by Sagine Jean
I hear Sammy’s breathing get heavier. He hates crowds more than anything in the world. He hates when people push and prod at him. If it’s only for a second, he can close his eyes and think of something else, but if it’s like this—constant and nonstop—it’s too much for him.
“Hang in there, Sammy,” I say and make a move to hold him close to me, but he pushes away. If he can’t even deal with me in his personal space, then he must really be agitated. Police officers appear almost out of nowhere to help usher us to safety, informing everyone which exits are closed or flooded shut and which ones we can use.
This storm is coming, and it’s coming fast. I think about Ezra and how he’d said that the weatherman got it wrong, and I’m mad all over again.
“It’s going to be okay, Sams. I prom—” I look down at my side.
He’s not there. Sammy isn’t here. I panic, then catch my breath when I see his bright purple raincoat weaving through the crowd, pushing past everyone and heading deeper into the subway.
“SAMMY!” I scream, but he’s not listening, he’s not turning back. I chase after him, my feet sloshing through the water on the platform. I scream his name again, but despite the water rushing in, the people trying to escape, and the sheer terror in my voice, he keeps going.
THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT PUTTING ON A uniform that changes you. Well maybe not you, exactly, but the way everyone sees you. Suddenly, you’re not the nerd from down the block with his nose in a book. You’re not the kid who buys groceries for his mom at the deli. Suddenly, you’re a man—no matter what you feel on the inside—and that’s all that counts.
“You look so handsome,” my mother says as she smooths the lapels out on the dark blue shirt. “My baby boy all grown up.” She takes the lint roller from the table next to her and pushes it down my arms. As if the cop uniform I’ve never worn a day in my life has been through the washer. “There you go, sweetheart,” she says, her grin wider than I’ve seen in a long time. Too bad I know it’ll be short-lived. “Doesn’t Will look handsome, Bobby?” she asks the hunched-over form on the couch.
My father looks up from the TV to glare at me, his dark eyes filled with venom. He takes the butt of the cigarette out of his mouth and puts it out against the armchair. My mother winces, her smile gone.
He eyes my uniform, letting the cigarette smolder against the already ruined black leather.
He laughs, short and abrupt, and I put my hand on Ma’s shoulder and try to make my eyes just as venomous as his, waiting for his next move.
But there is no next move. My father watches me in the yellowing light of the living room because that’s all he can do now—watch and be bitter. He turns back to the TV and reaches for a beer can as I give my Ma’s shoulder a light squeeze. She looks up at me, and I know she sees it, too, this blue uniform saving us.
To be honest, I’m nothing more than a glorified meter maid. I don’t even get to drive the patrol car, let alone be in one unless Captain Gerri’s feeling particularly less crabby and decides to give me a ride to the station, like she does this morning.
Even as I get into the cop car, I feel my mother’s eyes on me all the way from the living room window. I can almost hear her voice chattering with her friends about it. “My Will’s the youngest officer on the squad, you know. That boy’s gonna shoot all the way to captain.” I feel her pride on me like a weight and stand a little taller as I get in, just to help carry the load.
“Thanks for the ride, Ger,” I say as we pull away from the curb. Raindrops from a coming storm hit the windshield as we leave my mother and the rest of my neighborhood behind.
“That’s Captain to you,” she says. “And it’s only ’cause I knew your father back when he was captain. Don’t go thinking you’re special.” Then a flash of a smile appears on her face before it disappears and her eyes settle on the road. Like everyone I work with, she knew my dad way back when he was captain of the precinct. She knew me, too, which is why it’s probably a surprise to her and everyone else that I chose to be a cop instead of going to college.
“You ready for your first day, kid?” she asks, her voice roaring over the pattering of rain. Instead of answering, my eyes follow the windshield wipers as they move back and forth. They say we’re supposed to get a hurricane today. My mom even shut down her salon so she could stay indoors. But I have the type of job that doesn’t let you close shop just for a little rain.
“I graduated top of my class at the academy, Ger—Captain.”
“That’s not an answer to my question.” She takes a sharp right and we’re on the bridge, stuck behind cars and trucks all on their way to Manhattan. Apparently none of them watched the weather channel. Seeing how impatiently she jerks the wheel, I half expect her to put the sirens on just to beat the traffic. Then she does. The sirens flare on with a blast of light and sound and suddenly we’re sailing across the bridge.
“Gerri, you can’t . . . you can’t just . . . ” I start to protest, but it’s pointless, the captain does what she wants just like she’s always done.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” she says as we whoosh through the rain, other cars moving to the side so we can pass.
“I’ve been ready since I could walk. I just wish I wasn’t handing out tickets today.”
“We’ve all got to start somewhere.” She shrugs.
I’ve known Gerri since I was just a kid. She was the lieutenant under my dad and had been over to my house more times than I could count. I knew her almost as well as I knew my mom—so I knew that she didn’t just start somewhere. Gerri had been the youngest detective at her precinct, breaking city records.
“I got in this so I could protect people—do something. Everyone knows that meter maids are just jerks on a power trip.”
“Watch your mouth, Will. Your father was a meter maid when he first started out and so was your father’s father.”
I don’t want to tell her that she’s proving my point, so I stay silent.
We get to the Fifty-third Precinct of Union Square within a half hour thanks to Gerri’s illegal usage of the sirens, and I can’t help but feel like I’m home. Most people would find the chaos of the downtown Manhattan department a little disarming, with officers either roughhousing and swearing in thick New York accents or running around getting ready to answer a distress call. The attitude in the room swings dramatically from urgency and control to laughter and camaraderie. I love it. This is the place I’ve been dreaming about since I was a kid; this is one of the reasons why I wanted to be a cop. I wanted this—the feeling of actually being a part of something that mattered, the feeling of being a part of a family.
“Welcome to the force, kid,” Gerri says at my side, her hand landing roughly on my shoulders. “Glad to have you.” She smiles. Other cops don’t really notice, but the few who do and remember who I am give me nods and warm claps on the back, and I feel more accomplished than I’ve ever felt—more real somehow.
“Ready to get to some action?” Gerri asks and I nod eagerly, thinking maybe something’s happened. Maybe I won’t be a meter maid today after all.
Then she puts a ticket pad in my hand and I immediately deflate. When Gerri sees my expression, she merely laughs and moves on to look at the rest of the officers. She goes on to talk about the upcoming storm and protocol, but I duck out toward the back, my fingers shaking with energy. This is it. This is the first day of the rest of my life, I say to myself urgently enough that I hope it’ll stop feeling like a dream.
“Officer,” Gerri yells at me, “get to your post. Those tickets aren’t going to hand themselves out.”
The best thing about my job is that I get to drive around in a meter maid wagon. It also happens to be the worst. On one hand, the privacy of the one-person vehicle is comparable to none; on the other, nearly everyone who sees me coming knows I’m not a real cop. Well, I guess you can’t have it all.
“Are you talking to me?” asks a hairy man in his forties with a thick New York a
ccent.
“Sir, if you’d just—”
“Are you talking to me?” His voice takes on an edge that says that I’d be on the ground right now if it weren’t for my uniform, but also an edge that says he’d probably put me on the ground anyway.
“If this is your blue Toyota in a handicap spot, then yes, I am,” I say evenly, remembering my training, even though it doesn’t really apply much here. Then again, this guy looks like he’s about to stab me in the stomach.
“That’s a joke. A skinny little meter maid telling me when and where I can’t park. You got some nerve, kid. You know I could kick the crap out of you, right?”
“So could I, but way before you could even lift a finger,” I say, straight-faced. “And then slap you with about a dozen citations and charges, including attempted assault on a police officer.” The man’s face sours and he crosses his arms, accepting his ticket with little more than a grunt and an eye roll.
“Screw you and your stupid little meter wagon,” he yells as he gets in his car.
“Good day to you, too,” I mumble as I watch him drive away. It’s been more than six hours—an entire day of getting yelled and cursed at by hairy Italians and mean New Yorkers. If I wanted this, I would have just stayed home today.
I hear thunder in the distance and the crackle of lightning as wind whooshes through my hair. It’s rained hard all day, with Hurricane Angelica looming over the horizon, projected to reach land by tonight. Then for a little while, around early evening, everything quieted. The world stilled and the sun came out, just for a moment, and the city became roaring and bustling again. Now the rain is settling back in, pounding against the city as if it never left, and I can see people racing back to buildings and subway stations. I wonder for a moment if I should be worried when the radio in my meter maid wagon roars to life with a crackle of static and electricity.
“I need all available units in the Lexington Ave and Sixty-Third Street area to head to the subway. I repeat, all available units are needed to help evacuate the station.” Clear instructions and protocols follow and I listen in rapt attention.
My heart skips in my chest and my fingers leap toward the walkie-talkie at my shoulder. “Copy. This is Officer Will Tatum, heading there now.”
My fingers shake as I plug my key in the wagon, heading toward the subway station on Sixty-Third and Lexington with an excitement I can’t quite hide. This is nothing really—just a call to escort commuters safely out of a flooding station. Just routine stuff for a storm. But it’s something that actually matters. It’s not protecting laws that mostly exist to make the city money. It’s not ruining someone’s day with a fine. It’s looking out for people, helping someone in need. And as cliché as it sounds, it’s another reason why I pushed myself through the academy.
I step out of the vehicle at Sixty-Third and zip my police-issued rain jacket as high as it will go. The rain is falling in torrents now. It was the lightest of drizzles only thirty minutes ago. By the time I get underground, I’m soaked—the humidity of the stagnant, recycled air the only thing keeping me from shivering.
Though the storm isn’t what’s important right now. There’s chaos all around me. People running to and fro, careening into each other, all pressing toward the exits. All the while, water pours in from the ceiling as though faucets have been turned on.
I relay the instructions from the call just as fluidly as I learned in the academy: voice authoritative and sure, and stance firm and unrelenting as I direct them toward the safest exit.
Then again, this is New York, and nothing is ever as easy as protocol and the academy made it out to be. This is a big station with multiple exits that lead to different streets, passageways, and avenues, and everyone is keen on getting home as quickly as possible. So no one listens to us as we shout directions to go toward a designated exit. No one listens as we try to usher them against the rising water.
When you’re a cop, you have to keep your cool no matter what the situation. It’s one of the first things you learn. But it’s almost impossible here with the commotion, the people, and the surge of water almost past the top of my boots.
I move through the crowd trying to get to the stragglers—the couple of people going the opposite direction, still trying to get to their damn exits. Remarkably, no one sees me as a meter maid here. They all listen with a staunch “Yes, officer.” A feeling of pride swells through the commotion in my chest.
I see one girl running, water splashing in her wake, and I move to catch up to her, grabbing a gentle hold of her elbow.
“If you’d please take the designated exit, miss.” I repeat the orders to her—a teenage girl, dark-haired, olive-toned, and pretty. Yet there’s something off about her. For one, she doesn’t reply with a quick “Yes.” Her lips are set in an angry scowl, she stares at me with defiance, her honey-colored eyes clearly unafraid of authority.
“Miss, if you’d please.” She’s maybe seventeen, but she holds herself like she’s older, like she knows better, and everything about it unnerves me. She continues to stare at me and I’m about to repeat myself sternly when she opens her mouth to speak.
“My brother is missing.”
I blink at her.
“Well if you’d just follow me toward the exit, I’m sure we can get to the station before the storm fully hits and file a—”
“No,” she says insistently. “Here! He’s missing here. He ran away and I need to find him now. So please, you have to let me go get him.”
I almost don’t know what to do. Past the defiance, past the anger is something I know all too well—fear. But there are rules, protocols, and procedures that have to be followed.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you go farther through the system, miss. If you want to find him, we’ll just have to call a rescue team down here once the space clears.”
“And the storm ends? That will take hours! I don’t have hours, I have to start looking now. He’s getting farther away!”
The desperation in her voice, the tears threatening to spill from her eyes, is enough to make the me outside this uniform give her anything she wants. But here, on the job? I’m not the same Will—I can’t be. Maybe she sees the apology on my face, the reluctance, because before I can say a word, she slips out of my grasp and runs farther into the flooding subway.
“Wait!” I yell, but despite how loud and authoritative I try to sound, she keeps going. I have no choice but to run after her.
THERE AND GONE. ONE MOMENT. JUST ONE moment and already his purple jacket is not even a spot in the distance. I’m running through murky green water with a cop on my back shouting for me to stop, but I’m too frantic. Too startled, too afraid to even register that I might be breaking the law. Still, it’s Sammy—my Sammy, my little brother. And this is all my fault.
He could die and it’d be all my fault.
The crowd thins as I keep running and I know I’m past the point of no return. Passageways toward different train lines pop out at me and I try to pretend I’m Sammy. Think like him, get inside his mind.
Sammy has Asperger’s, a form of autism that can make social interactions about the worst thing in the world for him.
It’s why he hates crowds, people touching him, why he only drinks from a red water bottle, and communicates difficult-to-process emotions through random facts. He favors things on the right side, so I take every right turn. He hates noise, so I take the routes that are the most silent.
“Stop right there, miss! Stop!” The cop keeps screaming, but I barely have time to register him. The water surges up my calf, but I don’t stop. I have to find Sammy. I need to find him. Still—I need to lose this cop first.
Sammy likes small spaces, so I know that finding him won’t be easy. Luckily, it’s also the perfect way to go where this cop won’t follow. I veer away from a passageway leading toward a shuttle and move toward the tracks of the F train.
I can almost feel the officer’s shock pulsing through the air as I do the unthinkable
.
I run hard until I’ve gathered enough momentum to leap off of the ground and onto the subway tracks. Water splashes around me and I pray to whoever is listening that the electricity has been shut off because of the storm.
“Are you insane?” I hear him scream behind me. His voice breaks, its booming authority turning into something fearful and frantic.
Good, don’t follow me. And not just because I know he’ll try to take me back, but because the only person who should be doing something as reckless as jumping down to train tracks to save Sammy is me.
Then there’s a second splash of water and a bright white flashlight shoots on. He’s followed me—that stupid cop is following me.
“Get back here, miss! You’re going to get yourself killed.” His voice returns to an authoritative shout. He sounds almost unfeeling, his tone completely free of any trace of the previous fear. He doesn’t even sound sympathetic, as if the fact that my little brother is off somewhere in this dark and flooded underground tunnel is something he doesn’t care about. Something he won’t even pretend to care about.
I feel anger boiling in my blood, rising with each water-soaked step I take, propelling me deeper and deeper into the tunnel. The water is only an inch or two past my ankles, but it’s rising steadily as rainwater continues to leak from the concrete ceiling. My heart is still seizing in my chest when I finally see it—just the type of exit Sammy would take, if I’m right and he’s jumped on the tracks. A slightly open door, just shorter than my five-foot-three frame, appears on the right, and no matter how convoluted this all is, I know I’ve made the right choice. Sammy thinks like this—complicated and in tangents: every right turn, the small enclosed track tunnels, the tiny door on the right side in the tiny enclosed tunnel.
This has to work. I have to be right.
I fake a left turn just swiftly enough to make the cop think I’m about to turn, but then I leap for the door and almost smile as I hear the cop fumble in my wake.
