after two failed attempts to grip the damn thing with a steady hand.
“Hey, you still sick?” Officer Tomas questioned, his slightly nasally voice piercing the line. “I hope not, Nick, ’cause you won’t believe this shit.”
“What do ya mean? What’s going on?” He ran his hand roughly through his hair, messing it up, trying to massage himself sober so he could follow what the hell was being said.
In the Nick of Time Page 5