As the cab door latches shut and the vehicle merges back into traffic, I crane my neck to watch Sammy fade from sight. He doesn’t take his eyes off of me until he can no longer see me beyond the tangle of steel and headlights that still clutter the street, even at this late hour. I bring a hand to my cheek, feeling the burning hot capillaries just beneath my scales. They betray my emotions, parading before an audience of none that my heart is racing, my mind is spinning, and my deepest, most private recesses are yearning. Longing for the embrace and passionate love of a man with piercing blue eyes and handsome tanned skin. A muted sigh escapes as Sammy’s bravado replays, his lips dancing across the surface of mine in explorative exultation. My imagination desperately clings to the moment like it’s an enrapturing song on a record, and I refresh the needle to the most explosive and enthralling part over and over and–
“Where to, miss?”
I involuntarily let out a yip, startled from my fantasy by the only other living being in this vehicle. He scans me by way of the rearview mirror; my face flushes to twice the brightness it had previously exuded. Stutters tumble from my lips before I can form a coherent response. “Ahh… um, the, uh… Police Department. Precinct 63, over on Brachlyn Avenue, please.”
He raises an eyebrow at me before offering a brief affirmative; I do my best to sink into the recess of the backseat out of embarrassment. Who knows what manner of lascivious expression I was wearing when the cabbie poofed into existence from nothingness and took note of me. My mind was… most certainly elsewhere…
Graciously, the driver does not fill the silence with idle chatter. Some are regular motor mouths, prodding with questions and cracking jokes. Perhaps the faraway, lustful gaze he pulled me away from turned him off to the idea of getting chummy. Hell, he might think I’m a crazy person, asking to be brought to the Police Department at close to eleven in the evening. That said… I do not mind the silence. I’d rather be in my own head right now.
With Sammy.
The end of my tail rests in my lap, furtively twitching as its own primitive mind recalls the sensation of Sammy’s back. The feathers bristle and quiver of their own accord, sending chills from the tip of the appendage all the way up my spine. I’ve been apart from Sammy for all of two minutes and already long for his touch again. His gentle hands, his calming breath, his tender kiss…
I shake my head. Yes, the night went well, and yes, I’m glad it turned into a date, and yes, my heart is racing at the thought of being with him again. But there’s more pressing matters that need my attention. My emotions shift from longing to frustration. I need to get into the station. I need to get in contact with the commissioner. I need to get this cleared up as soon as possible. The show was already ruined, but Miles Cratis doesn’t deserve to rot in a cell because a couple racist assholes decided to arrest him.
As I mull over my plan of action, the cab slows to a halt in front of the police station. I begin digging in my purse, but the driver reminds me that the “gentleman” already paid for my ride. My face begins warming up again; I quickly thank the cabbie and exit the vehicle, hearing it zip down the road behind me as I gaze up at my moonlight-soaked destination.
The station’s herculean presence over the road is imposing while the sun is out, but at night the building appears downright ominous. Sparse lighting tickles its emblem and the surrounding concrete festoons that rest above the main entrance. Despite looking at this building five days a week, my visitation occurs during the daylight hours. Now, it feels cold, almost otherworldly. Very few people consider a police station welcoming, but this haunting monolith rising from the hewn earth fills me with the desire to go in any direction but toward it.
I take a deep breath before marching up the stairs. The front entrance isn’t locked; though most of the administrative personnel work the standard nine-to-five shift, policing a city like this is a twenty-four hour operation. Blue uniforms pass to and fro, some nursing cups of coffee, others hauling irate handcuffed individuals to the lower levels of the station for booking. I don’t see Duffy or Preston anywhere, so I purposefully stride over to the front desk.
Unlike the humorless Ruth that works the same hours as me, the night shift desk corporal beams an enormous smile in my direction from beneath the mop of curly hair atop his rhinorex head. Somehow, he seems both younger than me and older than me at the same time. “Good evening, miss! How can I help you?”
I blink. “Umm… I need to speak to the commissioner. Can you call him?”
His smile does not falter, and his tone remains overly jovial. Whether it’s this fella’s default mood or a copious amount of caffeine in his system, I can’t be certain. “Ma’am, we can’t be calling on the commissioner for every little thing! I’m sure there’s something I can help you with? Is this in regards to a violation of yours or someone you know?”
Oh. Of course. He doesn’t know I work for the police department. I can’t blame him, considering I don’t know his name, either. With a click of my tongue, I fish around in my purse before withdrawing the identification card adorned with my name. “I work here, in clerical, but it’s not about that. I need to speak to Commissioner Aaron regarding a man that was arrested tonight. It’s urgent.”
The young rhinorex’s eyes light up. “Ohh! I see, Miss…” He leans in, squinting past his thin-rimmed silver glasses to read the name on my ID. “... Carter! You can head on over to his office.”
“... Wait, he’s in right now?”
“Mmhmm! Been here since I clocked in, as far as I know.” I glance down from the receptionist’s friendly gaze, perplexed by this news. He was here all of today’s day shift, too. Shouldn’t he have gone home by now?
The smiling framed portraits of commissioners past watch me travel toward my destination. I ignore their frozen stares, going over once more how I want to approach this situation. I have to convince the commissioner that Miles Cratis is innocent and shouldn’t be detained here. I have to tell him about Duffy and Preston, how far out of their jurisdiction they had to go to have pulled something like this. How out of line they were. He has to be able to see that what they did was wrong. He’ll be able to make this right.
The commissioner’s office door is slightly ajar, his signal that he’s not on an important call or speaking with anyone. I gently rap my knuckles against the wood as I push the portal open, peeking my head in with an awkward half-smile. Commissioner Aaron glances up from his paperwork before raising an eyebrow at me. “Carter? What are you doing here?”
I slip through the opening and close the door behind myself. “I could ask you the same question, Commissioner. You don’t always work this late, do you?”
He looses a puff of air from his nostrils. “No. It’s been… well, it’s been a day.” A scan of my outfit leads to another elevated brow. “What’s the occasion?”
I glance down at myself, only now remembering the yellow dress. The commissioner’s confusion isn’t unwarranted; I don’t dress like a slob for work, but this is an unusual level of accoutrement for me. “Oh… um, I went to that event that you gave me tickets for. The jazz club over in Cavemanhattan.” He stares at me, wordlessly awaiting further explanation of my appearance here tonight. “I… the show was interrupted because Miles Cratis–the lead performer for the band–was… he was arrested.”
Commissioner Aaron subtly shakes his head. “So why are you here, then? That’s Cavemanhattan jurisdiction, probably Midtown North–”
“It was Duffy and Preston that arrested him. Miles Cratis stepped outside during a break and, next thing anyone knew, he was bloodied and in the back of those two’s squad car.”
His eyes seem to glaze over for a moment as he deciphers what I just said before he lets out a sigh and pinches the bridge of his beak. His arms then cross themselves across his chest, one finger tapping the bicep across from it. He doesn’t respond, instead seeming to process my words.
I don’t know what’s going through his head, but I have to make sure he understands. “Like you said, that isn’t our jurisdiction. They were–”
His eyes snap up toward me. “Our jurisdiction?”
Shit. “...Your–I mean, this station’s jurisdiction…”
Another sigh. “I’ll take care of it. Thank you, Carter.”
I feel a thankful smile start to spread across my lips before it halts. He… said he’d take care of it. The commissioner is an honest man, and if he said he’ll do something, he’ll do it. So why…
Why do I feel unsatisfied with his answer?
He had turned back to his paperwork, wearing an expression of equal parts annoyance and exhaustion. I catch his attention again. “Sir. If I may ask, what are you going to do?”
He frowns. “I’ll take care of it, Carter. Thank you for your help.”
“But what about Miles Cratis?”
“I’m sure he’s being booked right now.”
“But he didn’t do anything wrong! He doesn’t deserve to be–”
“If he didn’t do anything wrong, he’ll likely be released in the morning.”
My voice unwillingly takes on a pleading tone. “Sir! This is the same thing Duffy and Preston did with Samuel, arresting a human for no reason! You have to–”
His eyes flare at me and his voice sharpens. “Carter. You are dismissed.”
My mouth hangs open in shock and defeat. Unable to overcome his steeled gaze, I sheepishly turn toward the door and slip back into the hall. My tail has coiled itself around my midsection again; I quickly push it down and back to its resting position. I hate that it does that, it makes me feel foolish and look weak. A weak woman who’s not a real police officer, just some gabbing broad who needs to be put in her place.
Standing outside the commissioner’s office, I try to force down the bubbling anger that rises in my stomach. The rage is sharped, like darts being thrown at a board adorned with images of those deserving of ire. The commissioner should have shared my righteous zeal and stormed down to the booking room to free Miles Cratis. Duffy and Preston should be fired on the spot. Even my face is peppered with needle points, a worthless waste of scales that can’t even help an innocent man that needs help.
My fingers tighten into fists. All at once, the anger guides my feet deeper into the building. I make a beeline toward a rear access staircase leading to the lowest floor, less traveled and less conspicuous. The metal stairs reverberate under my soft-soled heels, but not loud enough to escape the mildewy concrete-encased column. At the bottom, a smattering of doors on either side of the off-brown hallway lead to storage areas and unused offices, and the end of the hall bends toward the holding and processing departments where detainees are carted in, ID’d if possible, and tossed into cells to await further action. Drunks are usually cut loose the following morning; more serious offenders inevitably get transferred elsewhere when the time comes.
As I stare down the hallway, blood still boiling, a sudden cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. What, exactly, am I going to do? I’m furious, yes, and filled with conviction that this is the right thing to do… but what can I actually accomplish here? I can scream at Duffy and Preston about what fools they are, but all that will do is give them further reason to antagonize me. I have no authority to reprimand or fire them. Hell, I couldn’t even set Miles Cratis free without committing a felony in the process. Regardless of being employed by the city, I couldn’t even write myself out of a parking ticket, let alone release a man from a holding cell.
Still convinced that I must do something but suddenly unsure of myself, I make a hasty decision and push through the door to the darkened locker room on my right. I’d only ever been in there once before, when I was shown the layout of the building during my orientation tour. It’s used by officers to swap into their uniforms or back into their civilian clothes; since I’m not an officer, I have no need for the space. Besides that, I don’t know that I’d care to change clothes in front of the leering eyes of men like Duffy or Preston, though if such a sacrifice meant I’d be a police officer...
I shake my head, clearing it of any unnecessary delusions of grandeur. The next shift change isn’t for another several hours, so I assume the space will be unused. Even still, I peek about the blackened chamber cautiously, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, listening for any rustling clothes or clattering lockers of an officer who might be present even with the lights off. Some species of dinosaurs aren’t bothered too much by the absence of light, after all. When I don’t hear anything and my pupils have sufficiently dilated, I quietly move through the space toward its opposite end. Past the several rows of lockers and wooden slats, I press my ear against another door, hearing the faint murmurs of voices on its other side. With utmost caution and delicacy, I pull the portal open a crack.
Beyond is a common room adjacent to booking, its handful of tables and chairs offering respite to an officer on break that doesn’t want to trudge up to the second story, or space for the mundanity of paperwork that comes with arresting a person. Presently, a handful of men occupy the chairs; some cradle coffee mugs, others scrawl upon white sheets adorned with numerous clerical lines and checkboxes. Two of these men I recognize all too well, and one of them loudly chatters as his pen slides across another form.
“–more goddamn paperwork. You guys actually take this shit seriously? I could probably just scribble punchlines from today’s funny papers and I bet nobody would even notice.” The spinosaurus’s grating, callous voice makes my feathers stand on end.
Duffy lets out an annoyed grunt before replying. “Just fill it out proper. Those bitches in clerical will make you redo it, and redo it again after that if you keep fucking it up.”
Preston’s tail snaps against the floor behind his chair. “Feh. Didn’t figure there’d be so much of this boring bullshit when I signed on.”
“Welcome to the force, this is a good chunk of what we do.” Duffy’s voice is resigned and weary, whether due to the late hour of their new shift or his own apathy toward his job, I can’t tell.
Preston sets his pen down before scratching the side of his face. “Hey, Duffy. What were we puttin’ as the reason for that skinnie’s arrest? We should keep it, uh… constant, right?”
The dilophosaurus turns to his partner, squinting his eyes. “... ‘Consistent’ is the word you’re looking for. And, yes. Our paperwork should be consistent.” He rustles a few forms before withdrawing one. “I marked it down as ‘loitering’ and ‘refusing to cooperate when questioned’. Should be good enough.”
Preston frowns. “But what about me takin’ my nightstick to his skull? Won’t they question why I bloodied him up if that’s all we’re sayin’ he did?”
Duffy shrugs. “Probably not. But, I suppose… we could add ‘battery’ to the list. He was swingin’ his hands around pretty aggressively. Good thing he wasn’t holdin’ a spear, otherwise we woulda had to escalate our response!” His chuckle is echoed by the spinosaurus next to him before they both return to their paperwork.
My teeth grind together, and my breathing is labored. The reddened veins in my eyeballs intrude into my peripheral vision. I extend my claws as I fantasize about kicking the door down, leaping across the room and tearing both of their heads from their bodies.
They made it up. They arrested Miles Cratis for no reason but the ones they just conjured out of thin air. They injured him just because they could. Despicable monsters, unworthy of their badges or their lives. Rationality is forced further down as pure, primal fury swells in its place.
Preston leans back in his seat and cracks his knuckles before throwing an arm over his chair to address another officer across the room. “Hey, Johnson. You think any more on what I mentioned about the Local 237?”
Johnson, a wide-eyed deinonychus officer with frilled elbows glances up from his lunch pail. “Uhh… not much. I mean, ain’t we already with the PCA?”
The spinosaurus’s grin spreads wider, his words slick with a feigned tone of sincerity. “Oh, naaah. I’m not talking about us switching unions! It’s more of a… volunteer opportunity! We’re looking for some able-bodied men to help with some fundraising, and sure, it’s not the station’s union but they got a good bunch of guys over there! Plus, it’d help to have some friendly faces in blue there to show our support for the workin’ fellas!”
As the other officer scratches his chin in contemplation, Preston rises from his seat and begins striding… oh no.
“I’ve got some paperwork in my locker, lemme grab you one of the pamphlets!”
I stumble backward as time slows to a crawl. He’s only a few steps away from the door; escape isn’t an option. If I tried sprinting for the other exit… even if my knee holds out, I wouldn’t get out of Preston’s line of sight in time. I briefly consider attacking him, given my continued blood boil, but I know it will lead to my firing and arrest, or worse.
There’s only one option. I desperately throw open a locker to my left, praying that it’s vacant.
It is.
I quickly shimmy into the tight space, fearing that even this will be accomplished too late, that the door will swing open and Preston’s exclamation of surprise and anger will spell my capture and punishment. With a quick heave, I yank my tail into the frighteningly restrictive confinement and pull it closed as rapidly and noiselessly as possible. Not even a half second after it latches shut, light from the door I was peering through just a moment ago pours into the room.
“Tch. Where’s that switch?” I hear Preston’s hand clumsily slap at the wall until a soft click bathes the locker room in fluorescent light. Some of it slips past the three horizontal slits in my hiding spot; I lean back as far as possible, holding my breath and trying to steady the roaring beat of my heart. I’m certain that the spinosaurus’s head is going to whip in my direction, his malevolent emerald eyes boring through the thin piece of metal that separates us.
Instead, he saunters down the row of lockers upon which my field of view rests. Near the end, he pulls open a hatch with his last name affixed at eye level. Preston rustles through his locker’s contents when the sound of another door opening intrudes upon the room. This time, it was the entrance at the other end, the one I used a few minutes ago to sneak in here. Heavy footsteps stride in our direction, the echo of leathered heel against tile reverberating against the steel surroundings. A massive shape abruptly halts in front of my porthole, smothering me in blackness again.
“Oh, hey, commissione–GRAWWKMMMPH!” Preston’s words are cut short as Commissioner Aaron crosses the space between them in two gargantuan steps before wrapping his hand around the spinosaurus’s beak, twisting his head and slamming him against the lockers next to the men. He struggles only momentarily and quite fruitlessly as the pterodactyl pins him in place, left only to peer at his captor with a wide, bewildered sideways eye. Fearful, sharp breaths escape his muzzled teeth as the commissioner speaks.
“You imbecile. You worthless sack of garbage. Twice now. TWICE in two days I get word that you are being a reckless fool!” His words are acrid and unnerving, carrying a level of anger I’ve never heard from the usually stern but kind leader. “Is this position not going to work for you? Did I make a mistake in bringing you into this department?”
The questioning seems rhetorical as the iron grip Commissioner Aaron holds around Preston’s snout prevents him from replying. All the same, he tries to mumble out a muffled reply, still held at the mercy of his boss’s imprisonment.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“You realize this position carries with it numerous responsibilities, do you not? It’s not about being a cowboy and doing whatever the hell you feel like doing. That badge isn’t carte blanche to make a mess of things and cause problems for me and everyone else around you. You are serving and protecting, first and foremost. You are expected to uphold the law and do the right thing when you wear that uniform. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
He waits, not loosening the hold he has on Preston. A moment goes by before the entrapped spinosaurus lets out a muted affirmative.
Commissioner Aaron’s posture straightens. He leers down at the chastised officer before speaking with finality. “If I hear even one more peep of you stepping out of line, I will not be as gentle as I’ve been tonight.” With one final burst of air from his nostrils, the pterodactyl releases Preston who immediately gasps for air through his now freely open mouth. He slumps down, seeming to cower away from the commissioner who spins on his heel and exits the locker room through the portal that leads to the common room. Though I can’t make out the exact words he says, his muffled voice still carries a tone of intense anger. I can only guess that Duffy is receiving a verbal lashing, though seemingly without the manhandling that Preston just got.
I stare ahead at the now seated spinosaurus, perched on the thin wooden bench that slides down the center of the lockers. I expect to see his hands curl into balls, his tail thrash about and his teeth bared in fury. Instead, he simply sits motionless, arms slumped at his sides, staring at the tiled floor between his feet. He remains like this for several minutes. The voices from the adjacent room have dulled; whether the space is now vacant or merely filled with the same officers now keeping silent after the reprimand is unclear. Finally, Preston stands, meekly placing one foot before the other to exit the room, forgetting his original reason for being here as whatever paperwork he had mentioned to Johnson remains inside his locker.
It’s only as he steps closer to my hiding spot that I notice his eyes. Within them, I don’t see rage or confusion as I expected to, given his brash and cruel exterior. Instead, I only see… fear. A clouded, faraway look as though he just received devastating news regarding a loved one’s illness. My breath catches in my throat again and I remain as still and silent as possible, fearing he’ll notice me as he walks directly toward me, but he does not. His jaw hangs slightly ajar, and he seems to mumble to himself as he turns toward the common room exit. I can’t discern what he says, but it doesn’t seem to be grumbles or blasphemies. Instead, he almost comes across as contemplative, a trait I wouldn’t expect such a horrid man to possess.
He doesn’t turn the light off before leaving the room. I wait another two minutes past his departure, listening intently for any sound of voices or footsteps. I hear none. With a little trouble I manage to disengage the latch from the inside of the locker door. It swings open, allowing me to step out and breathe a sigh of relief. Just before I turn to hustle out of this dangerous space, something catches the corner of my eye.
Preston’s locker is still open. He mentioned paperwork about… what was it? Local 237? I tiptoe over to the ajar portal and peer inside. Within, a change of casual clothes befitting a fella like Preston rests, including a tacky red-checkered overshirt and well worn slacks. Below the hanging outfit, piled beneath several other manilla folders stuffed with paperwork, the corner of a brochure pokes out, resting on top of several identicals. I grip the paper and slide it free, being careful to not shift the other items too noticeably. On the brochure’s surface is an emblem with the heads of two mules jutting from the sides of a large, stylized wheel. Below it, the words:
The International Brotherhood of Herdsters
New York, Local 237
Information and Membership Opportunities
I stuff the pamphlet into my purse and hurry toward the exit closer to the less used staircase. After taking a moment to determine that the coast is clear, I slip into the hallway and back upstairs. I do not see Preston, Duffy or Commissioner Aaron on my way out of the precinct’s front entrance. Only once the muggy evening air washes over me does my heartbeat start to slow. Sweat stains my yellow dress and my knee hollers at me, displeased with the extra stress I’ve caused it so late into the night.
A taxi cab coasts to a stop next to the sidewalk in response to my raised hand. I climb in, give the driver my street name, and proceed to slump back, relieved and exhausted. The ride is only a few minutes, and I consider simply staring out the window until my home and the bed it contains appear, but something about the interaction I just witnessed gnaws at my mind. I swing my purse around to my front and withdraw the hastily plunged folded paper.
On its surface, the same twin-mule-adorned logo stares back at me, with the same text I read only a few minutes prior. I’d only heard about the Herdsters in passing, and never anything good. Sure, they put on big smiles for parades and local events that they sponsor, but their organization has been in the news on more than one occasion. It’s usually a senator throwing accusations of corruption or treachery at the highest echelon members of the union, with some even being arrested. There’s no definitive proof that the Herdsters are crooked to the bone, hence why they can still operate in the city. Even still, I’m more than a little wary of them.
I thumb the pamphlet open, staring at the lines of text with hazy eyes. Platitudes extolling the virtues of the union grace the fold-out’s interior, testimonials of retained jobs and money saved by employers. I click my tongue, trying to piece everything together.
“Ya thinkin’ o’ joinin’ da Herdstahs?” The cab driver’s voice snaps me out of my lull. He gazes back at me through the rearview mirror, his thick accent second only to the thickness of the unibrow above his allosaurus eyes. “Dey a real good peoples, dey is!”
I blink, unsure of how he read my thoughts until I realize I’m holding the pamphlet’s front toward his field of vision. “Oh. Umm… not exactly. I was just… taking a look at this is all.”
He doesn’t seem to get the hint that I’m not in a chatty mood, immediately firing into a diatribe. “Dey’s a good union! I was workin’ fer a cab comp’ny, an’ dey got bought out, an’ I was gonna lose my job, but da Herdstahs helped me get dis job wit’ dem! I owe dem bigtime fer helpin’ me keep workin’ an’ doin’ what I loves ta do!”
Though he’s a little difficult to understand, I humor him with a question, wondering if he might be able to offer a bit more perspective. “So they hired you?”
“Nah, nah, dey was da union fer da otha cab comp’ny. Dey, uhh…” His colossal eyebrow furrows as he seems to struggle with the next word. “... absorp’d da one I was wit’! Real good guys, real good!”
Absorbed… something about the term plucks at the back of my memory, but I can’t place why. I brush it off and continue questioning him. “Have you ever been worried about the Herdsters doing anything… shady?”
He glances over his shoulder at me for a brief moment. In his glance, I spot a genuine smile. “Nah! They good guys! Real helpin’ an’ kind! Mista’ Rossi’s a good man!”
I return his smile but don’t ask anything further. The name ‘Rossi’ doesn’t mean anything to me, but this cab driver’s word about the Herdsters is all I have to go on right now. Despite coming across as a little simple, he expressed nothing but admiration for them. That said, he’s only an employee of a company that uses the union, not directly employed by them. It’d make sense that he would be unaware of, or perhaps completely blind to, any sort of misdealings they might be committing.
Before long the cab pulls over. I hand the driver several coins to cover my fare plus a small tip and bid him goodnight before entering my apartment building and moving upstairs toward my home. My knee twinges several times on the flight of stairs, threatening to send me sprawling if I misstep even slightly. Thankfully, I make it to the top without incident and unlock the door to my apartment.
In a matter of seconds, my dress falls in a heap on the floor and I collapse onto my bed. Even though I’m physically exhausted, my brain doesn’t turn itself off quite yet. I think back to the precinct, to my sudden stint in espionage as I spied on conversations that weren’t meant for my ears. A twinge of regret fires through me; I’m not a dishonest person, and I don’t enjoy eavesdropping. I’m the only one to blame for having snooped on Duffy and Preston, and my actions led to me having to hide and, consequently, watch Commissioner Aaron’s reprimand of Preston.
My mind replays the altercation, with the commissioner brutally pinning Preston down as he chastised him. I remember the fear in Preston’s normally antagonistic and demeaning eyes, both when he was being accosted and several minutes after when he finally found the strength to leave the locker room. I understand that the commissioner is an intimidating guy, and he was rightfully pissed off, but… why was Preston so rattled?
I think again of the brochure, filled with words of encouragement to join a labor union that competes with that of our precinct. Hell, our whole city. The Police Compassion Association, despite its corny name, has serviced all of the city’s police officers and administrative employees for over fifty years. Preston told Johnson that he wasn’t trying to get anyone to switch unions, but… is that true? Is Preston working for the Herdsters and trying to sway members of the police force to call for a change? If that’s true, how many other Prestons are there at other precincts in the city? Or even in ours?
I shake my head, my hair tousling against the pillow beneath it. I don’t know nearly enough about the Herdsters or Preston to start throwing around accusations. Sure, I despise the spinosaurus and want to see him gone, but I can’t go to the commissioner with a hunch and a brochure I could have found anywhere. Hell, Preston could easily hand-wave the others in his locker as the innocent gesture he presented to Johnson, and then eyebrows would raise at me as to how I knew about the contents of a male officer’s private storage space. I’m a woman, and I’m not a police officer. I have no business knowing what I know right now.
A sigh escapes my lips. The heat is sufficiently combated by the air conditioner I’ve let run all day. I know the electric bill will be outrageous, but I need to escape the stifling air especially as my mind drifts again, moving itself further back in the evening. To the jazz club, to the performance of a lifetime that was cut short, and to the man who held me in his arms and kissed me. My face flushes and my heartbeat rises as I think about him, but I push the feelings down. It was a wonderful night and he was a gentleman, but kissing on the first date… especially when it wasn’t even a date to begin with? What sort of woman will he think I am?
I’ll just have to be a bit more stern with him. I enjoy being with him, and I’d be thrilled if this turned into a real relationship, but I’m not going to rush into things. I can’t rush things. I need… to be sure. Sure that Sammy will treat me right. That he won’t…
No. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about him. You’re a strong woman. You’ve got good judgment now. That will never happen again.
I can tell that Sammy’s not that kind of man. He’s kind, and he’s gentle. The way he comforted me when I was so angry, the way he held me until I stopped trembling, the way he returned my kiss… I can tell.
Sammy… even if I’m gonna put my foot down and insist we take things at a respectful and patient pace…
I hope I dream about you tonight…
—
The hands of the clock had moved well past midnight, yet the spot next to me in bed was still empty. I rolled over again, unable to get comfortable. We were so close, and yet he kept doing this. I’ve talked to him, I’ve yelled at him, I’ve pleaded with him, but it was never anything more than a hand wave and a sarcastic remark.
The cruel thought pecked at the back of my mind like a caged raven searching its enclosure for a weak spot, desperately seeking escape. This man… wasn’t the same as when I married him. He was so charming back then, and funny. But now, he was hardly ever home. “Work”, he said. Why would he have bothered to tell me what he does for a living? Why would he tell me anything? Just kept me in the dark, expecting me to keep my mouth shut and keep the home in order like a good, obedient wife.
I brought a palm to my forehead, wiping away the stress-induced sweat. I wanted to be a good wife to him. I wanted us to be happy together. But it seemed he only ever knew how to push me away.
The sound of the front door opening and then clumsily slamming shut informed me of what I already knew. I should have just pretended to be asleep, letting him stumble into the bedroom and collapse on the bed next to me. He wouldn’t bother trying to get handsy. He hadn’t done that for months. Despite everything, I still had needs and I still wanted his affection, but he wouldn’t provide it anymore.
I heard him whistling, jovial and carefree, as though he wasn’t noisily coming home in the early hours of the morning to his waiting wife. Whistling. My teeth grated together as his loud footfalls rose up the stairs.
I wasn’t going to stand for this. He was going to get a piece of my mind.
I swung my legs out of bed and stood with a bit of a struggle, the weariness and anger combining in a vitriolic ichor in my mind. After crossing the space, I threw the bedroom door open, meeting his gaze as he reached the top of the staircase.
His form was… distorted. A shifting amalgamation of color and shape. I saw no eyes, no snout, no tail and no body. But I knew for a fact that this was my husband. The rancid smell of his evening hung heavy in the air; that was proof enough.
“Heeey, Aubie! How’s my gal–”
“Don’t you ‘how’s my gal’ me, mister. Do you know what time it is?!”
A distended blob waved lazily in front of him. “Ohh, there ya go, bustin’ my balls again. I was just–”
“I don’t care. Enough is enough. You have responsibilities, to me and–”
His voice rose instantly. “Don’t you fuckin’ tell me what my responsibilities are, you bitch! All you’ve ever been is a pain in my ass. All I want is to be left the fuck alone, but it’s nag, nag, nag, on all ends. No slack at work, no slack at home. It’s all fucked.”
Despite the sudden sullen downturn in his tone, the tears in my eyes and the anger in my heart led me to step toward him. I pleaded and chastised equally. “This isn’t who you are. I know you’re a loving man who wants what’s best for us! You have to get past this, you HAVE to do bette–”
In a flash, the chaotic void of darkness lunged forward. It grappled with the front of my nightgown and shook me violently. “DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO, YOU BITCH!”
I couldn’t scream. I could barely gasp. All that was left was the feeling of weightlessness, and then… nothing.
—
I lunge forward in my bed, sucking in air as quickly as my lungs will allow. My tail has coiled so tightly around me that it throbs, its circulation cut off by my positioning. I choke out sobs between my gasps, wiping the tears I already know are streaming down my cheeks away with my wrists.
God damnit. I just wanted one night without that dream. Why do I always wake up like this? Why can’t I get over this fucking memory?
Almost in response, my knee aches unbearably. I pull my tail free from its pinned position, feeling the tingling sensation of blood returning to it, and proceed to rub my locked tendon in the usual morning ritual it requires.
Recurring nightmares. Sobbing mess in the morning. Constantly fucked knee. How is Samuel going to tolerate a woman in this condition? How can he love someone as broken as I am? More tears well in my eyes as I keep massaging the sore joint; after a minute it finally loosens its death grip on the surrounding muscles and allows me the range of motion to shift my foot farther up the bed.
It’s a work day, Aubrey. There’s no time to feel bad for yourself. I glance at my alarm clock, realizing there’s only another three minutes before it’s going to go off. Instead of trying to doze off again, I spend the extra time continuing to massage my knee, gently stretching and retracting it, being wary of any sudden knots or pangs so I can focus on those spots. After the excessive work I had it do yesterday, it can use a little TLC this morning.
… “-seems those cats on Stegen Island can’t catch a break with construction. Anyway, that’ll do it for our traffic round-up. It’s 6 AM, and another balmy Old York City day calls for the cool, cool sound of Dizzy Granitespie’s ‘Con Alma’.”
My eyes instinctively close as the soothing Latin sound of Réne Hornendez’s piano melds with the bebop tip-tap percussion work of Ralph Baranda. Dizzy Granitespie’s trumpet joins them both soon enough; the music rocks back and forth as the key centers shift, seeming to emulate a lazy rowboat being bobbed in a gentle river. I feel foolish for claiming so many tracks by so many different musicians to be among my favorites, but I do love this song. “Afro”, the album to which this song belongs, has seen more than a little playtime on my record player.
The radio keeps me company as I handle my usual morning preparations. I notice the crumpled yellow dress in the same spot I left it last night. I’ll have to get to the laundromat soon; that dress means too much for me to let it wrinkle and fade in a sloppy pile on the floor. Besides, Sammy said I looked beautiful in it… I’ll absolutely wear it again, but definitely not for our next date. I don’t want him to think I don’t own any other clothes besides that old thing, despite how much I like it.
Of course… that’s assuming we have another date. I asked him to call me tonight, but will he? I mean, I think everything went well. But with how I’m feeling right now… I don’t even know that I deserve a man like him. I’d be such a burden to him. He deserves a woman who doesn’t have all this baggage, who can actually traverse a flight of stairs without being worried her knee will give out on her.
At the office, my day is largely uneventful. I do, however, immediately check as to whether Miles Cratis was released. The dispatcher checks his logs with sleepy eyes before informing me that the human brought in last night was released this morning, about thirty minutes ago. I let out a sigh of relief, thankful that the commissioner kept his word and handled the situation properly. A sting of regret follows as I recall losing my temper with him. He was here late, he was probably tired, and I nagged him. I make a mental note to apologize to him when I get a chance.
Emotionally, my day is a roller coaster. I go from swooning over the prospect of another date with Sammy to feeling bad for wanting to be with him. I think about Preston’s potential treachery, only to discourage myself with the knowledge that I don’t have beyond a flimsy hunch. I ruminate over the time wasted filling out envelopes and licking stamps that could have been spent protecting and serving, unlike what those incompetent officers are capable of doing.
Mercifully, the day ends without incident. Duffy and Preston must still be on night shift; if they weren’t, their presence would certainly have been made known. I had also tried casually strolling past the commissioner’s office a few times, but it was always vacant with the light turned off and the blinds over his interior windows pulled shut. Considering how late he was here last night, he must have taken the day off.
I waste no time in getting home, anxiously boarding the earliest bus that’s pointed in my apartment’s direction. Once there, I plop myself down on one of my kitchen chairs, staring at the telephone resting on the table directly across from me. Sammy said that he usually gets off work around 5 PM and is home around 6, so he could call any time!
… After about fifteen minutes of staring at the phone with my hands in my lap, I realize how childish this gesture is. He’ll call me when he calls. There’s nothing that’ll prevent me from picking up the phone so long as I’m home. I decide to thumb through my record collection, settling on Miles Cratis’s ‘Milestones’. As much as I love his newest jams, his 201M1958 BC album is a tremendous piece of his history and an absolutely breathtaking work of art.
Setting the black grooved disk on the turntable, a flip of a switch sets it rotating methodically. I lower the needle to the very edge of the record; some folks like to skip around, but I find albums best when they’re listened to in full. They tell stories that you won’t hear if you merely listen to that one hit from the radio and skip everything else.
Unlike the slow, sultry opening track of ‘Kind of Blue’, ‘Milestones’ opens with a frenetic, frenzied tune called ‘Dr. Jekyll’. I’d never read the namesake book featuring said character and his grisly counterpart Mr. Hyde, but if the tone of this perfectly blended cacophony is anything to go by, I’m sure the story is unnerving and enthralling. Still, I can’t help but bob my head with the seemingly disjointed rhythm on display in Cratis’s expertly crafted chaos.
Several seconds into the song, I realize the volume is a little loud. I’d probably still hear the phone, but just to be safe I adjust the dial down slightly. I love my music, but I don’t want to risk missing Sammy’s call on account of an album I’ve listened to a few dozen times by this point.
My stomach angrily reminds me that it still exists with a loud, sustained gurgle that can be heard even over Miles Cratis and his quintet. I silently curse myself, realizing that I completely forgot to eat lunch today. And with how much of a rush I was in to get home, I don’t exactly have a refrigerator bursting with food. I fish around in my cabinets before settling on a packet of saltine crackers. Not exactly nourishing and healthy, but they’ll do in a pinch and I’m absolutely not risking leaving to get food. Not when Sammy’s phone call is so close.
The needle reaches the end of the first side of Milestones; I flip it over, resetting the needle to enjoy Side B. When that exhausts itself, I grab another album, Dizzy Granitespie’s ‘Afro’. The track on the radio this morning got me in the mood to listen to it again. With the same motions as before, I set the record on the turntable and place the needle at its edge.
This repeats several more times, with a flipped record being followed by a fresh one. By the end of the fourth, ‘The Genius of Charlie Larker, #5’, I finally glance at the digits next to my bed. Almost ten o’clock. Up until now, the music had been joined by my chewing of salted crackers, my pacing, my attempts and failures to read a lousy, boring suggestion from my book club, and even a stint of staring out the window, waiting for the music to swell as the phone rings like in one of those corny romance movies.
The phone never rang. My emotions had shifted from happiness to anxiety to discomfort to anger to renewed, blind hopefulness across the near four hours I’ve been sitting around waiting for this man to do what he said he’d do. Now, as I re-house the spent record in its sleeve, the only thing left in my heart is resentment and disappointment. As I sit on the edge of my bed, slowly pulling down my dress to shift into my pajamas, these emotions are replaced by one.
Emptiness.
He’s decided that he doesn’t want to see me again. And it’s only fair. A woman like me doesn’t deserve a man like Sammy. He could easily catch himself a gal with better looks, a healthier frame, a more radiant smile and no broken knees. I had hoped a fool’s hope that things would work between us, but he’s come to his senses. The kisses we shared last night were only because of the heat of the moment. His attempt to console me as I lost my cool upon Miles Cratis’s unjust arrest.
Heh… ever the gentleman. He was looking out for my well-being, but it was just a gesture of kindness, not of love. I understand. I’m prepared to move on. Tomorrow will be a new day, perhaps with the sun shining a little less bright… but I’ll survive. I’ve survived this long, and I’ll–
Riiing… Riiing…
I spring from the mattress so quickly that I nearly trip and land on my face. Thankfully it’s not due to my knee seizing up but only my own clumsiness as the tips of my claws catch on the rug next to my bed. My tail swings around violently to help me keep my balance; once both legs are firmly beneath me, I practically sprint across my apartment toward the receiver. It doesn’t complete its third ring before I snatch the phone from its cradle and hold it to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Uhh… hey, Aubrey. This is Sam.”
My cheeks are flushing uncontrollably. “Hi, Sammy. I… I was worried you weren’t gonna call. It’s already so late.”
A pause. “... Yeah. I’m real sorry about that, Aubrey. I wanted to call you earlier, I really did, but… somethin’ came up.”
It feels as though my heart drops into my stomach. Something came up? What does that mean? Is he… “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine now. I just…” More silence.
I can’t stand the silence. I wish he’d just spit it out, whatever it was. If he’s gonna rebuke me and say he never wants to see me again, he should just get it over with so I can be done with this emotional hell I’m in.
He finally speaks. “I guess there’s no easier way to put this. I got a new job.”
“... What?” That’s all I can manage. I’m confused beyond belief. Why would he have gotten a new job in the span of less than twenty-four hours since I last spoke with him? He was just telling me last night about his loading dock gig. And, more importantly, why would this new job have prevented him from calling me a little sooner?
“Yep. It was a… bit of a surprise for me, to say the least. But I guess… it was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. Or somethin’. To be honest, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”
“Sammy, you’re not making any sense. What is this job?”
“... I’m working for the Herdsters now.”