“—all for today’s smooth as silk traffic report. Anyway, it’s gonna be another hot one out there, so be sure to throw an extra ice pack into your lunch pail, fellas! It’s 6 AM, and that means it’s time for living legend Miles Cratis and his smokin’ hot single, ‘So What’.”
The dulcet tones of the piano and bass intro to one of my favorite songs of all time washes away my slumber. Without realizing it, my tail begins twitching in beat to the tune. I feel the smile spreading across my face as I lift my head from the pillow, but…
Bringing a hand up to my cheeks, I feel the wet remnants of tears. Goddamn it. I had that dream again. It doesn’t happen every night, but when it does, there’s always waterworks. Alright, pull yourself together, Aubrey. It was just a dream. I’m not gonna ruminate on this. Not again.
I throw my legs over the side of the mattress, focusing instead on the sultry saxophone and torrid trumpet emanating from my clock radio. Miles Cratis. What an artist. And I heard he’s in town, too. I’d love to see him play in person. I tap my foot in rhythm with his pitch-perfect trumpeting, feeling a flutter in my stomach with each rise and fall of the notes. Those humans really know how to work magic with their instruments.
I try to bring myself up to my feet, but my right knee locks up and buckles under the pressure, bringing my ass back down on the edge of the bed. Fucking thing. I start extending and retracting my leg to work the kink out of my muscle. I’ve been keeping up with my exercises every night, so why the hell is this thing still giving me grief? Am I doing something wrong, or is my doctor just an idiot?
After a minute of repeating the motion, I make a second attempt to stand up. This time, my knee cooperates and doesn’t give out underneath me. I don’t let the annoyance get to me, choosing to focus on the music again as I take care of my morning rituals. My one-bedroom apartment isn’t anything to take pride in, but it gets the job done. I could go with a cheaper one and save a bit more money, but I’m not too hard-up for cash these days. Certainly think I could be making more, though… and doing more…
I turn on the shower, giving it a few moments to warm up a little. It’s definitely another hot day today, but my air conditioner is doing the Lord’s work. Granted, I’ve never minded the heat all that much, but a lot of my coworkers have been complaining ceaselessly, especially the fellas out running the beat. I tuck my hair into a shower cap before stepping into the porcelain basin, being sure to leave my tail hanging out on the other side of the curtain. I wash my hair and tail every few days, and today isn’t one of those days. I’m happy to have the extra twenty minutes to myself on mornings when I don’t have to deal with cleaning and drying all the hair and feathers.
Sufficiently cleansed, I cautiously climb out of the shower, taking care to not set off my trick knee again. It must be the heat that’s getting to it. I’ll just be careful with my movements today and I’ll be good as new tomorrow. My usual morning evaluation in the mirror goes the same as it always does; I frown as I observe the two scrawny legs, the nearly visible rib cage and the pathetic A-cup breasts that make up the sorry excuse for a woman looking back at me. Not that I’m in the market for a man after… after everything that…
That was nearly eight months ago. I can’t keep living in that shadow. I can’t—
My arms involuntarily wrap around my stomach and I nearly double over as the emotions try to claw their way to the surface again. Not right now, Aubrey. Fight it. You’re already over this. It’s in the past and you’re stronger than it. You have to be stronger.
My ears register the sound still resonating from my radio. It takes a moment for the music to become recognizable past the rapid beating of my heart and my labored breathing.
Charlie Larker. ‘Blues for Alice’. 201M1956 BC. One of the finest examples of Bird Blues around, by the Yardbird himself. I have the track on vinyl and put it on from time to time. It’s not my favorite Larker standard, but it’s a damn good one. The sound of his sax pushes the dreadful feeling in my gut back below the surface, calming me down enough to release my grip on my body and continue my morning prep in a more relaxed state of mind.
Gently bobbing my head along with the beat, I finish up my daily beautification, if you can call it that. I don’t spend very long on makeup; the guys at the station give me shit for it, but I don’t care. I’m there to do a job, not turn heads. I make my way over to my small bedside closet and withdraw a blue work dress. Nothing fancy. Practical, comfortable and professional; just the way I want it to be.
As I finish getting dressed and giving myself one more review in the mirror, I glance around my apartment. Besides the music, there’s no other sound here. It’s… a bit lonely, to be honest.
Maybe I should get a pet. But what would I get? I sure as hell don’t want to be a cat lady. Twenty-four is way too early to give up and turn into an old maid. O’course, ain’t that what I’m on the way to doing?
No. Shut up. You’re fine. Just get through the week, like you always do. And, hell. It’s Monday. I can make my usual request. I’ve been putting up excellent numbers, he can’t keep stonewalling me forever.
Shutting off the radio, I give the apartment one last visual sweep before heading out, being sure to lock the door behind myself. It’s not a rough neighborhood, but I’ve got quite a record collection I’d be really pissed to lose. At least I’m on the second story so some asshole kids jimmying open the window and crawling in ain’t an option, but I still rest easier knowing my place is locked up.
Maybe a dog, then? It’d be a burglar deterrent, at least. I’d have to train the little furball, but it might be nice to have a friend, even one that can’t communicate with anything beyond a wagging tail and an occasional bark.
I’ll think about it more later.
The summer heat rolls over me in a thick wave the moment I push open the front door of the apartment building. Climate control is both a blessing and a curse; you love it when you’re encircled by it, and you desperately miss it when you’re not. It’s not too long of a walk to the bus stop, and I time my mornings pretty well so I don’t spend very long waiting. That is, so long as the line is running on time.
Thankfully, that is the case today as the green and white chariot pulls up only about a minute after I arrive at the bus stop. The ride is around ten minutes, give or take based on stops we make. I’ve come to recognize most of the other passengers on the morning route, but I haven’t gotten to know any names. I don’t enjoy talking to strangers much, being content to just spend my ride in my own head, listening to my internal record player.
On the platter now is another Miles Cratis standard, ‘Milestones’, its upbeat and rhythmic flow perfectly matching the hustle and bustle of the Old York morning commute. My fingers tap on my knee in tandem with the notes of the horn and sax as they back and forth with one another, not quite dueling but not quite acquiescing ownership of the song either. I’ve listened to the track so many times that it plays perfectly in my internal ear.
After a moment, I realize my eyes are closed. Got carried away by the melody. Not that I distrust anyone on the bus, but it’s not wise to be completely unaware of your surroundings whenever you’re in a city like this. As I regain focus of the cramped world around me, my eyes come to rest on a human gentleman seated across from me. He’s one I’ve seen frequently; though it’s not quite every day, most days he’s on this same line with me in the morning. A real fidgety individual, seems like he can never get comfortable, always wringing his hands or trying to keep his restless leg from bouncing too furiously. His thick bottlecap-lensed glasses magnify his nervous eyes as they dart around, seeming to always be on the lookout for attack.
I can’t exactly blame the fella. He’s a scrawny little guy, and the bus has a fair number of dinosaurs on it. I’ve heard a few dinos mutter slurs his way under their breath over the weeks. Personally, I’m not keen on the idea of viewing humans as a subservient species. Things were different a lot of years ago. Humans are people just like we are, capable of just as great of things. Jazz wouldn’t be what it is without the contribution of humans, after all. Hell, it probably wouldn’t even exist.
Today, though… something’s off about him. He seems more nervous than usual. What would normally just be mousey behavior comes off as downright petrified as he keeps shooting glances all around the bus, seeming to anticipate an attack at any moment. Sweat is pouring from underneath his pinstripe cap, more than just this heat would be responsible for. I wonder what’s got him so flustered?
His eyes meet mine and linger for a moment before he offers a meek smile and turns his gaze downwards. It doesn’t rest on the bus floor for long, however, as he resumes his search for whatever assailant he fears. I just shrug and go back to my internal music. None of my business.
A few minutes later, we arrive at my stop. I give the coke-bottle human one more glance before I depart; he wipes a tremendous amount of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and seems to mutter something under his breath, taking careful note of everyone who gets on the bus. I may not know the guy beyond recognizing him from these morning commutes, but I certainly hope he gets through whatever’s got him so terrified.
Stepping down from the small set of stairs that direct me to the sidewalk, I gaze up at the structure before me. Its impressive architecture is only partly responsible for the respect it commands over Brachlyn Avenue and the nearly nine square miles of its jurisdiction. The letters emblazoned around our state crest make up for the rest of its grandeur:
Old York City Police Department
Precinct 63
My little home away from home. My place of business. And a place where I want to do so much more. I know for a fact that I can be more good to Brachlyn on these streets than behind a desk pushing paperwork every day. But there’s only one person who stands between me and that dream. And his office is my first stop, just as it is every Monday morning.
I push open the massive wooden doors atop the stone steps leading up to the building’s face. Within, a spacious lobby holds a reception desk and an oak staircase leading to its second floor. All the trappings of a police station you’d imagine from a wild west movie are hidden from sight, the various holding cells concealed in the station’s sublevels. Here, it’s calming decor, wood trim paneling and pleasant atmosphere that greets those who use the building’s primary entrance.
I’ve got my destination set. I make a right down a short hall and locate the most official looking office in the building. As I gently swing open its door, the burly brown pterodactyl seated behind the intimidatingly-sized desk does not lift his gaze from the paperwork spread out before him. Without making eye contact with me, he mutters, “Yes, Carter. What is it?”
I stand up straight and look towards him with as much confidence as I can muster, my tail twitching slightly due to the nervousness I always feel when I ask the same question. “Commissioner, I’d like to request entry to the Police Academy.”
He lets out a sigh and raises his eyes to meet mine. “Carter, we’ve been over this a hundred times.”
I pause a moment before speaking. “Then let this be a hundred and one, sir.”
He shakes his head. “No, Carter. That’s still the answer.”
“But, sir—”
He abruptly cuts me off. His voice is stern and holds absolute authority. “You are a clerk, and a damn good one at that. I know how much you want to move up, but it’s just not possible.”
I won’t give up that easily. “Sir, just last year they started allowing women to—”
“I know what they started doing. Some other precincts already have lady officers, and that’s fine by me. I’m sure we’ll have some here, too, eventually. But you won’t be one of them.”
I foolishly ask the question, but I already know the answer he’s going to give me. “Why not?”
His eyes flick down to my right knee, then back up to me. The expression on his face is both weary and sympathetic. “I don’t know how many times I need to tell you this, Carter. You’re a good clerk, and you may have even been a good policewoman. But with that knee… you wouldn’t even make it a week through the Academy.”
I have to bite my lip to keep tears from starting to form in my eyes. “It’s getting better, sir. I’m doing exercises.”
He shakes his head again, seeing right through my lie. “A beat cop who can’t keep up with perps can’t serve our city. You might have a chance in some backwater town where the worst crimes being committed are chicken theft and disorderly conduct. Out here… I need people who are at their best.” He places his hands on his hips and looks down his beak at me with regret. “I’m sorry, Aubrey.”
He doesn’t use my first name often. When he does, it stings like hell. One of the only other times he had done so was shortly after my accident. He visited me in the hospital. Even brought flowers. It was an incredibly kind gesture of him, considering I was only working at the precinct for about a month at that time. I was basically catatonic, conscious and aware but unable to speak to or acknowledge those around me. When he sat next to me and put a hand on my shoulder, he used my first name:
“I’m terribly sorry this happened to you, Aubrey. Truly sorry. I can’t even imagine.”
I quickly lower my head, pushing the thoughts of that experience as far down as they will go. I mutter the words, but my voice cracks as I speak. “Thank you, sir.” I barely see the commissioner’s remorseful look past my clouded vision; I manage to make it out of his office and a few steps down the hall before the tears start falling.
Fucking… not now. Not in the office. I dart into the nearby women’s bathroom. It’s empty, not a surprise given that there’s only a few other women who work in this building, all of whom perform clerical duties like I do. I snatch several paper towels from the dispenser and dry the tears from my face, taking care to not ruin the small bit of makeup I applied. I don’t cry when the commissioner tells me “no”; it’s a weekly occurrence, only causing me to steel my resolve and work even harder towards next week. But today, I blame the dream I had. Dredging up old memories. Terrible memories.
I have to be stronger than my past.
Composing myself with one final look-over in the mirror hanging over the sink, I exit the bathroom and make my way up to the second floor. As I head towards my desk, I spot a couple of large white boxes on a nearby table. Stereotypical, given the locale, but…
Screw it. I didn’t have breakfast today, and I could go for a little pick-me-up. I throw open the box adorned with an uppercase “E” and withdraw a tasty-looking doughnut. Herbivores don’t exactly agree with eggs, so the other box contains doughnuts prepared without. Being a carnivore, I much prefer the taste of those made with unborn chicken.
I munch on the sweet fried round, already feeling my woes dissolve in its sugary bliss, and make my way towards the desk adorned with my name placard: Aubrey Carter. A small stack of paperwork already waits for me, and the pile won’t stop growing throughout the course of the day. My duties involve processing these tedious forms, tickets for minor violations mostly. Checking them for accuracy, making sure the cop who filled it out in the first place did what he needed to do, and stuffing envelopes with reminders of varying severity for tickets that have gone unpaid. All in a day’s work for a woman who’s apparently not fit to do anything but this menial and repetitive task.
Thankfully, they let me keep a small radio by my desk. So long as I don’t have the volume cranked loud enough to bother anyone else, I’m allowed to listen to whatever I want. The dial never moves from the local jazz station. The music helps me get through the day, transforming tedious busywork into melodic therapy. Regardless of how sloppy the forms I’m passed are, I never get frustrated when I’ve got my friends on the other side of the radio waves keeping me company.
“—over there’s the break room, and this is where most of the paper pushin’ gets done. Speaking of…” The voice is that of Officer Duffy, a seasoned cop who’s been working this precinct for over ten years. His slicked back hair makes way for the two pronounced ridges on the top of his dilophosaurus head. He gestures in my direction. “This here’s Aubrey. She’ll handle processing your ticket and citation paperwork as you bring it to her.”
The dinosaur he speaks to is a younger guy, one I don’t recognize. Must be his first day at the precinct, if not his first day as a cop. I feel a twinge of jealousy as he glances at me, quickly covering it up with my reply to Duffy’s introduction. “Aubrey Carter. And I’ll process your paperwork if you bring it to me filled out proper-like. I ain’t gonna do your job for ya.” I extend a hand to the rookie, a spinosaurus with massive, rigid extensions of vertebrae that form his namesake spine. The tailor must have had a hell of a go with his uniform to accommodate that particular protrusion.
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He accepts my handshake, offering a sideways smile. “Officer Preston.” He holds my hand for a moment, glancing down at the nameplate on my desk. “’Aubrey’, huh? Ain’t that a fella’s name?”
I withdraw my hand from his. “It isn’t, no. Not exclusively, at least.”
His grin widens. I don’t like the sense I get from this guy. “But all the Aubrey’s I met have been fellas.” He scans me up and down; I involuntarily recoil away from him slightly. His sneer turns downright menacing in response. “You one of them bull dykes or what?”
My mouth falls open in shock, but before I can reply Duffy claps the back of his hand across Preston’s chest. “Enough of that, you numbskull. Aubrey is a fine worker. Don’t give her shit on your first day. Come on, I’ll show you the garage next.” Duffy starts to lead Preston away as the spinosaurus’s eyes linger on me a moment longer to gauge my reaction. He seems happy with the one he got and, with a chuckle, follows his tour guide down the stairs.
I slump back in my chair. Are you kidding me? A bull dyke?! The fucking nerve of that sleazeball. And Duffy didn’t even correct him. Granted, me and Duffy aren’t best buds but he fucking knows I ain’t no lesbian. I was married, for Christ’s sake. I—
My heartbeat begins to accelerate and the pain in my stomach makes itself apparent once more. Phantoms rattling their chains inside my mind and body yet again. I nearly keel over from the wave of despair that lashes out at me.
The sounds of horns playing in perfect rhythm with one another backed by a gentle piano, smooth bassline and light drum and cymbal taps break me free from the dreadful memories trying once more to worm their way forward. ‘Doxy’. Sonny Rawlind. 201M1954 BC, originally recorded with Miles Cratis. It’s sometimes mistakenly credited to Cratis for composing it, but it’s a Rawlind track all the way. I have two versions of it on vinyl, and both sing the sweet song of what’s possible when two of the greatest jazz minds put their skills to work on the same track.
I slowly lower myself back into my chair, remaining conscious of my breathing as I go. It was a close call, but I’m good now. I can’t keep having these fits, though. This just won’t do if I’m trying to prove to the commissioner that I’m ready to move up. He thinks my knee is the problem, but if I freeze up every time my past knocks on my door I’m really gonna be useless.
I keep my head down and make it through the rest of the workday. The music helps keep my mind off things. A lot of the fellas around the station think I’m antisocial. A few tried being friendly, one even asked me out. I don’t really try to be closed off. I just find myself not interested in their conversation, not interested in opening up to them. Nobody ever compliments my music, either. They just make snide remarks about it, tell me to turn off the racket, usual shit.
Just another day blending into another day. A cycle that’ll keep going until I pull myself out of it with effort. I’ll prove my worth. I’ll get this knee fixed up and I’ll achieve what I know I can achieve.
As the hands of the clock nearly complete their journey towards punch out time, a familiar burly pterodactyl man wanders over by my desk. I glance up from the last bit of paperwork I’m processing to meet Commissioner Aaron’s focus. He looks down at me with a stern expression. He’s a tough man to get an emotional read on, but I can’t help but sense a twinge of sympathy in his eyes.
He opens his mouth to say something, stops, considers for a moment, then plops two slender pieces of cardstock on the desk between us. “Fella dropped these off at our station. Not sure why, his nightclub ain’t in our jurisdiction. Might have just been trying to curry some favor with the OYPD all around town, I don’t know. I was gonna toss ‘em, but…” He glances at the radio next to me, quietly emanating one of the last songs it’ll sing before I shut it off for the day and head home. “Well. You’re the only one in the office with a taste for that sort of music. Figured, why let ‘em go to waste?”
I cock my head at the commissioner before looking down at the items he placed on my desk. As the words printed on the slender slips register in my mind, my eyes widen and my breath hitches in my throat.
Birdland Nightclub presents
Miles Cratis
Tuesday, August 25th, 201M1959 BC
8:00 PM
Admit One
My gaze shoots back up to the commissioner. “HOLY SH—” I cut myself off, seeing his eyes narrow. He’s a pretty staunchly Catholic guy and doesn’t abide cursing around him. I feel my cheeks redden as I try to recover. “Commissioner! Are—are you sure I can have these?!”
He shrugs. “It’s this or the waste basket for ‘em. Yours if you like.” He gives me a nod and a slight grin. “Have a good evening, Carter.”
I can’t stop the smile that tugs at my lips. “Y-you too, sir!” As he takes his leave, I pick up the tickets with shaking hands. Holy shit. Holy shit. I can’t believe it. These things are like platinum, those shows have been sold out for months before they even started. And I’m holding two tickets in my hands.
Two tickets…
I feel a twinge of regret, knowing I’ve got nobody to invite. My family’s all out of state, and I really don’t have any friends to speak of. I get along okay with a few of my neighbors, but nobody who would understand an opportunity like this. Sure, I might get someone to agree to come, but they’d probably be bored the whole time. And that’d be too disrespectful to Miles Cratis to bring someone who won’t appreciate his craft the way it needs to be appreciated.
No. I’ll go by myself. I take one of the two tickets and motion towards the trash can next to my desk.
I can’t do it. I can’t throw something like this out…
Alright. I’ll keep it. Maybe on the way into the club there will be some poor schmuck at the door begging to be let in, and I can make their night. That’d be a lark. But one thing is for certain: I’m going. I wouldn’t pass up an opportunity like this for the world.
With renewed vigor, I gather my things and clock out for the day. The music follows me even after I shut off the radio, a venerable cacophony of exuberant instruments blaring in my head as my own excitement for tomorrow night plasters a stupid smile on my face. In a brief moment of clarity as I exit the station, I remember that I need to stop at the grocery store. Ran out of some necessities, and a gal’s gotta eat.
I don’t even try to keep my tail in check as I stroll down the sidewalk towards Sal’s Butcher and Grocery; it sways back and forth, coming close to clipping other folks traveling the other direction down this same pathway. It’s a metronome of my own delight, keeping rhythm with Miles Cratis’s personal performance for only me.
The grocery store is packed, as usual. Mothers and wives hurriedly fill their baskets and trolleys with the finest groceries around. A slew of herbivores seem to be battling over the best quality vegetables on display. The employees wrangle the store as best they can, filling empty slots in shelves and checking out increasingly irate customers as quickly as possible. I even spot a man or two, lost and confused in the chaos that is quite possibly the best grocery store in the city.
I deftly dodge a pair of pachycephalosaurus who are practically colliding their hardened heads against one another as they argue over ownership of a particularly juicy head of lettuce. One of the advantages of being a carnivore in this world is that some sections of the grocery store are less traveled and less brutal. I step up to the butcher’s counter and order a pound of ground beef. I think a hamburger sounds fine for dinner tonight.
Rounding out my short trip, I pick out a package of buns, a shiny tomato and a head of lettuce, opting to select from the less contentious portion of the display. Lettuce is lettuce, I’m not about to get in a fist fight over produce like some of these ladies. I bring my small selection of goods to the checkout line, and a few minutes later and a couple dollars in my purse lighter I’m on my way home.
Stepping back into the slightly cooler but still hot early evening air, I can focus on my internal jazz again. The radio inside the grocery store was playing some crappy pop music, favored tunes of the placid masses. You don’t have to think too hard when you hear the same boring four-chord structure over and over. I much prefer the complexity and bravery of jazz. They experiment. They have fun. Not everything works, but when it does, it’s truly remarkable.
The bus stop is only a minute away from the storefront. My timing is less on point in the evening, so I sometimes have to wait a little while for a bus. Still beats hoofing it the three miles away I live, especially on days when my knee is being a little prick. It’s felt pretty good since this morning, but my rejection by Commissioner Aaron keeps it in the forefront of my mind. I’ve gotta do something about it. Maybe ice it in the evenings, or try some different exercises. I need to fix this so that I can go into the Academy. I know it’s a silly pipe dream, but I haven’t wanted anything more than to be a police officer since I was a little girl. I was laughed at in the schoolyard, being told that girls can’t be cops, but now that the times are changing my dream might be attainable, if I can just get past this stupid handicap.
I take a seat on the bus stop bench, setting the paper bag of groceries at my side. Nobody else is waiting for a ride; if someone does show up, I can move the bag to give them a spot to sit, but for right now it’s me and the summer air. I remember the tickets in my purse and smile again as Miles starts playing his horn for me. ‘So What’, one of his newest songs and an absolutely beautiful composition. It woke me up this morning, and now it finds its way into my mind again. I can’t help but close my eyes, relax in the calm moment, and softly hum along with his genius.
“Excuse me, miss?”
My eyes fly open as I turn to focus on the source of the sudden, interrupting voice. A few feet away, a human stares at me, his cheeks instantly brightening as he holds up his hands in an apologetic gesture. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you…”
I push some of the hair away from my eyes. I keep it short, but it still likes to intrude from time to time, especially when I spin my head like I did to see who was addressing me. The human is pretty normal looking for a human: tanned skin, brown hair that’s a little longer than average but nowhere near long enough to make me question his gender, and dirtied work clothes. Must be getting off his shift as a… well, whatever it is he does that builds up a layer of grime like that. Still, he doesn’t come across as a slob, politely standing before me and awaiting my response.
I realize I’m still pretty tensed up from being startled. I loosen my shoulders and feel my tail feathers start to unbristle themselves. “It’s fine. I was in my own head for a second. What did you need?”
He brings a hand to the back of his neck and scratches, glancing away nervously. His bright cheeks light up even further. “Erm… uhh, well, I was just… walkin’ by, and it… well…” His eyes meet mine again as he seems to steel his resolve to ask what he wants to ask. “Were you humming ‘So What’? By Miles Cratis?”
What the—how did he know? Was I really humming that loudly? And—well, Miles Cratis is a popular jazz musician, but I don’t know that I’ve ever met anyone who would recognize his work that quickly, and especially by way of my butchered humming. I love the sounds of jazz but I know for a fact I don’t replicate it well with my voice. What’s with this guy?
All the same… I can’t help but feel a smile tug at the sides of my mouth as I offer him a reply. “Why, yes. I was.”
His posture immediately loosens as he returns my smile. “I thought so! I—well, sorry for the out of nowhere question, but I was humming it too as I was walkin’ by!”
My eyebrow lifts in his direction. “Is that so? A fan of his work, too?”
He nods his head and takes a step closer. I don’t register the gesture as being threatening or flirtatious. In fact, I don’t even know this guy’s name and I somehow feel relaxed around him. He speaks through a widening smile. “Yes, ma’am! I love his music. Real genius on the horn, total revolutionary.”
I rotate a bit more in his direction, my crossed legs remaining so as I return a bit of his enthusiasm. “You can say that again. His new record is breathtaking.”
He lets out an awkward chuckle. Between it and his reddened cheeks, he’s kinda…
“Well, I mostly hear him on the radio. No shortage of his stuff on the local jazz channel, though.”
I can’t help but let out a soft hum. What the hell is getting into me? I try to wrap up the conversation politely, the bus should be here any minute. “Pleasure to meet a fellow jazz enthusiast.” My hair intrudes on my eyes again; I brush it away and attempt to give him a courteous smile and nod, hoping the gesture will illustrate to this fellow that our social transaction is concluded, but I can’t manage to find the expression. My eyes linger on him for a moment longer than I intend them to. His cheeks are absolutely burning red. Doesn’t come across to me as a shy sort, but maybe one who doesn’t interact with dinosaurs the most gracefully. Of course, it’s hard for humans to interact with us when there’s still so much societal pressure to navigate, but…
Something about him is different. Who is this guy that just randomly stopped and questioned me on my humming? He was able to pick out Miles Cratis’s tune from my tone-deaf rendition. He must be a jazz fan with a keen ear to be capable of such a feat.
His eyes remain locked to mine, their gentle blue offering a reflection of my own. Human eyes are smaller and house a round, black pupil whereas dinosaurs have diamond-shaped pupils that are often similarly colored to our irises. Many dinosaurs find human eyes to be boring and lifeless, not communicating as thoroughly as the eyes of our own species. But I don’t agree with that sentiment. Instead, I find myself examining this man’s eyes closely. They seem… kind.
A kind-looking human who likes jazz.
My mind wanders to the spare ticket that my purse holds. Would it be too brazen of me to ask him to join me? That would seem like I was asking him on a date, wouldn’t it? And I don’t want…
Or do I?
I open my mouth to reply, but my words are cut off before they even form by a loud, echoing pop. It’s shortly followed by a second, then three more in rapid succession.
Gunshots. And they’re not far away.
My head whips around to the nearby alley. Those shots were only a block away, maybe less, and this will be a direct route to the scene.
The man who was just smiling and blushing at me a moment ago is jolted from his own hold by the sound, flinching before spinning in the same direction as me. “Holy fuckin’ shit, was that gunshots?!”
I’m on my feet. Cop or no, I’m not standing by if someone just got shot. My tail knocks the grocery bag to the ground as I take off, scattering my groceries across the concrete. I don’t take a second look at them as I tear down the alleyway in the direction of the sound.
Footsteps behind me. This human is following me, running a few feet behind. Why?
“Are you fuckin’ crazy, lady?! Usually you go in the opposite direction of gunshots!”
There’s no time to explain everything to him, so I lie instead. “I’m a cop!”
“Holy shit, really?! Well, then, go get the bastard!” Though he’s given me his blessing, he still runs after me.
I glance over my shoulder in irritation. “This is dangerous, you shouldn’t be—”
He suddenly stops as we round the alley corner, his eyes widening immensely as he looks past me. I follow suit, spinning to see what he sees.
Propped against the brick exterior of one of the buildings forming the edge of this alleyway, a man struggles to breathe as he claws at several perforations in his chest and stomach. A slicked vertical trail of blood on the wall behind him denotes where he slid down to his seated position, and the gurgling from his throat indicates how much time he has left if he doesn’t get help.
My eyes launch upwards and away from the wounded man, the new perspective of the rounded corner offering only the faintest glimpse of someone fleeing. The tip of a tail is all I see that sprints around the corner of an adjacent alley across the street.
The shooter.
My feet launch me in the direction of the fleeing form as I shout over my shoulder. “Get him help! I’m going after the suspect!”
No response. There’s no time to check on the jazz enthusiast who followed me to the scene of a crime; I’ve got more pressing matters to attend to. Namely, proving my worth and catching this perp who just attempted murder. I charge across the street, hearing the screeching brakes and blaring horn of a delivery truck as I make the dangerous maneuver. No time to apologize to that driver.
I make it across the street and into the escape alley. I’m close. If I can just get around that corner I can ID the suspect and—
CRACK!
No. No, no, fuck no, not now.
My hands shoot in front of me to break the fall as best I can as my knee seizes up, instantly halting my sprint and sending me hurtling to the paved ground in the alleyway. Several jagged pieces of gravel embed themselves into my palms and elbows, the searing ache and burgeoning blood rivulets causing me to grit my teeth. I didn’t get around the corner, but if I can at least see…
I start crawling on my elbows, pulling my worthless leg behind me as intense pain fires from my right knee. Fucking thing. Fucking piece of shit. I can’t miss this chance. I can’t—
Just as I arrive at the corner, heaving myself as far forward as I can in one final lunge, the telltale sound of screeching tires informs me that I’m too late. They got away. Their getaway ride was stationed a block away, and they only had to outrun an enfeebled and crippled woman pretending to be a cop to get away with shooting a man in broad daylight. Goddamn it. Goddamn this fucking knee. Goddamn this worthless woman.
I bring my fist down on the concrete below me, flecking blood from my palms across the ground with the motion. No tears fall; only bitterness and hatred reside in my mind now.
The commissioner was right. I can’t be a cop.
Slowly, I place a hand on the brick wall next to me and try to swing my right leg around to unlock my knee. The motion is painful, both due to my bloodied palm and the angle I have to wrench my leg to bring it in front of my seated posture. My dress is absolutely ruined, scraped and ripped beyond recognition between my tumble and subsequent army crawl. Bracing myself, I put my hands on either side of my knee and pop the joint, feeling both screaming pain and relief in one motion. My leg can move properly again but feels tremendously weak due to the strain.
Using the wall for further leverage, I pull myself up to my feet, being careful to put as little weight on my right leg as I can manage. Thankfully, my tail helps to counterbalance my stance, so unless my knee seizes again the odds of me taking another tumble are low. In embarrassment and dejection, I limp back to the scene of the crime, hearing the sound of an approaching siren as I arrive next to the man I left behind in my pursuit.
He’s as white as a ghost. I don’t see any vomit on his shirt or on the ground, but I worry that a stiff breeze might knock him over. He stares past the individual who was shot towards a small indentation on the adjacent alley wall. The crevice holds several garbage bags of unknown age, many of which are split open with trash strewn about, likely the doing of rats. I doubt the locale holds any significance; the jazz enthusiast seems to be staring into space.
As I arrive at his side, I place a hand on his shoulder, both to get his attention and to steady my own balance as my knee continues to threaten me with immobilization. He barely reacts. Before I can say anything to him, my eyes rest on the victim. His arms hang limply at his sides, and his neck no longer holds the weight of his head. I don’t consider myself squeamish, but I still gasp, not at the revelation that this body no longer houses a soul, but as the characteristics of this man register with me.
Large, coke-bottle lenses dangle at the end of his nose, magnifying his now-lifeless eyes just as much as they always did. A pinstripe cap lays on the ground next to the human, aiding in collecting some of the blood that escaped onto the concrete. His frozen expression of terror offers a conclusion to what had him so frightened this morning.
I never even got to ask him his name.
I turn back to the human standing next to me. His face is one of shock, his eyes wide and his mouth frozen slightly agape. I don’t blame him. Seeing one of your own kind gunned down like this… it’s a lot for him to take in, I’m sure.
The sound of squealing tires and squad car doors being thrown open clue me in as to what’ll happen next. I get the man’s attention by gently squeezing his shoulder, he turns my way, still not blinking and still managing his breathing as best he can. I offer him as comforting a smile as I can. “The cops are here. They’re gonna ask you a bunch of questions, but don’t panic, alright?” He gives me a meek nod, his face still ghostly white.
Though it’s a tall order with a dead body only a few feet away from us, I do my best to lift the heavy air hanging over the alley. “I’m Aubrey Carter. I never got your name, fellow jazz enthusiast.”
His color returns ever so slightly. “Samuel. Samuel Lawson.”