again.
I’m no longer feeling very helpful. I say, “Did you talk to Rita, ask her what she saw?”
“Who’s Rita?”
I point out Rita in the crowd. She’s behind everyone, looking for an opening, too short to see anything.
The cop says, “Yeah, we talked to her. She only followed the sirens here.” Her answer is a shrug, brimming with impatience, and it’s a lie. She hasn’t talked to Rita. “Let’s try again. Why were you at the scene, Mr. Genevich?”
“Like I said, I was walking home, down Fifth Street, and I just happened by it.”
“Walking home from where?”
I yawn and don’t cover my mouth. I’m not very polite. Mom would be mortified. “From not home. I was on a job.”
“Where was that, Mr. Genevich?”
I could tell her. I could do a lot things. “Sorry, client confidentiality.” I reach for my cigarettes. It’s all about timing.
“You’re not a lawyer, Mr. Genevich. Just a PI.”
“Really? I guess I’ve been doing it all wrong. I’m so glad you’re here to straighten me out.” I’m being a jerk, and yeah, she deserves it, but I’m also frustrated with myself. It isn’t so far-fetched to conclude she doesn’t believe me because I don’t and can’t fully believe in myself.
“Have you been drinking, Mr. Genevich?”
I light up, fully aware there’s already too much smoke here. “Not enough and not very well. Look, goddamn it, I’m fine, I was fine, there was just too much smoke, and I did what I could before I passed out, and…”
The cop flips her notebook closed. She’s not waiting for me to finish. “Go home, Mr. Genevich. We may call or stop by your office tomorrow. Maybe you’ll be better equipped to help us after a good night’s sleep.”
That hurts. The cop leaves me alone, propped up against someone’s apartment building. I’m behind the crowd, which has gathered around the news crew and the hero neighbor.
I check my cell, and there are no messages. It’s almost 1:30 a.m., and I think about calling Gus and asking him to come get me, to help me home, but I won’t do that. It’s easier to think about closing my eyes and just disappearing, even if it’s only for a little while.
Ambulance lights and sirens explode, giving me a jolt. The flashing lights reflect off the huddled buildings. We’re all in danger. I stub out the cigarette on my heel; maybe it’ll help spur my shoes into carrying me home. I adjust my hat and coat in anticipation of my renewed journey.
I notice my stretcher is gone. I didn’t see it leave. Maybe it rolled away, slinked off on its own, looking for someone to help.
Eleven
I wake up on the couch. Again.
I had a crazy dream about two FBI agents busting in and knocking my ass around the apartment, asking me about aliens, little green men. I had one living under my couch apparently. It said we tasted like chicken.
My heart beats hard enough to alter my chest’s concavity. The sun is out, spewing its radiation through the windows. I sit up, blink, mash my hands around the mess of my face, and I might need to shave my tongue.
Where the hell did that nightmare come from? My dreams and hypnagogic hallucinations are always so vivid and real, like snippets and disjointed scenes belonging to my incredibly detailed secret life, a life usually more inhabitable than my real one. But my recent dreams seem pumped up, maybe amphetamine enhanced.
I’m wearing the same clothes I wore last night. I’m embarrassed for myself, so I take off the jacket, which feels lighter than it should. I check the pockets. My little bag of greenies isn’t in there. I could’ve hidden them in an odd place while asleep and in the throes of automatic behavior, but I’m not getting that vibe. I’m a vibe guy, after all.
This summer, ever since Ellen left, my apartment has been a dog-eared paperback that’s missing its cover, nearly unreadable. Magazines, newspapers, DVD boxes, and assorted entertainment accoutrement crowd the coffee table and
I’m no longer feeling very helpful. I say, “Did you talk to Rita, ask her what she saw?”
“Who’s Rita?”
I point out Rita in the crowd. She’s behind everyone, looking for an opening, too short to see anything.
The cop says, “Yeah, we talked to her. She only followed the sirens here.” Her answer is a shrug, brimming with impatience, and it’s a lie. She hasn’t talked to Rita. “Let’s try again. Why were you at the scene, Mr. Genevich?”
“Like I said, I was walking home, down Fifth Street, and I just happened by it.”
“Walking home from where?”
I yawn and don’t cover my mouth. I’m not very polite. Mom would be mortified. “From not home. I was on a job.”
“Where was that, Mr. Genevich?”
I could tell her. I could do a lot things. “Sorry, client confidentiality.” I reach for my cigarettes. It’s all about timing.
“You’re not a lawyer, Mr. Genevich. Just a PI.”
“Really? I guess I’ve been doing it all wrong. I’m so glad you’re here to straighten me out.” I’m being a jerk, and yeah, she deserves it, but I’m also frustrated with myself. It isn’t so far-fetched to conclude she doesn’t believe me because I don’t and can’t fully believe in myself.
“Have you been drinking, Mr. Genevich?”
I light up, fully aware there’s already too much smoke here. “Not enough and not very well. Look, goddamn it, I’m fine, I was fine, there was just too much smoke, and I did what I could before I passed out, and…”
The cop flips her notebook closed. She’s not waiting for me to finish. “Go home, Mr. Genevich. We may call or stop by your office tomorrow. Maybe you’ll be better equipped to help us after a good night’s sleep.”
That hurts. The cop leaves me alone, propped up against someone’s apartment building. I’m behind the crowd, which has gathered around the news crew and the hero neighbor.
I check my cell, and there are no messages. It’s almost 1:30 a.m., and I think about calling Gus and asking him to come get me, to help me home, but I won’t do that. It’s easier to think about closing my eyes and just disappearing, even if it’s only for a little while.
Ambulance lights and sirens explode, giving me a jolt. The flashing lights reflect off the huddled buildings. We’re all in danger. I stub out the cigarette on my heel; maybe it’ll help spur my shoes into carrying me home. I adjust my hat and coat in anticipation of my renewed journey.
I notice my stretcher is gone. I didn’t see it leave. Maybe it rolled away, slinked off on its own, looking for someone to help.
Eleven
I wake up on the couch. Again.
I had a crazy dream about two FBI agents busting in and knocking my ass around the apartment, asking me about aliens, little green men. I had one living under my couch apparently. It said we tasted like chicken.
My heart beats hard enough to alter my chest’s concavity. The sun is out, spewing its radiation through the windows. I sit up, blink, mash my hands around the mess of my face, and I might need to shave my tongue.
Where the hell did that nightmare come from? My dreams and hypnagogic hallucinations are always so vivid and real, like snippets and disjointed scenes belonging to my incredibly detailed secret life, a life usually more inhabitable than my real one. But my recent dreams seem pumped up, maybe amphetamine enhanced.
I’m wearing the same clothes I wore last night. I’m embarrassed for myself, so I take off the jacket, which feels lighter than it should. I check the pockets. My little bag of greenies isn’t in there. I could’ve hidden them in an odd place while asleep and in the throes of automatic behavior, but I’m not getting that vibe. I’m a vibe guy, after all.
This summer, ever since Ellen left, my apartment has been a dog-eared paperback that’s missing its cover, nearly unreadable. Magazines, newspapers, DVD boxes, and assorted entertainment accoutrement crowd the coffee table and
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