Shattered Glass(106)

“Captain already tore down the target sign on your forehead, Oz.” I breathed a sigh of relief. “I gotta head out. It’s late, and Marta wants KFC tonight.”

“Hey, thanks for looking over those papers the other day,” I called out as he walked away.

He turned, gave a tentative smile with a two fingered salute and walked backwards a few steps. “Sorry I couldn’t find anything.”

“Dave?” How did I thank him for standing by me? While the halls were filled with disdain at my presence, Dave hadn’t hesitated to let people know on which side he stood.

Turned out I didn’t have to thank him. “Whatever, Oz, our bromance transcends your fuckups. Rockies/Padres this Friday?” He asked loudly, by way of announcing to the entire station where I stood in his eyes.

“Can we drink the beer this time?”

I received yet another glare from a patrolman passing by. Dave noted it and tried to grin, but his smile wasn’t reaching his eyes.

“You and me, a six pack, and your big screen.”

“It’s a date.”

“Quiet,” he yelled. “I don’t want the whole station to know I’m queer for you!”

I pulled a chuckle from the swirling depths of my throat and went back to looking casual while I waited. If I could make it through the day without Peter getting arrested, I might have to actually thank my father. I barely resisted shuddering at the thought.

They arrested Peter an hour later.





Bedraggled and Empathizing with a Cat. Where’s My Gun?

We had filled out paperwork for Peter’s release. The officer in charge of the arson investigation had given me an interview and us paperwork. The City Pound had given us one carry box, one demon and paperwork. The fire department had given us a list of hostels and shelters, the insurance company’s phone number and…paperwork. The entire day had added a headache, blurry vision and a cramp in my hand to the literal pain in my ass. I sat in the passenger seat, disoriented and anesthetized, my temple pressed against the car window.

It was dark and closer to morning than night by the time we journeyed home. Houses and streetlamps whizzed by in a blur of light and shadow. The past weeks of my life were an imitation of the transient scenery out my window. As was this entire day. Blink. Another scene. Blink. Another.

Darryl was driving. Peter was curled up in the back seat, sleeping off his arrest. He snuggled the box filled with the incessantly mewling cat. Darryl was the only one with energy. He tapped the steering wheel rhythmically while mouthing songs only he could hear. I was too tired to contemplate what that music was; and I was too drained to do what I wanted: to crawl back there with Peter and banish from memory that look of fear when had they cuffed him. His mask of indifference had fallen back into place moments later, but I would never forget the terror in his eyes before they shuttered and blanked.

Begone began to yowl. My ears made an attempt to crawl into my head, but I didn’t give in to the urge to scream. Or shoot it.

I know just how you feel, cat.





Lectures Make Me Hard

The parking lot behind my home was empty. Reporters would be back in the morning, but it looked, for now, like we had one less shit-storm to deal with. As I reached for the door handle my shoulders relaxed.

“I don’t know if you’re what Rabbit needs,” Darryl said, gripping my keys on his thigh and staring out the windshield.

“And you are?” I said, equally quiet so as not to disturb the subject of our conversation.

Darryl rolled his eyes and gave me a look of contempt. “You’re such an asshole sometimes.”

“I’ve been advised of that. It’s good to be consistent.”

Darryl smirked unexpectedly and dropped the keys into my palm. “I hope you’re what he needs.”

“Where do you fit into what he needs?”

He looked over his shoulder at Peter and smiled. “I used to be the one who took care of him.” If he was implying that I was the reason things were different, I wasn’t going to apologize. Darryl turned to me once more, focused. “Rabbit’s the rock we cling to when we’re drowning. He needs a mountain to hold him up, not another storm that’ll wear away at him.”

The poetry of those words shocked me. Not just because I had realized their truth long ago, but because they were in Darryl’s voice. “You should be a writer,” I said, uncomfortable with his scrutiny.

“You should be serious once in a while.” He grabbed my ear and pulled me closer. I let him, because I was too damn bushed to fight off a black belt in Jiu Jitsu. “Hurt him, and I’ll tie you up, spend days cutting your balls into deli-thin slices and feed them to that cat.”