Fall from Grace

by Wayne Arthurson

  This went on for a couple days or so and I usually left the paper at a decent hour. Even so, by the time I stepped out of the front doors, it was usually already dark and the cold had settled in for the night. Even though there was no snow on the ground and it was still officially fall, winter was making its move. The air was biting, and the wind gnawed at the skin. Still, the night sky was clear, many of the stars still visible even with the light of downtown. I walked through the streets, hunched over, cursing the wind and thanking the stars for my decision to wear long underwear.

  Nonetheless, I mentally kicked myself for forgetting a toque; having my head covered would have made a difference. I also yearned for and at the same time did not want the falling of the first snow. A first snow would not only bring a bit of warmth to the air, it would also finally relieve me of this misery of waiting. Until it snowed, this cold would drive the city crazy because there was always a lingering hope. But, if the snow came too early then we could be stuck with months upon months of the white stuff, and by the time March came around, we would be sick of it, the yearning for color in our lives so powerful that many would book a trip to a more tropical clime or, if we couldn’t afford that, take to watching golf on TV to get a remembrance of the colors of summer.

  This night I didn’t stop across the street from the casino. I had arrived at a point where its presence no longer tempted me so I trudged past it and out of downtown, making my way through the vast open lot between 104th and 105th streets.

  They were waiting for me in the middle, a spot in the field where the lack of light created a zone of darkness. The car was unmarked but, with its four doors and black unwhitewalled tires, it was obviously a police car.

  The two cops who climbed out of it were in plainclothes and pretty nondescript, about thirty or so, not too big, not too small. But they moved with that typical police swagger that showed they were not only quite comfortable with the power of their authority, they got a big charge out of it. And even though it was night, they both wore large aviator sunglasses that covered not only their eyes but their eyebrows and the tops of their cheeks.

  These guys weren’t just police officers, they were Cops with an emphasis on the capital C. There’s a big difference between police officers and Cops. Even between cops and Cops. Police officers and small c cops are relatively good people; all civilians no matter where they live or how much money they have, are treated equally across the board. They don’t swagger, and if they wear sunglasses, they take them off when inside or at night.

  Cops with a capital C swagger as much as possible, and get a hard-on from their authority, using it to push people around. The guys that beat Rodney King in L.A. were Cops. Those guys who were on Gardiner’s list of EPS members who liked to coerce prostitutes to provide them with special services and party favors for their friends were big C Cops.

  As they walked toward me, I said nothing. With Cops it’s best if you keep quiet because they are looking for any excuse to make things difficult. As is typical when any police approach a subject, these two split left and right, one moving toward me while the other hung back.

  I stopped, instinctively taking my hands out of my pockets to show I had nothing to hide. Despite their swagger, I wasn’t worried too much about these guys. I figured they were probably looking for some homeless person to roust, and once I made them aware that I was just another working citizen, they would probably let me go, maybe with a warning that I was taking my life into my hands by walking through such a dark, dangerous area at this time of night. That feeling wouldn’t last.

  “Took you long enough,” the first cop said, the one who was closer to me. “We’ve been waiting for about an hour and a half for you to show.”

  “Yeah, that’s not very considerate of you, especially since it’s a cold night,” said the second cop, hitching his belt like some dime-store sheriff. “You must have been working late, writing lies about good police officers just trying to do their job, am I right?”

  My body started to shake and my heart pounded. It was damn cold out but I could feel my head getting hot and my forehead starting to sweat. Any thought that this was a random encounter disappeared. I was being targeted and there were only two ways to deal with this: run or face them down. I wasn’t that good a runner so I figured since these guys were so much into power, I could probably turn it on them. I did my best to temper my shakiness.

  “This is a big mistake, fellas,” I said, hoping that my voice wasn’t cracking. “I’m not some nameless street person that you can push around. I’m someone with standing in the community, someone with a name, and if you think I can be intimidated by your Gestapo tactics, it’s not going to work.”

  I wasn’t sure what kind of reaction my tone would cause; in my mind I hoped they would back down, or after a few minor threats on my character, they would leave. I never expected laughter. It wasn’t pleasant laughter but that kind bullies use when they’re having fun but no one else around them is. The first cop looked over his shoulder to the other one. “He thinks we’re trying to intimidate him,” he said. “That’s a laugh because intimidation is the farthest thing from our minds.”

  “Yeah, nobody is here to intimidate anyone.”

  My reaction was mixed. I relaxed slightly because of their words but at the same time, the situation was still tense and threatening. “That’s good to hear because this is not the way civilized people operate. If there’s a problem, you should take it up with my superiors ’cause, like you, I’m only doing my job.”

  “You’re nothing like us,” the second cop said sharply, “because unlike you, our profession is an honorable one. We don’t spend our time figuring out how to ruin the reputation of fine public servants.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way but I’m just doing my job, trying to make the world a better place.”

  The first cop smiled. “Well, that’s a coincidence ’cause that’s exactly what we’re trying to do, make the world a better place. And one way we can do that is to take care of people like you.” He stepped forward, hands on hips.

  I should have run when I had the chance. I stepped back, tripped on something, and fell on my butt. The cops laughed and the second one stepped away from his car. Both of them moved toward me.

  “You guys are making a big mistake, “ I stammered. “I won’t be intimidated.”

  The first cop stopped about five feet from me and knelt. He rubbed his nose with the back of his wrist and spit on the ground in front of me. “You really must be stupid because I keep telling you and you’re not getting it: We’re not here to intimidate you, you fucker, am I right?”

  There was a pause, about a few seconds, but it felt like eternity. The second cop reached to his belt to pick up what I expected to be cuffs. I figured that they would take me in roughly, figure out some lame charge like loitering or say I looked drunk and disorderly, and when they tried to help me, I got abusive, hold me for a few hours and then let me go.

  I was about to say something again about this being a mistake and then I saw the second cop wasn’t holding cuffs, he had a square box that had two red LED lights shining toward me. I tilted my head and squinted to get a better look. I thought they were about to take my photo, and the lights were to eliminate the red eye from the flash. A second later there was a pop, like someone pulling a cork out of a wine bottle, and then two small mosquitolike stings hit me in the chest. A second later, a charge of power surged through my body, another blast of light, but this time in my brain, not in front of my eyes.

  At first I thought I was having a heart attack, but any conscious and conventional thoughts evaporated as every muscle and nerve in my body burst to life, exploding in a ruthless, agonizing jolt that caused me to jerk like a fish dropped onto the deck of a boat. The pain came an instant later, intense and relentless, tearing me apart from the inside.

  I screamed for it to stop, a harrowing howl of anguish, but there was no sound. My brain tried to flee into a protective fissure but ther
e was no place to hide. I was trapped, held against my own will by my own body in a hellish universe of pain and torture. The last thing I noticed was my bladder losing control and warm liquid running down my left thigh.

  33

  Lights … first bright white, then muted, as I was moved into a tunnel or placed in a cell. Voices, maybe … yes … loud, as if they were right next to me, grunting with effort but laughing, giggling actually, like children when they know they’ve done something wrong, but don’t care. There was no real body sensation, mostly just light and sound. And when it became dark, the voices became muted and hushed. And rushed. Like they were in a hurry. And then, seconds later, they came back, loud, in the cell or whatever, with me.

  I couldn’t move, couldn’t really think. My brain was a swirl of thoughts, a surrealist’s dream of colors, lights, noise, voices, ideas, but none of them really staying for long. I recalled Dad for a brief second, lying in bed, unable to move, unable to communicate for months after his stroke, and realized that this was what he must have felt, this was his world for a time.

  There was a body, I knew that, and there was a memory of how it worked, how that hand moved, how to scratch that leg or say that phrase or turn my neck, but there had to be a short somewhere, because I could no longer do those things. The only thing I could do was watch and wait, and hope it would all come back. And even though something told me that there had been violence of some kind to get me in this state, just like the sudden onset of Dad’s stroke, I didn’t feel threatened. The violence was over, it seemed, replaced by lights and some sound.

  I was calm, probably because I was focusing on an image of my mother, who had cared for my dad, even though she said she never would, during those difficult months.

  She played the martyr to the hilt, telling the world that her toil and suffering was worse than Dad’s stroke, and she was probably right in some respects. We were all out of the house by then, and for six months or so, Mom took care of Dad as if he was a newborn baby. The rock of our lives, Mom was, and she fed him and carried him, changed him and cleaned him, and watched him regain his body like the arrival of a prairie spring, a thaw so gradual and sluggish that one day seemed indistinguishable from the next, but suddenly there was melting that you never noticed before and a lessening of weight, as you realized that you’d been peeling away layers without paying attention. I was sure that I would follow my dad and regain my body; I just had to be patient and await the release.

  Motion.

  The sensation surprised me when I became aware of it. First a few quick jerks, a small climb, and then a steady rolling, my balance shifting left and right from time to time. It was darker now, only lines of light, bright ships of radiance speeding by us, above in the heavens. The voices talked briefly, a language I knew I should understand but couldn’t. The words were like the traits of a close friend, but I could no longer place the face. After a while, the voices stopped, and I watched the ships of lights moving above us.

  The tingling started in my extremities, the tips of my toes and fingers, and spread through my body. That sensation you get when you fall asleep on your arm or your hand, and then awaken, was being experienced by my body. My muscles tweaked and twitched, recouping their lives and testing their limits. The edges of my vision were blurry, but there was enough clear focus in the center to determine my location: I was lying on the backseat of a car, a sheet of cold plastic pressing into my chin. We were still in the city; I could tell by the streetlights passing overhead. I could see the tops of two heads over the edge of the front seat, silhouettes in the dark, behind a sheet of Plexiglas that stretched across the entire width of the car.

  “Jesus Christ!” I shouted, and jerked to a sitting position. My head whirled, the lights started spinning, and a surge of nausea assaulted my stomach. I doubled over, retching, heaving. Only a trickle of burning stomach acid and drool dripped out of my mouth.

  “Son of a bitch,” a harsh male voice shouted. “If you get anything on that fucking seat, you’re going to get another taste of the Taser.”

  “Relax, man,” said another voice, this one older and more relaxed. “Sounds like only dry heaving to me. It’s got to be expected, remember when we got Tased? That’s why I put the plastic in the backseat so it’ll be easy to clean up once we’re finished with this fucker.”

  The retching stopped and I could see and feel that clear plastic covered the entire seat. It was clipped onto small plastic hooks along the door and the edge of the seats to keep things in place. I sat up, saw the equipment underneath the dash, the glass separating the front and back, and the short hair of the driver and the one riding shotgun.

  I looked outside, it was still dark, and we were driving through an industrial area, the long, low buildings of various businesses stretching to nowhere, the gestalt breaking only when we drove over a railway track. All the lights were off and the roads were deserted. My heart dropped as in a roller coaster. I fell back onto the seat, horrified and resigned, yet glad it wasn’t a weekend.

  * * *

  Picking up undesirables such as the homeless, drunks, the mentally ill, and others, driving them around for a while only to abandon them at the edge of town or in an isolated part of the city, was a time-honored tradition of the Canadian police establishment. It saved on time and paperwork for the cops involved because they could administer punishment to a troublemaker without the bureaucratic hassle of filing charges and running somebody through the system.

  For those on the receiving end of this treatment, the consequences varied. For many, it was only a frustrating, time-consuming experience because the police knew that for these people, most of the services they used were located in the central part of the city, and for someone to hike back was fucking annoying and tiring, especially in a city like Edmonton. The population of our fine prairie city might be barely a million folks when you include suburban communities like Sherwood Park and St. Albert. But without an ocean, mountains, or any other natural barrier preventing its expansion, Edmonton was one of the biggest cities, at least in area, in North America, bigger than Chicago, Toronto, or Philadelphia. So having to walk from an industrial zone in the boonies to downtown was no stroll in the park. Especially in the middle of the night when there was no transit running.

  But for others, this kind of treatment led to more dire consequences. A couple of summers ago, some cops with a paddy wagon picked up random homeless folks along Whyte Avenue, Edmonton’s hip bar and retail district, and drove these folks around for several hours, with no air-conditioning, food, or water, the outside temperature hitting 32 degrees Celsius. Only when some lady in a suburb complained about a group of homeless people walking through her neighborhood did the city discover that this practice was routine. But despite the heat stroke and dehydration, those guys were lucky.

  In Saskatoon a few years ago, a couple of constables made it a regular practice to pick up street people who were causing trouble and drop them off in an industrial zone. At first, everyone was surprised to find a couple of homeless guys frozen to death so far from downtown, and thought that someone, a bunch of kids was the typical thought, was targeting the homeless and taking them for rides.

  Only when another street person recalled seeing one of the victims in the back of a police car did some people realize that it was the police who were doing the targeting, not civilians. And even though two people died as a result of these police actions, none of the constables involved was charged with a major crime. They were given some minor slap on the wrist.

  So there was nothing I could say to these cops now. Pleading and begging wouldn’t make any difference to these guys. And with the weather having turned cold, I was in big trouble. Again. The only small consolation was that if something happened to me, it wouldn’t be my fault this time. And maybe that would help my kids, Eileen and Peter, feel a bit better when they found out I was dead. I sure hoped so.

  Instead of being a pathetic homeless fuck, freezing to death on the streets like
I almost did a few years ago, I would be a murder victim. There would be no shame because it wasn’t my fault, and maybe, I hoped, somewhere or sometime in their lives, they would feel a need for justice. At least they would have that little bit. It wasn’t much, but it made me feel less afraid. Less angry.

  The car drove on for a few more blocks, and just before a large, empty field, it made a left turn. I tried to spot a road sign, to get a sense of where I was in the city, but I was unable to do so. I could have been in any of the industrial areas of city. There were several in Edmonton, in each quadrant of the city, but because of the dark, the identical buildings all around, and the fact that I normally stuck to the central parts of the city, I had no idea where I was. I could be anywhere.

  The road near the field continued for a few kilometers until it ended in a T intersection. The car turned right. Most of the strip-mall type buildings were behind us, leaving only large work yards, surrounded by high fences that were topped by barbed wire. I spotted a few gates, but they all seemed to be locked. I was a long way from anything that I could break into, on a two-lane road, with deep ditches on either side.

  The area was completely open to the wind, with no buildings to hide behind, nothing to protect me. In normal weather, I could probably have walked the few kilometers to the strip mall area, broken into one of the businesses, called 911, and waited in the heated building for the police to respond to the break-and-enter call. But it was at least minus 20 degrees Celsius, not as cold as it could get in the dead of winter here, but it was enough, especially with the wind-chill. I would last an hour, maybe less, since I didn’t have my jacket, only a sweater, and no gloves or toque.

  Where did I lose those? Did they take them off me? I wondered.

  They must have, in order to make the cold work faster on my body. I still had a pair of long underwear under my jeans, but the odds were still against me surviving for long in the cold.