Triptych

by David Castlewitz

  "A couple of showers," Potter said, and smiled. He kissed Ginny's cheek. "And a bit more just in case you need it."

  Something flashed in the corner of the All-Pod's screen just as the "Transfer Complete" message displayed in large block letters. He glanced at the circle of light. A memo icon. Something to check on later. For now, he had a smiling and happy Ginny to enjoy for a few hours before going home to his boring wife and impudent child.

  After a late morning meal at a retro-styled cafeteria in the basement of an indoor mall, they walked to a small park with a playground where a score of toddlers bounced on an inflated mat, screamed as they careened down a slide, giggled on the swings, and played loud games of tag on the cushioned walkway surrounding the area. Nannies and mothers and a few elderly grandparent-types sat on the benches, many merely watching the kids, but a few engaging in low-key conversation.

  "Ever have any interest in getting one of those?" Potter asked Ginny, nodding in the direction of some children taking turns on a swing.

  "No," Ginny said, without following his gaze. She turned to the park's exit.

  "If you got married," Potter said, "you wouldn't have to live like you do."

  "Are you proposing? Ain't you married? With a daughter?"

  "I'm speaking... in general. Generally. If you changed your lifestyle, things would be different."

  Ginny shrugged. "Mom wanted me to put myself on the circuit. Take a husband. Be comfortable. As though she'd been so comfortable." Ginny sighed loudly. "Something to think about."

  "I wouldn't want to lose you, but -- " Potter stopped himself from saying anything more. They never talked to one another about these things. He never discussed Lydia with her. She never brought up the subject of marriage or lifestyle or anything important. Except for a job and an apartment. So long as she had those things, Potter assumed she was happy.

  "What am I gonna do if I have to work? I mean, actually work. I ain't never done that."

  "I'm sure it's not much of a job," Potter said, and took her hand and walked her back to her apartment building.

  "I'll let you know how the interview goes," Ginny said when they parted. She pulled away. He held onto her hand. She snapped back towards him and he kissed her on the lips. A cold kiss. A practiced kiss that lacked any real meaning.

  She glided into her apartment building, past the guard at the front desk. Potter wondered what he'd done to make her unhappy. Where was the warm passion she usually displayed? Where was the grateful and playful child-of-a-woman he enjoyed? Too worried about the future, he concluded as he watched her disappear from view. But once she had a job and her future secured she'd be his playful companion again.

  At the tram stop near the apartment building, Potter waited for the elevated train. Passersby threw him curious glances. His uniform always drew second and third looks. Sometimes he stared back with a practiced bulldog sort of look, forehead furrowed, eyes narrowed, lips set in a half-scowl. He laughed, though not out loud, when some low-level office functionary scurried away, obviously frightened.

  He checked his buzzing personal All-Pod and found a message from Lydia. Supper plans. Hers. Which meant he had to take care of Carol when she came home from school. Another message, the one he'd noted earlier, told him to report to personnel before starting his next shift. Wondering why police business appeared on his personal account, he checked his work Pod and found the same message. Obviously, some officious clerk wanted to make sure he didn't miss anything.

  Promotion? he wondered. Not likely. They probably wanted to add a couple of recruits to his border patrol squad. Though that was handled by the precinct captain. Maybe somebody complained about something. The personnel department needed him as a witness Or they needed his testimony in defense.

  He didn't remember any incidents that might raise a complaint. Some rough handling of protestors during the riots, perhaps, but that was normal.

  Clarkson. Of course. Did he file a complaint? That was ludicrous. Clarkson had too much to hide, too much to protect.

  #

  The rally yard lay empty under the bright flood lights, all of the three-wheeled trikes, the squad cars and the trucks parked four deep in front of the repair shops. When Potter stopped to ponder what this meant, a loudspeaker squealed and then a voice erupted telling him -- as well as other police entering the compound -- to keep moving. Officers streamed out from inside the building, arms pumping, legs moving, heads down. On a catwalk fronting the sally port, armed men and women in red jumpsuits emerged from inside. They carried short barrel rail guns. Stun grenades in their utility belts. Potter couldn't make out the insignia on their shoulder patches, but he guessed the force came from a private security firm.

  Inside the building, police stood listlessly against the walls. Two long lines streamed from the door marked "Personnel." The lines wound around the corridor and into the cafeteria. This was more than some civilian's complaint that called Potter to personnel. Eyes down, he took his place at the end of the line, which clung to the cafeteria's perimeter. Nobody kept order. The men and women in line policed themselves.

  They shuffled along when the line began moving. Potter walked a few feet ahead, but then stopped. Minutes later, he resumed walking. When he exited the cafeteria and then reached the corridor leading directly to Personnel, he saw how things had been organized. A few police were allowed into the office. A dozen at a time? Perhaps more.

  Someone cursed at the closed Personnel Office door. Someone else jumped out of line and began shouting about Municipal Management. Potter paid no attention to the two. Most everyone in line paid scant attention as well. If the precinct was closing down, perhaps he'd be reassigned. Maybe this is part of a consolidation. Why risk getting fired for making waves? Wait. Find out more. Tread lightly.

  He moved along. Until he reached the office door, where he stood with his arms folded across his chest. Soon, he walked into the spacious office. He'd been there before. For a promotion. For a certificate of good conduct. For an interview with a field office psychologist, the reason of which he'd never been told.

  The desks were arranged along one part of the spacious room. Like a barricade. Armed guards in red stood at both ends of the desks. A lieutenant, two commanders and the precinct captain stood behind the desks. A couple of silent clerks walked amongst the police gathered in the office and collected badges and expandable steel batons, official All-Pods and insignia pins.

  "You're all wondering," the captain intoned, "what's going on." He sounded weary from having to repeat his speech. "Three precincts have been consolidated. We thank you for your service."

  "You can't just fire the whole force," someone shouted.

  "We haven't," the captain said, his voice lacking the vigor he projected so many other times Potter heard him speak. "A small percentage of you are moving on to the new precinct."

  "Then why take our badges and clubs?"

  "Those of you to be rehired will be contacted." The captain signaled and a door opened. Two lines of security men waited on the other side of that door. The men and women in the office shuffled out, slipped single file between the armed men, and followed other guards into an empty garage and then out into the street outside HQ.

  Everyone milled about, gathered at the benches on the plaza fronting the main entrance, or stood around outside the garage or wandered to the end of the street and grouped in small circles of ex-colleagues and friends.

  Potter stood alone. He looked for the men from his squad, but didn't see anyone. A few of the police that he knew passed, but no one stopped when he called to them. He sauntered over to group gathered around a picnic table on the grassy knoll skirting the flagstone plaza. Everyone ignored him while they talked about what had happened, everyone speaking at the same time.

  The crowd grew. So did the noise level. Potter expected to see the private guards shepherding everyone away. But that didn't happen. Instead, the garage doors closed, falling into place with a thump; and, soon after, most ever
yone walked to the shuttle buses that usually collected at the end of a shift. Night workers from the precinct as well as police normally congregated at the bus stop, and sometimes food trucks pulled up to take advantage of the swell of activity.

  Tonight, the police quietly moved from the street to the bus; or from the garage to a paved walkway that took they away from the precinct building. Potter found himself walking with others, hands in his pockets, a tram station twinkling in the light of the flood lamps shinning from curved posts high above.

  He looked back at the tall buildings in the plaza. A feeling of abandonment overcame him, saddened him, and then confused him.

  He went home.

  He didn't tell Lydia what had happened. Why wake her with bad news. He lay beside her. A faint odor of wine seeped from her body. She smelled of tobacco, too. He took a deep whiff of the scents drifting from her open mouth, her bare skin -- she slept naked under a thin blanket -- and prepared himself for whatever accusations she'd throw his way come morning.

  Like his mother used to hurl at his father whenever he found himself unemployed. Though he'd never had to endure an exile outside the city, Potter experienced the terror of jobless parents and the prospect of life Outside throughout his youth. Dad lost one job after another, even those he held for what to a young Kyle Potter seemed like years.

  "When do you find out about the rehire?" Lydia asked after he told her what had happened and what the captain had said.

  Carol sat in her chair on the other side of the kitchen table, her back to the wall. Her slate lay to one side of her bowl of cereal and she seemed oblivious to the adult conversation as she studied whatever lesson or video or cartoon played out on the screen. But soon she removed her ear buds and tapped the slate's screen, which stopped flickering, evidently now paused.

  "Are we going Outside?" Carol asked.

  "Did you hear what we were saying?" Lydia said, a spasm of shock spreading across her narrow face,

  "Enough to know what's going on. Which, I assume, you don't want to share with me. Considering my age and all."

  Potter wondered where this baffling twelve-year-old came from. He hadn't been like that as a child. Not that he remembered. He didn't think the shy kid Lydia had once been ever reached such a level of early maturity. How did they produce a child like Carol?

  "Don't worry," Lydia said. "Daddy'll get a new job."

  Carol shrugged, resumed spooning her cereal, but didn't return to whatever she'd paused on her slate. "Do they have schools Outside?"

  "Yes." Lydia looked to Potter.

  "Not like your school," he said. "But don't worry. If I can't get reassigned with the police there's always private security work."

  "You're too fat and too old," Carol said. Now she put the buds back in her ears and restarted whatever she'd been watching.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Potter saw Lydia's smile. She indulged the child, let her say whatever she wanted, let her be outspoken, as though that was cute or attractive.

  "I'm not old," Potter muttered, though, now that he thought about it, private security usually hired kids right out of school. Police followed a similar practice. He'd been with the municipal force for close to twenty years, having joined right after graduation.

  "Will you find something?" Lydia asked after Carol dashed out of the kitchen to catch the school bus. Her question broke a long silence.

  "I got somebody I can talk to," Potter said.

  #

  At the City Center office buildings, Potter found his lack of uniform and badge stopped him. He couldn't bypass the guards and ride the elevator. He couldn't just walk in, just enter the building and use his authority to go wherever he wanted. He was barred, sent to stand in the paved promenade between the buildings, in the cold air, hands in his pockets, his cloth coat flapping around his stubby legs. He watched the entrance to the center building, Plaza Three, where Clarkson worked. Inwardly, he fumed.

  He drifted backwards, back to the curved plastic benches usually crowded at lunchtime with gossiping office workers, or filled with people having business in the office buildings and waiting for their appointment times; or men and women taking a morning break, buying pastries and coffee and other foodstuffs from the vendors that plied their trade on the plaza.

  Odd, but no vendors today. A few people waiting for appointments, Potter surmised, and counted a total of seven sitting on the benches. When the police arrived and formed up on either side of the center building's entrance, making a corridor of body-length plastic shields, batons raised, Potter instinctively moved to the edge of the plaza. He stood at a railing. Below, in an alley leading to a basement door, more police jumped from a truck that pulled up and screeched to a halt. The uniformed men and women poured into the building.

  Another round of layoffs, Potter thought. Soon, his conjecture was confirmed by a trickling stream of office personnel exiting Plaza Three. Police stood guard at Plaza Two as well and the revolving doors to that building's lobby suddenly swelled with a crush of workers exiting quietly, though some not so gently. They pushed one another, barged outside. Side doors that accommodated wheelchairs and scooters opened. People clogged the marble steps leading to another set of doors. At Plaza Three, the office workers congregated not far from the police cordon.

  Potter recognized Clarkson's receptionist. She looked angry. She carried a plastic box, both hands slipped into the grips cut into the material. Mementos formerly decorating her desk and cabinets overflowed to the edges of the box and when she stumbled, jarred by the crowd, she struggled to keep things from fall out.

  Potter closed in on her. She gasped when she saw him.

  "What about Clarkson?" Potter asked.

  "What about him?" the woman said, her dark eyes flashing. "He can't do anything for me and he certainly won't do anything for you."

  "He's being reassigned?"

  The woman snickered. "He's out on his butt like the rest of us. They're closing down, consolidating. I don't know. Last I saw him, he was sitting at his desk with that stupid stunned look he gets when he doesn't understand something."

  She pushed past Potter, the edge of the plastic box digging into his arm. He moved aside to let her pass. If he waited, maybe he'd find Clarkson. With his important position, he'd be given a hand truck to wheel away his personal belongings. He wouldn't just be thrown out of his job. But so what? Potter fumed inside. Clarkson wasn't going to help him now. He probably couldn't even help himself.

  The police swarmed a gang of laid off workers that had started chanting "Jobs, jobs, give us jobs," as though that were the anthem of the newly unemployed. Ludicrous, Potter thought. Anyone chanting anything became a target for arrest. He'd been drilled in how to handle these things and now he watched as the police clubbed and pushed and kicked to stifle the riot before it began.

  He walked away from the plaza. He mingled with the former employees, some of whom carried plastic or cardboard boxes full of personal items. All trash, Potter thought. Digital photo-frames, funny looking toys probably made by children, rolled up posters, and other bric-a-brac. As good as trash because most of the people surrounding him as he left the plaza would wind up Outside with no place to display these old keepsakes.

  The tram station near the Center Plaza overflowed with waiting passengers. So did the nearest bus station. And the line at the private limo service was not its usual orderly self. It didn't snake from the curb to the parkway behind it. No municipal employees -- starters -- handled the crowd, herding them to waiting cars, packing the taxies full before they departed. There were no starters. No doubt, they'd been let go, too.

  Potter walked. He didn't want to face Lydia. She'd blame him for not planning ahead. Ginny would be sympathetic. He'd helped her. She had that interview. She'd get the job Clarkson had arranged before he lost his own. She'd be fine. And thankful. He looked forward to her thankful kisses, her caress, the feel of her thanking him and thanking him and easing the pain he felt inside.

  The wal
k tired him. The wind buffed his bare head. Harbinger of winter, the gusts made loose paper and splinters of wood spiral in an odd dance, and then collapse when the air stilled. Potter calculated that he'd be tossed Outside just before spring returned. But after the worse of the winter. That would make it easier. He wouldn't have to deal with snow and ice and freezing rain while establishing himself outside the city walls.

  Or he could go underground, stay in the city and chance that he wouldn't be discovered before he found a legitimate job. If he found one. A big if.

  In the back of his mind he heard Lydia chiding him for being a defeatist. Hands in his pants pockets, coat collar turned up to protect his thick neck, thin brown coat tight around his squat frame, he plowed on, head down. He squelched all thought of moving Outside. He'd find something new. There'd be the work exchanges to check. He still had his All-Pod accounts and access to notices for retired and laid off cops. He had resources besides Clarkson.

  If necessary, he could try to get a meeting with Jake Stern. That guy always needed guards and assistants, gofers mostly. He'd lower himself if he had to, if it meant keeping Lydia and Carol safe. He had Ginny, too. She relied on him. There were too many people in his life that he couldn't let down.

  A motorbike with a sidecar pulled alongside him. "Five ogres," the rider announced. "Or three V-Rings. No script, though."

  Potter stopped. Tall apartment buildings surrounded him. They were all alike. Seven stories, wide double doors reached by ersatz granite steps. He still had a few blocks to go before he'd get to Ginny's.

  "Two ogres. I'm just going up that way."

  "Ain't a negotiation."

  "I'll walk."

  "Three then. Hop in."

  Potter stepped into the side car and settled himself in the cushioned seat. He pulled out his All-Pod to pay the fare, but the rider, feet firm on the ground as he straddled the saddle, shook his head. He wanted plastic tokens. Potter dug into his side pockets and found two plastic ogres, each emblazoned with the head of a monster on one side and a big "one" on the other.