Vodka & Handcuffs

by Brandon Witt

  A tap on the bar got Vahin’s attention. He glanced up to find a pretty white boy in front of him. So clean-cut, he might as well have recently graduated from Yale and was here with his fraternity buddies.

  Fuck, Vahin, get your head in the game. “Hey, sorry about that. I was distracted. What can I get you?”

  “Um, I’ll have a… vodka and 7.”

  “Vodka and 7, coming up.” Strange, he’d expected the preppy to get a martini or craft beer. Within a moment, Vahin mixed the drink and slid it toward the man. He started to walk away and then paused, turning back to him. “Sorry, distracted, like I said. May I see an ID?”

  “Sure.” He’d had the drink halfway to his lips. He paused, took a drink, then set it down and fished in his back pocket. He pulled out a glossy black wallet, flipped it open, and took out his card.

  Vahin glanced at it. Twenty-two and from out of state. That explained a lot. He handed it back. “Boston, huh? Grew up close to there, but never visited. I’d like to.”

  Before the guy could answer, another man walked up and stood behind his shoulder.

  Vahin glanced at him. The hot ginger.

  The man held out his hand over the preppy’s shoulder. It took a second for Vahin to register what he held.

  A badge.

  Vahin’s heart leaped and began to pound in his throat, though he wasn’t exactly sure why.

  The preppy slid off the barstool and walked away, and the ginger stepped closer. “You just served alcohol to someone underage. Come outside with me.”

  A million thoughts tumbled through Vahin’s mind, but none of them landed long enough to make any impact. Vahin nodded and forced himself to move.

  Alex gave him a terrified look as he passed.

  “Stay here.” Vahin wasn’t sure if Alex responded or if he’d even been able to hear Vahin’s whisper through the commotion of the drag show.

  The ginger waited until Vahin had exited from behind the bar and walked toward him. He motioned toward the front door.

  Vahin did as instructed, casting wide eyes at Pat, where she stood behind the host stand.

  She started to walk around the glossy black box. “Vahin, are you okay?”

  The ginger cut him off before he could reply. “Ma’am, I need you to stay here.”

  Pat looked like she was going to argue, but then she nodded and moved back to where she’d been.

  Cool air rushed over him as he stepped out onto the front patio. He shivered, though that may not have been due to the temperature. Everything was a blur, the streetlamps and zooming headlights hazy around him. Music from the show drifted through Mary’s open windows.

  He’d served a minor?

  Police?

  “Over here.” The ginger took his elbow, tightly, and led him out of the patio entrance and onto the sidewalk.

  It didn’t even enter Vahin’s mind to resist or ask the man not to touch him. It was then he noticed another person waiting by a car parked several yards away. A police car. And this man was in full police uniform.

  Vahin halted at the sight. He looked at the ginger, trying to remember what you were supposed to say when the police were speaking to you. Nothing was coming back. Part of him wanted to run. As fast as he could. “Who are you?”

  Who are you? That’s what he came up with?

  “Not really your business, but I’ll play along.” The ginger pointed to himself and the older white cop who was now making his way toward them. “I’m Officer Andrew Morris, and this is my partner for the evening, Officer Greg Holland.” He gave a sneer that wiped away his good looks. “And who are you?”

  “Ah,” Vahin glanced at the older officer, then back to the ginger… Officer…. He’d already forgotten their names. What was he supposed to do? Was he required to give his name? Was he supposed to request a lawyer? He tried again. “I’m, ah… wait, why did you pull me out here again?”

  A strange expression crossed the cop’s face, part anger, part… something else… enjoyment? “You served a minor alcohol this evening.” He tightened his grip on Vahin’s elbow. “And you are?”

  He started to pull his arm away, then stopped. “My name’s Vahin.”

  “I need to see some form of ID, Vahin, if you have any.”

  Vahin nearly refused, then figured that would only make the situation worse. With his free arm, he pulled out his wallet, then looked at the officer. “Could you release my arm, so I can get it out easier?”

  The officer hesitated, then let go of Vahin’s elbow and dropped his hand to the holster of the gun at his waist. “No funny business.”

  Vahin thought he might puke. He pulled his driver’s license out and handed it over.

  The cop held it up so it fell into the stream of light from the streetlamp. “Vahin… Arora, huh? If this is even a real ID. There’s some pretty convincing forgeries out there.”

  The other officer chuckled.

  The ginger cop looked from the driver’s license to Vahin. “Vahin Arora. Unusual name. Sounds… foreign. Sounds kinda like a Muslim, doesn’t it, Holland?”

  “Yep.”

  Vahin didn’t respond. He glanced around. No one on the patio; it had been too cool to open it up. There was no one anywhere.

  “That name Muslim, Vahin?”

  Vahin refocused on the cop… Morris. That was it. He straightened his shoulders. “Indian, Officer Morris. Vahin is a Hindu name, actually.” Why the hell had he said that?

  “Don’t look like an Indian to me.” Officer Morris addressed his partner. “Does he to you, Holland?”

  “Nope. And I don’t think this place is a reservation, so probably not an Indian.”

  At that moment, Vahin realized no matter what he said, he was in trouble. The knowledge gave him a bit of his courage back. He stared the ginger right in the eyes. “Officer Morris? I thought you were partners with Officer Barton?”

  “Ah, you know me.” Vahin’s words didn’t have the desired effect; it seemed the cop had no issue with being recognized. Instead, his smile grew. “Well, you’re right. I am partners with Marlon, for now. Unfortunately, he got a little cough and couldn’t come in today, so Officer Holland here did me a good turn and picked up a bit of overtime. But surely you already heard Barton was feeling… weak today.”

  So the officer knew who he was as well. Whatever was happening wasn’t a coincidence. Anger rushed through him, erasing the fear that had been holding him back. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to pull, Officers, but I didn’t serve a minor this evening. Or ever. I’m good at my job, and I never bend the rules. Not for anyone.”

  Morris’s smile only grew. “Well, my boy, I’m afraid that isn’t true. You fell for a sting and weren’t smart enough to see a clearly fake ID.” Again he addressed the other cop. “Where’s the kid, Greg? Let’s introduce Mr. Arora here to someone smarter than himself.”

  The other cop’s voice sounded hesitant for the first time. “He, ah, didn’t hang around.”

  “What?” Morris glanced over his shoulder, then back at Vahin quickly. “Never mind.” He reached out and gripped Vahin’s elbow once more. It took all Vahin’s willpower not to jerk away. “I’m gonna need you to step into the car. We’re going to take a little trip down to the station.”

  Vahin jerked his arm away. “No.”

  “Excuse me?” Officer Morris took a step toward him, satisfaction and excitement leaking from his expression. “I’m not sure you have a choice in that, boy.”

  The other officer walked closer, Vahin saw him begin to pull out his gun.

  Vahin started to argue, tell him he’d not even been read his rights, when a voice spoke out of the darkness.

  “Just so you all know, I’m filming every bit of this on my iPhone, and my brother is doing the same from a different vantage point.”

  Vahin nearly melted. Pat’s footsteps sounded over the sidewalk as she drew closer.

  She continued, “Officers, am I to understand this bartender served alcohol to a minor? That is
the issue, is that correct?”

  Morris’s expression grew hard, his lips drawing into a thin line.

  The other officer spoke. “Yes.”

  Vahin could see instant fury wash over Morris, but he didn’t turn to look at his partner.

  “I thought so.” Pat drew nearer, then stopped. “Believe me, I know how this goes. You write him a ticket, or warrant, or whatever, you hand it to him, and then he goes to court. He doesn’t get in your backseat. He doesn’t get touched by you anymore. And he definitely doesn’t require you to pull your gun.”

  Over Morris’s shoulder, the other cop hastily slid his gun back into his holster.

  Triumph sounded in Pat’s voice. “I’m not sure you understand me, Officer. This is being filmed. Right now, your hand is on Vahin’s elbow. You’re touching him, and he’s done nothing more than deserve a ticket. I suggest you go ahead and write it and be gone.”

  Vahin finally glanced behind him, both marveling at Pat and afraid she was pushing things too far. Pat stood less than five feet away, high-heeled shoes planted firmly shoulder width apart, the frosted tips of her hair reflecting the lights, both hands holding her phone out in front of her as if she were the one holding a gun. Though her hands trembled, her voice didn’t.

  “So what’s it going to be, Officers? A ticket or does this video of you touching Vahin and whatever happens next continue to stream live on YouTube?”

  Morris’s grip dropped away. His eyes met Vahin’s with unexplained hate for several seconds, and then he moved back.

  In less than three more minutes, it was over.

  The officers got into their car and drove away.

  Vahin crumpled the yellow ticket in his hand and stuffed it in his pocket as he turned to Pat, who still stood pointing her phone at him. He moved toward her. “I think you can stop live streaming now.”

  Her voice finally started to shake. “I’m not live streaming. I have no idea how to do that.”

  Despite himself, Vahin let out a laugh and closed the distance between them, lifted her phone, and wrapped her in his arms. “Was it even filming?”

  She nodded against his chest. “Yeah, I think so, but Steven wasn’t actually at a window. He’s not even here. I followed you out.” A sob broke and her back shook.

  Vahin pulled her tighter. “That doesn’t matter.” He felt a tear run down his cheek. “Thank you, Pat. I don’t know what would’ve happened—”

  A door slammed, and there was more pounding of feet. Without releasing her, both Vahin and Pat angled toward the sound.

  ManDonna bounded toward them, her beehive wig wobbling back and forth. “The show just ended, and Alex told me. Are you two okay?” She looked around, not waiting for their answer. “Where are they?”

  Only then did Vahin notice ManDonna was barefoot, both of her stiletto-heeled shoes clutched in her hands like they were a pair of samurai swords. He had no idea why, probably because he was losing his ever-loving mind, but Vahin began to laugh. Laugh until he could barely breathe. Laugh until the tears truly fell, tears that had nothing to do with the laughter.

  HE NEEDED to be alone. Just to have half an hour to sit in his own mind so he could unravel… what? What needed unraveling? There was no great mystery to solve and really nothing to be done. As his father had said at the end of it all—“Now it is what it is, and you live with it.”

  But how was he supposed to live with the entire force knowing he was gay? Knowing that the man they’d worked beside for so many years wasn’t who he’d claimed to be.

  No, that wasn’t right. He was still the same person. He was. But he didn’t feel like it. Not at all.

  He felt exposed. Naked. Vulnerable.

  It didn’t help matters that he’d called in sick. Didn’t help that he’d have to face Chief Schmidt after his “be stronger, be better” speech, all the while knowing the man would have no illusions about what kind of sick Marlon had been. A case of the yellow-bellied flu. That was all.

  Marlon banged the hood of his car with his fist, then shook away the pain before leaning against it once more. He watched the reflections of lighted rollercoasters at Lakeside Amusement Park blur over the dark surface of Lake Rhoda. How many times had he sat here, the lights, music, and happy cries from the theme park drifting toward him as the white noise of I-70 buffered at his back?

  Ever since he’d gotten his driver’s license, this was the spot he came to think. There had been fewer houses around back then, but the spot still served him well. It was where in his senior year in high school, he’d come to terms with the fact he was gay. Where he’d wept over the loss of his grandmother less than a week before graduating college. Where he’d had to choose between a career in law enforcement or the friends who said he was betraying his race. It had always offered clarity.

  It didn’t that night. Too many thoughts crowded his mind, making him feel like a million people were screaming in his head.

  Maybe if he’d come here first. Not spent the entire day…. Honestly, he couldn’t remember how he’d spent the day. He’d wandered around his apartment aimlessly and then the city. Wandered until he’d found himself standing on his parents’ doorstep and then being ushered into his childhood home.

  For a moment, it had felt like the right decision. Instantly knowing something was wrong, of course, his mother had led him to the kitchen table and began reheating the leftover casserole she and his father had eaten earlier in the evening.

  Half of the plate of food was gone when his father placed both elbows on the table and leaned forward, his gaze leveled on Marlon’s. “Spill it. What’s happened?”

  Feeling like he was coming out to them all over again, Marlon struggled to find words. Then the words wouldn’t stop. Tumbling out of him in such number that the food was forgotten and cold before he ended.

  “It’s all gone to shit. I—” Marlon’s breath caught, and he glanced at his mom. He hadn’t let a curse word slip in front of her since he was thirteen. “Sorry. I mean, everything is wrong. Ever since Sam left to be with his mother-in-law, I started hating my job. I absolutely hate it. My new partner is a racist, a—he’s horrid and unsafe. I don’t know if I can do it anymore, if I even want to. Maybe if I… moved….”

  His mother, whose gaze had gone hard with the cuss word, instantly got teary. “No. No, baby. You can’t leave. Your home is here. We love you. Your nieces and nephews need you. You can’t—”

  His father cut her off. “Celeste, Marlon’s a grown man. He isn’t tied to Denver or to us. If he—”

  She interrupted him right back, an unusual act for his normally wives-should-be-submissive mother. “No. No, you don’t, Larry Barton. You’re not giving my son permission to leave me.” She turned a hard gaze back on Marlon. “And my son doesn’t run away. My son is a police officer. My son protects. My son is brave, and strong, and good. He does not run away.”

  He held his mother’s gaze for several seconds, feeling completely naked in front of her. Hearing echoes of the pride and joy both of his parents had felt when he’d announced his choice of law enforcement. When he’d graduated the academy. When he’d let them hold his badge. The one other time he’d felt his mother’s disapproval was when he’d confessed that he was gay.

  “They know, Mom. Everyone.”

  She didn’t need any other explanation. Her eyes widened in what looked like fear, and then hope seemed to take its place. “Maybe this is the time, dear.”

  Marlon didn’t require clarification; this was an old argument. An event he knew she prayed for constantly.

  She went on. “The Lord works how he does, Marlon. He’s provided you a fork in your path, and you can choose the way that leads to him. There will be no more shame, no more conflict. Nothing left of this issue because it won’t exist.”

  None of the old anger he used to feel at his mother’s belief that God would wipe away his “affliction” if Marlon would simply have faith rose up in him. Maybe he was too tired. He didn’t see judgment in her
eyes. Only fear for her son’s soul and a rekindled hope of this new possible salvation.

  No. He felt no anger. More guilt, but no anger. By dumping all this at their feet, he’d opened her up to the illusion he might be different than he was, good enough, finally, for the God of his parents.

  He searched for the right words to correct his mother, but they didn’t come.

  His father, who had no less faith than his wife but was worldly enough to know his son, shook his head. “Dear, that isn’t why Marlon is here. And I don’t believe it’s a path he’s willing to start down.” He turned his attention to Marlon. “There’s nothing for you to figure out, son. The truth is out, and you made your choice a long time ago. It’s too late to hide it anymore. Now it is what it is, and you live with it. No more hiding. Be the son we’re proud of.”

  Be stronger, better, tougher.

  He wasn’t sure if he could. He was tired. Like he was 1,001 years old. Just tired. Like he’d been waging war all his life and there was nothing left to fight for.

  Be stronger, better, tougher.

  He fixed his gaze on the uneaten food on his plate. “I met someone.” Blood pounded behind his ears. He’d not planned on telling them. Not tonight. Not for a long time, if ever. He and Vahin had barely met. Why would he bring it up now? He’d dated other men for months and never brought them home to meet his family. Never even brought them up to his family.

  But what had been planned about this night?

  He forced himself to look up and meet their stares and start again. “I met someone. His name’s Vahin. It’s… new. But I think….”

  His mother shook her head, ever so slightly. Probably didn’t even realize she’d reacted at all.

  Marlon nearly stopped talking. “For the first time, I think I might have found what you two have. I’d kinda given up on that.”

  No one spoke, but tears rolled silently down his mother’s cheeks. He could see the shift in her eyes. Maybe her healing fantasy was finally breaking.

  Finally his father cleared his throat. He started to speak, then cleared his throat again before words came. “So you’re telling me that my brave and strong son has met someone he might love and is thinking about running away because other people know?”