by Tom Wood
A Night on the Town
A short story
By Tom Wood and Michael J. Tucker
Copyright 2020, all rights reserved.
The characters and events in this e-book are fictitious and any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the authors.
No part of this e-book may be reproduced, copied, distributed, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without express permission of the authors.
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Detective Mondelli
Five o’clock, and another reddish-yellow sunrise. I love my job, but being a cop does have its downside. I don’t mind extra shifts now and then, but it is hard to have a personal life. I’m glad double-duty’s over. I’m looking forward to my dinner date tonight. I met him on a dating app and we got together for coffee two weeks ago. Prospects look good. An accountant, a safe, quiet job with no drama, unlike dating another cop. I have high expectations, so we’ll see.
While the coffee brews, I jump in the shower and then get dressed. Breakfast can wait; I need to finish some paperwork, then do a check on Arnold around noon. I know right where he’ll be. He reminds me so much of Uncle Lou. That thought starts the waterworks. Come on now, cops aren’t supposed to cry. Damn, girl, you’re doing it again. Yeah, he took me in and raised me after Mom died, but Lou was no saint . . . and I was too young to help him. Maybe I can save Arnold.
Pastor Ralph says Arnold hasn’t caused any problems. Yet. But Arnold’s a long way from getting his life turned around. You’ve got to stay on these poor schnooks. Arnold, like Uncle Lou, never asked to get addicted. And when they tumble off the wagon, they fall hard. Damn it, Uncle Lou. If I can keep that from happening to Arnold or someone else, it’ll make my year. Maybe I can find him a place to live, even a job. I’ll check on that tomorrow.
Grabbing my coffee-filled Yeti and a keto bar, I get in the car and head to the office. A few miles from the interstate, the call comes in. A bad accident up ahead. I start to drive on and let the uniforms handle it, but something tells me to respond. I hang a right.
Deke
Ah-ooga! Snzxt, wuzzat?
Six already? No way. Ah-OOGA!!
Okay, I’m wide-eyed awake at the alarm’s ‘Old Car Horn’ outburst.
I put on jogging shorts, shoes, and a clean T-shirt, then head for the kitchen. The aroma of fresh, auto-brewed breakfast blend may be the best part of waking up, but a thirty-minute run through the neighborhood takes precedent over that first cup with Mr. Coffee.
Another blue-sky day. Birds, a gentle breeze, and . . . uh-oh, it’s Mrs. Johnson fetching her paper. Smile and wave, Deke. She’s a sweet lady who means well, always quick with snacks for neighbors who will stop and gossip for a few minutes. I used to—until she started quizzing me about all the women coming into my house late at night.
“Mawnin’ Deacon,” she shouts, knowing full-well how much that irritates me. For most everybody else, I’m Deke. Instead of slowing, I kick my run into another gear. The morning shakeout will get the blood and the juices flowing for a big night on the town. Just thinking of it sends a chill up my spine.
On the jog back toward the house, just beyond the roundabout, I hear squealing tires, a loud bang, groaning metal, and then screaming. I speed up my pace, following the road’s curvature. Oh, no! It’s Mr. and Mrs. Novak, the nice old couple that lives down the street from me. I’m always borrowing his tools, and she says I remind her of their son in California.
I’m already dialing 9-1-1 before I reach their old Corolla. The car’s smoking front end is wrapped around a damaged oak tree. In the middle of the lane is a smushed squirrel that Novak must’ve tried to avoid before losing control and swerving into the tree. I shout the address to the emergency dispatcher, give a quick assessment of what I think happened, and am assured that help is minutes way. I start to leave, but then the smoke coming from under the crumpled hood gives way to tiny, then bigger flames. I bang on her window, but there is no response. Damn, they’ll roast if we don’t get them out. That thought spurs me to act. A couple more neighbors arrive, and I signal to them for help.
We pull the Novaks out of the car—she’s unconscious while he’s howling from the pain of a bloody gash on his head and maybe a broken arm. I hear sirens in the distance. Damn, Deke, you had to stop and help, didn’t you? Cops are the last people you want to talk to, Deke.
I tell my neighbor Bob that I don’t want to get involved with filing a police report, that I’m already late for work. He nods and I sprint for home as more sirens blare from the other direction. Helping the Novaks was the right thing to do, but not for me. This better not screw up plans for tonight.
Arnold
Waking to the smell of frying bacon beats the hell outta scrounging through garbage cans. Remembering where I am, I run a hand over my scraggly face and remind myself to shave today. I don’t have to get dressed because I’m wearing the same clothes from yesterday. Just put on my shoes and head down to breakfast. Maybe it will be a good day. Probably not. Surviving one day at a time, that’s the key. Moving forward, even though the ghosts of my past are haunting me.
No one ever wakes up in the morning and says to himself, ‘Gee, this would be a great day to become addicted to opioids.’ It simply doesn’t happen that way. It starts with a pain, one that never goes away. It doesn’t matter what causes it, can be any number of things, maybe, as in my case, from an auto accident. The pain never relents, is always there, sometimes stabbing like a knife. Or a dull ache that doesn’t seem too bad, you think you can live with it, but months later it is still there, and now your mood has changed. The least little thing annoys you, morphs into intolerance. People you once loved—maybe—turn on you, say they’re tired of your crap. Worse, they constantly try to avoid saying or doing anything that lights the fuse setting off your rage.
After weeks of taking nothing stronger than aspirin or ibuprofen, finally you submit to the only thing that promises relief: the little white pill. It doesn’t cure the problem; it simply makes the agony go away—for a while. And then the pain returns, like that brother-in-law you despise. It hits all at once, a throbbing pressure that twists and stabs, bends and folds, puts you on the floor trying to hold back the monster and stifle the screams until you finally pass out.
The doctor keeps renewing your prescription−ensuring addiction. Eventually, one pill is not enough. Two, then three. Days become a fog as though the life you are living is not real but part of a film—a movie that you’re a part of and simultaneously watching. Mistakes happen, birthdays and anniversaries are forgotten. Slurred words make friends think you’re drunk; eventually they disappear. The boss calls you in for a meeting that ends in probation. Days or weeks later, a termination notice arrives in the mail from HR. FedEx delivers a box of personal effects from the office to the front door. Then the day comes when the doctor stops contributing to your addiction, and the only recourse is to buy the pills on the street. And that is where I find myself now. Chasing after dealers that will sell me anything, marijuana, OxyContin, heroin, morphine, whatever will stop the pain for a few more hours.
I once had a good job, a wife, two kids, and a house in the suburbs. I lost the job long ago, and it has been three months since my wife threw me out and filed for divorce. There isn’t much to live for anymore. Days consist of standing on a street corner holding a cardboard sign with some lie, such as: “Help a veteran,” or “Need $$$ for Christmas presents,” or “No shoes for baby.” Whatever works. My last resort is petty theft, by which I mean shoplifting, all to feed my habit. My life is in ruins.
Deke
R
unning around the house to the back door, I enter through the kitchen and pour a cup of coffee that washes down a protein bar. The TV’s still on, and I catch the end of the newscast. The police are still seeking clues to the string of Thum driver armed robberies. Good luck with that. A shower’s next, then off to work.
I strip down and twist the shower knob to as hot as I can stand, then study my profile in the full-length mirror. Not toned . . . but not bad, Deke, you devil. Aerobics tomorrow, then hit the gym the day after. The mirror fogs, and I pull back the shower curtain to step inside—yow—the blast of hot water scalds my skin. I quickly adjust the temperature.
Steam continues to fill the bathroom as I replay the accident scene. You might be in hot water again, Deke. And in more ways than one. Damn it, why’d you have to stop and help? I turn off the cascading water and feel cleansed, thinking about my good deed for the day. ’Cause it was the right thing to do. After drying off, I rake a comb through my thinning hair, and scowl at the mirror, twisting my head back and forth to study the two-faced image staring back at me. You’re a loser, but not a total loser. Cheer up, Deke, nothing’s going wrong. The full lips crack a mischievous smile.
Canvassing the choice of suits, I select a blue sharkskin, a cream-colored button-down shirt, and striped red tie. One last glance in the mirror before I leave for work. Son, you are looking good. Clothes do indeed make this man.
Arnold
So far, I’ve managed to avoid sleeping on park benches, thanks to the do-gooders. For now, I sleep in the basement of a Pentecostal church, Path to the Holy Redeemer, with twenty other men. Each man has a cot, bedding is changed out weekly, and we have breakfast every morning and then out on the street.
I wave to Ralph, who’s serving at the pancake station this morning. He is the assistant pastor, and he oversees everything. He’s in his mid-forties, balding, rosy cheeks, with an apple-shaped body. Rules are simple: no smoking, no drinking or drunkenness, no drugs, no yelling, cursing, or fighting. No one gets in after ten at night, and we must leave the building by ten in the morning. We can shower and shave, and wash what clothes we have, so there is a feeling of self-respect by at least being clean. We can only stay at the church for one month, during which time we are supposed to be looking for regular work. The theory is we find jobs and become self-supporting. Nice idea, but in reality, it seldom happens.
“Bacon, eggs—and a couple of ’cakes, if you please, Brother Ralph.” The warm syrup reminds me of what my life isn’t—sweet and sugary.
Deke
What a hectic morning. Lexie and I spend an hour tweaking the advertising campaign proposal before heading to the conference room to make our presentation. I share our vision, and Lexie presents the facts and figures. We close the pitch by showing the boss and his veeps several video versions of the new advertising campaign. Lexie and I smile at the closing slogan . . . “At TennLife & Casualty, where you’re covered with TLC,” the actress says. I glance around the room. Shepard is yawning, and others have bored stares. Lexie is freshening her lipstick, then winks. Old man Batson, who’s been ogling the girl on the screen, glances at his watch.
I flash a fluorescent smile at them all. “So, if you approve this proposed series of ad runs, combined with our current digital and print marketing campaigns, I am projecting growth for the next quarter at thirty percent minimum.”
“Congratulations, Deacon,” the boss says. “An excellent presentation. We’ll have a final decision this afternoon.”
“Very good. Thank you, Mr. Batson.” You old fart.
I follow the boss out the door and head for the elevator and an early lunch. Lexie’s waiting there with the same sexy smile that the actress flashed. We’ve tried to keep the office fling quiet, and Lexie swears she hasn’t been talking. I’m sure everybody but the boss knows, though, and maybe even him.
“Are you going to be covered with TLC tonight, Deke?”
After looking around to make sure nobody’s near, I twirl a finger around strands of her long chestnut hair. Spending the night with Lexie is always fun, but I have other plans.
“Love to . . . but I can’t. Not tonight.”
“Another girl?” Lexie’s pout seems exaggerated. “You said—”
I wag a finger “no”—even though it’s kind of a yes. It’s been almost a month and I have an itch that needs scratching—and not by Lexie.
“Got business tonight. Another night, ’kay?” I raise my eyebrows and offer her a hopeful smile. “I’ll call first thing in the morning, and we’ll make weekend plans. Keep your motor purring.”
Lexie beams.
Loosening my tie as the elevator door opens, I’m almost knocked down by the dour-faced woman who steps out. Everything about her says ‘cop,’ and I’m immediately on guard. She looks my way, glances at her phone and then back at me. “Mr. Deacon Fow—”
“Everybody calls me Deke, please. How can I help you?”
“Everybody calls me Detective Mondelli,” she says with a grimace like she’d just tasted something fouler than garlic burps. “I’d like to discuss that accident you called in a couple of hours ago.”
Well, crap. You’re toast, Deke. About to get burned. I cover my anger with a broad smile.
“Sure thing. This way, please.”
Lexie’s staring as I lead the cop to my office and close the door.
Arnold
It’s 9:15, and I leave the church with Washington, a black dude with a serious drinking problem. I can’t tell his age. He looks to be in his sixties by the lines on his face, rheumy eyes, and gray hair, but his body is lean and muscular, strong from daily hard labor. He has large hands and long knurly fingers.
“Hey Wash, what’s the plan for today?”
“Usual.”
By ‘usual’ he means going to the corner of 8th and Carson and trying to snag a day labor job.
“Come with me, A-man. Maybe we get a job together.”
“You know I can’t do that kind of stuff, Wash. Not with my back. ’Sides, I’ve never done that kind of work. Someone ask me to get ‘em a screwdriver, I’d likely go lookin’ for orange juice and vodka.”
He chuckles and says, “You a funny dude, bro. Come on, A-man. I’ll help ya. You start doin’ some labor, you body start harden up. Might be what you back need.” His voice upbeat, filled with optimism, the “it’s a new day” attitude.
Washington’s bunk is beside mine, and I hear the popping sounds his ligaments make when he gets out of bed in the morning. His body is already breaking down from years of manual labor, but his pride keeps him in denial. His days of doing hard work are numbered. It won’t be long before he’ll be like me, standing on a street corner asking for handouts.
“Sorry, man. I know who I am, and that’s not me.”
“You smart guy, A-man.”
We give each other a fist bump and I watch him walk away, hunched over, limping and favoring his left leg. A problem with a knee or hip?
I sling the backpack onto my left shoulder and head over to a traffic light at the end of the Interstate exit ramp. My life is in the backpack—change of clothes, including underwear, a jacket for colder weather, a razor, toothbrush, a water bottle, whatever my current drug supply is, and a Beretta M9. The backpack stays with me wherever I go. It’s never out of my sight and usually in my hand or on my shoulder. It is my only friend.
Deke
When we emerge from the office ten minutes later, Lexie’s still there—along with old man Batson, Shepard, and a couple of other co-workers. I escort the cop toward the elevator.
“Appreciate it, Detective. I’m just glad everything worked out and they’re okay. And thank you for coming.”
She says, “Again, while it’s not illegal for you to leave an accident scene if you’re a witness, it is always helpful if you remain at the location to clear up any questions.”
“Accident?” You didn’t say anything about being involved in an accident, Deacon,” old man Batson says.
; “I wasn’t actually in it, and like I told Detective Mondelli, I didn’t see it happen. I was just the first on the scene. No big deal.”
The cop speaks up. “Your boy’s a hero.” I shake my head and can feel my face flush with embarrassment. I don’t like . . . I don’t want . . . this attention, which is why I left the scene in the first place. “He called in the accident and with some neighbors pulled a couple of old folks out of a burning car. It could have gone very badly if he hadn’t been there.”
“Way to go, Deacon,” says Shepard. Hands raise for high-fives that I reluctantly deliver. Standing behind everyone, Lexie’s eyes sparkle as she blows me a kiss.
My anger burns like wasabi mustard as I escort the damn cop down the hallway, but I can’t show it. Stay cool, Deke, it’s almost over. She’s been studying me since she arrived, and I’m getting bad vibes. Some of her questions during the interview, the voice inflections, and her body language says that she’s suspicious. Of what, she doesn’t know. I invite her to call me if she thinks of any more questions, but I hope our paths don’t cross again.
After the cop gets on the elevator, I return to my office. Lexi’s there, and I fill in details of the accident before we head for an early lunch.
Arnold
The exit ramp has always been a good spot for me to get cash from sympathetic drivers. I put on my sincere but sad face and hold my “Veteran Needs Help” sign. A pretty, young woman in a Prius hands over a buck and a “Bless you;” five bucks from a construction worker in a Ford F-250. A car with a neon Thum light on the dash stops for the red light. The driver closes his window as I approach. No matter, the light has turned green and the cars and trucks pull away like a coupled train.
I see Thum drivers every day, and when I had a life, a job, and a family, I had a Thum app on my cell phone. A cell phone−something else I no longer have. My wife and I would take a Thum ride for events downtown to avoid high parking fees, of if we were going to be partying and didn’t want to drive after drinking.
