by Robert Riche
Once inside the front entrance, however, it is brutally apparent that a trip here is no visit to a Victorian garden party. What once must have been an elegant receiving hall has been karate-chopped into a reception area the size of a doctor’s waiting room, with brown linoleum floor covering and naked over-head fluorescent coils, one of which is, in fact, defective and blinking now as I enter.
In the wall opposite the front door there is a double glass window (bullet-proof?) looking in on a small cubicle, which I am not quite sure I should look in on, with a typist’s chair and a microphone on a gooseneck armature over some kind of keyboard. The waiting room, which is minimally furnished with three maple chairs and a maple table with some magazines strewn about, is empty. Nor is there anyone behind the window, although I have the feeling they know I’m here because there is a camera at either end of the room attached to the ceiling. Sure enough, even as I am wondering how to announce my presence, an officer in gray uniform (shirtsleeves) appears in the cubicle behind the glass. He is short and fat, and doesn’t appear to be in particularly good shape. However, there is a gun strapped to his waist, and judging from a certain swagger about him, he looks as though he would be a tough customer to go up against.
He speaks into the microphone, and there is an electronic amplified voice from somewhere behind me. “Yes?”
I tell him my business, talking at the little perforated metal circle in the glass. I assume that he can hear me, though I am not certain because he doesn’t look at me. I explain that I am the father of Peter Brock whom they are holding, I believe. Still without any indication of whether or not he has heard me or knows what I am talking about, he hands me a yellow form to fill out. I have to ask him for a pencil, which he provides through a teller’s slot below the window.
The form calls for my name, address, age, and all that, and I attest that I will be responsible for seeing to it that my son appears in Superior Court at such-and-such an address on such-and-such a day four weeks from now at which time a plea of guilty or not guilty may be entered. Sign below. I do, and hand the form back. The officer takes it, and without a word disappears through a door at the back of the cubicle.
I sit down on one of the maple straight chairs in the waiting room, and under the spastic fluorescent coil look over the magazines on the table. There are several well-fingered issues of Adirondack Life, a copy of Today’s Motorcyclist and a six-month-old copy of Time magazine. Adirondack Life looks pretty good.
It is a long wait. I finish one copy of Adirondack Life. A lot of photos of rocks and backpackers. White water rafters. I wouldn’t want to take a test on what I have been looking at. You can’t help but wonder the whole time you are waiting here what must go on beyond the interior wall of this tiny reception area. Where once the mistress of the house very likely poured after-dinner coffee in the library for the master who then settled into a comfortable chair with a cigar, now there is the starkness of barred cages. Above, where once the master bedroom looked out upon the graceful front lawn, windows are now boarded up, the space partitioned equally into a storage closet for riot guns and a padded interrogation room. One strains to catch sounds of screaming. Whatever they want to do here, you are convinced, they can do it undisturbed behind this wall. It is very humbling.
A door I hadn’t even noticed at the far side of the room opens with a click, and another officer in shirtsleeves enters. He is trim, though certainly not undernourished, and wears a Tom Sellek mustache. I rise from my chair, a lot of leather on him creaking and the stiff cord in his trousers making a whipping noise as he approaches. He has my form in his hand, and announces that he is the fink who arrested my son. Though not precisely in those terms. My son and another boy (the latter over sixteen and, therefore, non-juvenile) were observed contrary to Public Ordinance number such-and-such drinking in a public place and further in possession of what appears to be a controlled substance which could constitute a felony, and which is currently being analyzed by the lab (Of course! There is a lab back there. Probably the old breakfast room).
I give the officer my winning look that I gave Mrs. Lacy that says, “I know this was wrong, officer, but you can tell that we’re nice people, and perhaps a warning would suffice, and I can assure you it will never happen again.” I may actually say some of these things.
This line of bullshit doesn’t work on the officer any more than it worked on Mrs. Lacy. He doesn’t respond other than to say, “Because your son is only fifteen, you can apply to the court for a juvenile status. Most likely he will be given a term of community service which if completed satisfactorily will then result in the record of arrest being deleted.”
“He won’t have a police record?”
“If the Court is satisfied that as a juvenile he has been rehabilitated.”
Please, dear God, let’s rehabilitate him.
The officer takes me back through a labyrinth of corridors and locked metal doors with wire meshed window slits to where they are holding the criminal in a small room resembling a doctor’s examining cubicle. He has been fingerprinted, mugshot, and at the moment looks more like a fifteen-year-old wimp than a rebellious hobo. At least, he’s scared.
I’m scared, too. Why did the officer bring me back here? There are barred cells across the hall where Peter’s companion—the non-juvenile—is now locked up. I hope they throw away the key. Did this cop want to impress upon me the seriousness of the crime? I’m impressed. There are a few other rights and obligations explained to the both of us. I don’t get any of it, but I sure will have a lawyer tomorrow make it clear.
After which they let us out, accompanying us back through the corridor labyrinth, unlocking and carefully re-locking the steel doors, tight security measures in the event that any teenage public beer drinkers might try to make a break for it.
In the front waiting room the officer hands me all the papers he has been talking about, and I thank him. For what? For having busted my kid? I feel foolish and am unable to breathe easy until we are out the front door and free and into the night air again.
The drive home from the police station is not far. Obviously, my kid isn’t going to initiate a lot of talk, for which, in a way, I respect him. What’s he going to do, try to con me with a lot of chatter? Though I know he must be feeling pretty humiliated. I don’t feel like saying a whole lot to him, either. It isn’t really necessary to tell him I am angry, sad, disappointed and scared. It will all come out in time. So, uncomfortably, we ride in silence in the dark. I am looking at the road, and he is looking straight ahead, too.
We pull into the driveway, and I shut off the engine, which continues to kick and buck for a minute afterwards, because it is beginning to need some kind of adjustment. Engine run-on, or something, it’s called.
Before I get the door handle, my son turns to me, and says in a voice surprisingly clear, “I’m sorry, Dad.”
A line like that could open a floodgate of words from me. “Why did you do it?” I say.
“I didn’t know there was a law.”
“You knew you weren’t supposed to leave your room.”
“Yeah.”
“And the dope?”
“It was just ashes. Old stuff. In the pipe. It was stupid.”
I believe him. Old stuff in the pipe. He wasn’t selling it, for Christ sake. Stupid bad luck. “Every time you mess around with dope you get banged,” I say. “I mean, if nothing else, you gotta understand. That fucking stuff is against the law. They’re gonna bust you.”
“I know.”
“Some guys get away with it, some guys don’t.” It’s even possible there’s a note of sympathy in my voice as I add, “Maybe the good guys don’t. Is that possible?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. I don’t want to get arrested again.”
“Or kicked out of school,” I put in.
“That’s right.”
“Please don’t smoke any more dope for a while, will you? If you want to smoke dope, do it in your room. I’ll get mad if I fi
nd out, but better me than the cops.”
The door to the car on my side is open, and the overhead light is on sufficiently so that I can see him nod, in agreement. I think it’s in agreement. There isn’t anything more to say, not now, anyway.
My wife is reading the Times when we come into the country kitchen/family area. She puts the paper down, folds it over, then looks up at him. She seems to want to say something, but doesn’t. Peter stands there awkwardly, his lips compressed.
“I told Dad,” he says, “I won’t do it again.”
She shakes her head slowly at him. I wouldn’t want to be him. Well, she shook her head at me earlier. It wasn’t so bad. Maybe he’ll learn something.
“I broke your window to get in your room,” I say to him.
“How come?” he says, probably glad that the conversation is directed away from the more immediate subject at hand.
“Because the door was locked, and there was no answer to my knock.”
“Oh,” he says.
“You’ve got mice in there,” I say.
“Yeah, I know. They run around at night.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“They don’t bother me.”
“Put out traps tomorrow. I’ll get some De-con.”
He shrugs. “Okay. Can I go to my room now?”
“Probably a good idea,” I say.
He bends over his mother and kisses her on the lips, patting her on the shoulder. “’Night Mom,” he says.
“Goodnight,” she says. She gives the back of his hand on her shoulder a little pat.
“G’night, Dad,” he says.
“Stay in now, will you,” I say.
“Don’t worry,” he says. And goes out.
I look at my wife, and she looks at me. She shakes her head slowly. Who knows?
Two days later my son and I are on our way back up the road along the Housatonic River to his school. His sister has just started fall classes in her own school, the public junior high school that sits within view of the local police station. I had not thought of it before, but that’s probably why the cops picked the new location, to better keep an eye on the local beer terrorists.
Following the night of our altercation in the car, my daughter and I both reached the same conclusion, independently, not to pursue it further. She came home early that night, apparently having been too upset to go to the movie. The next day she told her mother that I had acted like a “bully and a beast,” but she also admitted under questioning that probably she had acted in a way as to have contributed her share to the unpleasantness, as well.
That was good enough for me. She and I are going on from here. Without having to say it, she still loves me, I know that. And she knows how I feel about her. I think my perception of her has changed slightly, possibly for the better. Perhaps I respect her a bit more than before. Another blow for women’s lib.
Actually, I’m feeling pretty good about myself today. At the office yesterday, there was a memo circulated from Frank congratulating “all personnel involved in the arrangements and preparations” of the Vegas wingding. Apparently the cocktail party by the pool that I didn’t attend was a popular success with our customers. And the first publicity emanating from the show turned up as a cover feature story in Larry Hopkins’ The American Review which one of our salesmen got an advance copy of and sent to Frank. Across the top of the memo sent to me, I am able to decipher a scribbled note from Frank, one word: “Good.”
Diana Payne-Pignatelli dropped by my cubicle during the day to comment favorably on my efforts to bring Tony and Morrie back together. “That was good, Brock,” she said.
Good. I’m doing good. Which is what I want to do. I don’t see that Morrie and Tony will ever be friends, but they don’t have to be, really. They are working together. In time, one or the other will go under, or both will. May the better man win. Tony tells me, incidentally, that one of the Krauts won the Vegas raffle, but decided to take the money, instead of the blow job, then blew it in fifteen minutes at blackjack.
My wife is not with my son and me as we drive back to the school today. She has a photography assignment this morning. A family sitting, which will net her $150, and will go into the pot to help pay for my son’s schooling. We have to get it up, whether he gets kicked out or not. He is paying the $600 for the lawyer who will represent him in Superior Court next month, the money to come from wages I will pay him for jobs that we will find for him to do around the house and yard during vacations. Like scraping the house. I already owe him $150, my wife tells me, for what he has done so far. We are assured that after he has joined the Department of Public Works road crew for forty hours of ditch digging, he will be free and clear of all charges, and as long as he doesn’t get busted again, he will not have a police record.
My son has to be back at the school at 9 this morning for a class in algebra. Fifteen minutes away, at 8:30 I catch the news headlines on the radio. The government is still debating whether or not to launch F-111 jets on guerrilla strongholds in the mountains. The news media is not overly critical, but there does seem to be opposition to the idea from some of our staunchest allies. Canada, of all places, has joined with several Organization of American States members to caution against such an attack. No more talk about the Cuban soldiers. Some talk show radio commentator says we have put up with all we can stand, and the time for punitive action is now. I understand the impatience, but on reflection, I don’t agree. My wife suggested this morning that we send telegrams to our Congressmen and Senators urging restraint, and I, the professional communicator, did that, reading the message to the telephone operator off the back of an envelope I scribbled it on. I hadn’t had my breakfast yet, or even coffee, so it wasn’t deathless prose, but it said:
AMERICA THREATENED ONLY BY OWN LACK OF RESTRAINT AND INTOLERANCE TO CHANGING WORLD. WHAT IS REQUIRED IS UNDERSTANDING, NEGOTIATION, COMPROMISE AND COMPASSION. REAL STRENGTH OF THIS NATION IS ITS STRONG TRADITION AND EXAMPLE OF HUMAN DECENCY AND DIGNITY WHICH HAS INSPIRED WORLD FOR OVER 200 YEARS.
It was a little long and wordy, and when it shows up on my phone bill next month will cost a fortune, but it was before breakfast, and my feeling at the time was that after lunch might be too late.
I snap the radio off just as we reach the end of the long driveway up to the administration building at the entrance to the school. It’s a good sign, I think, that the government is still thrashing about, unable to decide whatever to do. The car stops, the motor goes off, with the now familiar shudder and shake. I look over at my son. In a little over two years he’ll be registering for the draft. I wonder what he thinks about all this turmoil in the world. I have the feeling he is concerned about more immediate matters, what it’s going to be like back at school again. To him, two years ahead must seem like eternity. Right now he has an algebra class. So I don’t ask him for his opinion on world events. Instead I say, “You gonna be all right now?”
He nods. “I’ll be all right,” he says.
“Please don’t do anything—wrong,” I say.
“I won’t. I want to get through. Get my diploma. You know, get ready for better things.”
“Great,” is all I say.
He steps out his side, and reaches in the back for his duffle bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and coming around to my side of the car.
“Get my diploma, man, then go to school for stunt men.”
“School for stunt men! They don’t have schools for that. You don’t go to school for that.”
“Well, whatever they have.”
“They don’t have anything!”
He shrugs, “Well, I’ll do it on my own, then.” He sticks out a palm for a shake.
“I thought you wanted to do something—important.”
“I do,” he says. And then, still holding his hand out in front of him, but turning the palm up in a gesture of easy and simple explanation, he adds, “Stunt work is important, Dad.”
He flips the hand back to
a position to shake again. “So long, Dad. Thanks for—you know—everything. Sorry about it all, but—it’ll be all right.”
“Will it?” I say, looking him squarely in the face.
He smiles at me. It’s that nice smile that never fails to make me feel like I’m going to do something stupid.
“Yeah,” he says.
“So long,” I say, looking back at him with a kind of wonder. “Good luck.”
“Yeah,” he says again. “Thanks, Dad. See you.” He turns, and with that jaunty hippy way of walking they have, he starts toward one of the other buildings.
A nine o’clock bell rings, and suddenly doors open out of buildings as classes change, and kids come rushing out. My son sees a couple, and waves to them, and they wave back. Stunt school! I start up the car. I’ll be late to work, but I’ll be there in time for the eleven o’clock staff meeting Frank has called in his office with Morrie and Tony and me.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1990 by Robert Riche
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2523-2
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