padding of my hooded sweatshirt, jostle and crinkle and beat louder than Poe’s telltale heart. I am marked and obvious. Suspect, curious bulges and the strong smell of fish are sure to give me away. I want to throw the evidence, but I can’t afford to sacrifice my backpack; it’s my livelihood. So blindly, I run and I run and I run. An eternity passes, my lungs nearing collapse, my head teeming with fear, before I hear the clip-clop of my footfalls overtaking the fading alarm. Relief. I am out of range and it looks like I won’t have to ditch the salmon or halibut after all.
Panic dissipates.
Adrenaline forces a smile.
I look around and notice the streets are devoid of life except for the occasional bum. Slowing to a walk I try to breathe easy. I continue on until I reach the edge of the mini forest. I should have kept my head and made for home, but you know, I’m dumb and pressure makes me even dumber. Turning back now might be too risky; I can’t chance walking past the restaurant. Stopping along a sidewalk lined with big, droopy, shadowy trees, I remove my backpack and sit on the curb to kill time before making my way home. Fishing for a Coca-Cola, the adrenaline-fear buzz dies and my thoughts spiral downward:
Undifferentiated. Did I think this act of revenge was going to help?
Far from special. Did I actually think I could pull it off?
Thirty-three years old. Still nowhere. Forever nowhere.
Seemingly unrelated to God and somewhere at the back of my thoughts I scream: Take that, you bastard! Perhaps now you will take notice! You have no choice but to notice a sinner!
Notice me (me, your other son).
Notice me (please).
Loser, bastard, loser.
The feeling-sorry-for-myself bullshit is rising and building, reaching crescendo, when boom! The world goes white.
I look up and there’s nothing, all shape and dimension blown to oblivion. My eyes suffer and strain and burn. I bring up my hand, makeshift visor, and try to squint the world into being.
(Has it begun?)
Finally (notice me).
I’m ready to come home (notice me).
But no, an ugly mortal voice pulls me to earth: “How are we doing this evening?”
Shit.
Slow composition, fuzzy focus and I catch a flash of patent leather. The glint of metal. My nose twitches around a vile, rancid smell even stronger than the fishy one emanating from my backpack. Authority. Power. It stings my nostrils, causing me to recoil.
The cop continues to shine his flashlight in my eyes, adjusting the beam, attempting to break my desperate play for focus. I begin to stand.
“Stay down!” He barks the order like a gorilla establishing supremacy.
All self-pity and loathing are replaced with nervous fear. I feel like a child. The cop speaks again, but I tune him out and stare past the flashlight’s glare. His cruiser is parked across the street, enveloped in shadows. Apparently, he had the same idea I did.
I wonder whom he’s hiding from?
Aside from that metal target pinned to his chest, being a cop has to be the greatest job in the world. Imagine it: working late-night hours in a sleepy city, parking your car in the darkness, turning off your radio, taking a nap, or best of all: finding ways to abuse your power. You know, for the sheer thrill of it. Just imagine it: getting gratuities, free food. Imagine it: people have no choice but to respect you. Imagine it: children look up to you. And best of all, imagine it: complete freedom. To be a cop is to be truly free. Exempt. Rules? Rules, Shmules. Plus, who knows, one day you might even die in the line of duty. Imagine the comfort one could take in knowing that there is the possibility that you might die unexpectedly, heroically, staining history with a lasting impression of grace. No grinding on, growing old, shamefully inching your way to the grave like the rest of us. Oh sure, I can pray for accidents, random violence, car crashes, the sky falling. It could happen. A merciful unexpected death could claim me, but the odds
Panic dissipates.
Adrenaline forces a smile.
I look around and notice the streets are devoid of life except for the occasional bum. Slowing to a walk I try to breathe easy. I continue on until I reach the edge of the mini forest. I should have kept my head and made for home, but you know, I’m dumb and pressure makes me even dumber. Turning back now might be too risky; I can’t chance walking past the restaurant. Stopping along a sidewalk lined with big, droopy, shadowy trees, I remove my backpack and sit on the curb to kill time before making my way home. Fishing for a Coca-Cola, the adrenaline-fear buzz dies and my thoughts spiral downward:
Undifferentiated. Did I think this act of revenge was going to help?
Far from special. Did I actually think I could pull it off?
Thirty-three years old. Still nowhere. Forever nowhere.
Seemingly unrelated to God and somewhere at the back of my thoughts I scream: Take that, you bastard! Perhaps now you will take notice! You have no choice but to notice a sinner!
Notice me (me, your other son).
Notice me (please).
Loser, bastard, loser.
The feeling-sorry-for-myself bullshit is rising and building, reaching crescendo, when boom! The world goes white.
I look up and there’s nothing, all shape and dimension blown to oblivion. My eyes suffer and strain and burn. I bring up my hand, makeshift visor, and try to squint the world into being.
(Has it begun?)
Finally (notice me).
I’m ready to come home (notice me).
But no, an ugly mortal voice pulls me to earth: “How are we doing this evening?”
Shit.
Slow composition, fuzzy focus and I catch a flash of patent leather. The glint of metal. My nose twitches around a vile, rancid smell even stronger than the fishy one emanating from my backpack. Authority. Power. It stings my nostrils, causing me to recoil.
The cop continues to shine his flashlight in my eyes, adjusting the beam, attempting to break my desperate play for focus. I begin to stand.
“Stay down!” He barks the order like a gorilla establishing supremacy.
All self-pity and loathing are replaced with nervous fear. I feel like a child. The cop speaks again, but I tune him out and stare past the flashlight’s glare. His cruiser is parked across the street, enveloped in shadows. Apparently, he had the same idea I did.
I wonder whom he’s hiding from?
Aside from that metal target pinned to his chest, being a cop has to be the greatest job in the world. Imagine it: working late-night hours in a sleepy city, parking your car in the darkness, turning off your radio, taking a nap, or best of all: finding ways to abuse your power. You know, for the sheer thrill of it. Just imagine it: getting gratuities, free food. Imagine it: people have no choice but to respect you. Imagine it: children look up to you. And best of all, imagine it: complete freedom. To be a cop is to be truly free. Exempt. Rules? Rules, Shmules. Plus, who knows, one day you might even die in the line of duty. Imagine the comfort one could take in knowing that there is the possibility that you might die unexpectedly, heroically, staining history with a lasting impression of grace. No grinding on, growing old, shamefully inching your way to the grave like the rest of us. Oh sure, I can pray for accidents, random violence, car crashes, the sky falling. It could happen. A merciful unexpected death could claim me, but the odds
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