I'm walking home. Alone. It's late at night.... well, probably early morning. After a party. I'm silent, not bothering anybody. The the paved street is dark, with intermittent deep pools of orange light at the base of lamp posts. I'm a mysterious figure, making my way from one spot of light to the next. In no hurry. A few porch lights illuminate the front stoops of well maintained middle class bungalows centred precisely in well manicured lawns. There are no signs of life inside. Everyone is resting up for church in the morning. An occasional car navigates the long slope of the hill, headlights studiously focused on their destination. I think of the Christmas carol, and sing, "All is calm, all is bright"..... what does that mean, anyway? I can see calm on a silent night, but bright? It's dark at night, silent or no. Maybe the stars? I look up. No stars here. Too many streetlamps. Just walking home, on a calm, but not bright silent night. It was a good party. Lots of friends from school. All the wobbly pops a girl could drink, and then some. Someone brought a guitar and we sang around the backyard fire pit. Roasted hot dogs and marshmallows. Maybe too many hot dogs and marshmallows. Perhaps also too many wobbly pops. Tummy is uneasy, and the sidewalk tilts unexpectedly sometimes.
Oh, look! A perfectly spherical stone. If I squint, it could be a cantaloupe. Nothing beats a good cantaloupe. You can keep your watermelons. I'll bet if I kick it, it'll slowly roll down the hill. I wonder how far it'll go. It's not a steep hill, but has a long steady slope. Great for coasting down on a bike or a skateboard. I sidle to the edge of the sidewalk. It's a bit tricky.... the stone is on the road, which is a good 6 or 8 inches lower than the sidewalk. I'll stand on my left foot on the edge of the sidewalk and swing at it with my right. I'll have to crouch just a tad to get down to the level of the stone. Ready, steady, kick! ....And miss. How could I possibly have missed that?! I blame the wobbly pops. I'll back up and try again. Ready, steady, take that! ..... and miss again. Well, third time's the charm. One more try. Shuffle back a few steps, and.... ready, steady.....
"Is everything alright, miss?"
.... and stee - riiiike three! This time I stumble off the sidewalk onto the street. Where the heck did that car come from? Do I know you? Quick sideways glance. Nope. Don't talk to strangers. Especially in the middle of the night. Forget the cantaloupe. Get back on the sidewalk, and keep walking down the hill. Ignore him, and he'll go away. Oh jeez, now the car is backing up, following me. Is that legal, driving backwards down a public road? this guy's a menace to society. Another quick glance. Double jeez! What difference does it make what the guy does? The menace to society is above the law; he's a cop. Behind the wheel..... another cop. Two cops. In a cop car. Driving backwards. Following me. What the freak do they want?! Is it against the law to kick rocks on the road? Doesn't matter; I didn't kick it. I missed. Just walk.
"Are you O.K. miss?" Why does he keep asking that?
"Fine, thanksh." Keep walking.
The car stops, and he steps out onto the sidewalk in front of me. A button on his shirt is exactly at my eye level. The shirt goes on up for a while before it runs out of buttons and bumps out a collar. He's young and holy crow he's tall, looking down at me like something he just scraped off his boot. I can smell his cologne. Brut, I think.
"You don't look fine. Have you been drinking, miss?"
"Juss on my way home, Ossifer." I don't stop moving, sidestepping him and continuing down the hill. Coming around the back of the car, another cop steps into my path. Not so many buttons above eye level on this one... a dwarf by comparison... but he's got a chest and arms on him like The Incredible Hulk. Better looking than Hulk, though. I wonder how much weight he can bench press. Do I smell Old Spice? My dad wears Old Spice. I try sidestepping him... the cop, not my dad..... and I bounce sideways off Numero Uno, who catches my elbow before I fall on my face. Good save.
"Why don't we give you a ride home?"
No way am I being delivered to my front door in a cop car.
"Mama alwaysh tol' me not to take ridesh from strangersh. No thanksh."
I pull on my arm, but he won't let go. Now The Hulk has my other arm. This isn't going the way I'd like it to. I think of the wobbly pop that got spilled on my jeans. I probably don't smell as good as they do.
"I think a ride home is the best thing for you right now," says Tallguy. Hulk opens the back door of the cop car. I've never ridden in a cop car, and I'd like to keep it that way.
"I don' wanna ride home." Home is a good mile away, and I'll be sober by the time I get there if I walk. It's a beautiful summer night. I was enjoying the walk. What a couple of party poopers.
"I'm afraid it's not optional, miss. Get in the car, please."
When I balk, they lift me by my elbows, carry me to the side of the car, and set me gently down. Hulk opens the back door with his free hand.
"In the car please, miss," says Tallguy."
They've let go of my elbows now, but they're standing between me and escape. The only way to go is forward, into the back of the car. The door closes firmly behind me. I look curiously around as the car begins to move. Forward this time. There are no handcuffs or restraints back here. What was I expecting? Instruments of torture? It's a pretty unexceptional back seat of a car, really. Nothing out of the ordinary. Tallguy is behind the wheel this time. A woman's voice comes over the dispatch radio, but I can't make out what she says.
"So where do you live, miss? We'll give you a ride home." Tallguy Brut is in charge again. Doesn't Hulk Old Spice ever speak? Are you allowed to be a cop if you're mute?
"I don' memember. Mebbe juss lemme off at Kennucky Fried Shicken an I'll figger it out" ... which is about halfway home. Still time to walk it off before I get there. I've heard that you can't get out of the back of a cop car, that the doors and windows won't open from the inside. There's a crank back here for the window, and a handle for the door. The other side is the same. Are they disconnected somehow? I try the door handle, and the door opens, so I step out of the moving car. It couldn't have been moving very fast, because I land firmly on my feet, without so much as a totter, and proceed on over to the sidewalk, where I continue down the hill toward home. I should probably run.... maybe cut through the yard of the nearest house and find a dark place to hide, but by the time this has occurred to me, there are two strong young men latched onto my elbows again. I think Hulk is trying not to laugh. Tallguy does not appear to appreciate the humour of the situation.
"I didn't think the door would open" I explain as they insert me, less gently this time, on the back seat once more. I hear the door latch before the tires give a little chirp, and with a lurch we're on the road again. Somebody's in a hurry. There are no more questions about where I live. We drive directly to the police station. It was only a few blocks away. Do not pass 'Go', do not collect $200. Am I under arrest? Aren't they supposed to tell you these things?
We pull up to a garage door on the side of the building. When they're both at my door, Tallguy opens it and tells me to get out. He's not saying 'please' anymore. He looks a little like a tall guy who's in my Taekwondo club. This other guy thinks he's pretty hot stuff, but we're a small club so sometimes he gets stuck with one of us less hot karatkas as a sparring partner. I once got him full on to the side of the head with a roundhouse kick. It was a lucky score, because he was so cocky he wasn't paying attention, but the roundhouse is my superpower. It's the one Taekwondo move I do really well, and I nailed him. Of course, he pummelled me into the ground for it, but everyone saw him take my headshot. It was worth the pain. So I'm looking up at Mr. Brut Tallguy, thinking he's even taller than Mr Cocky, and wondering if my roundhouse will reach that high. Let's find out.
The answer is a resounding 'yes!' I'm so proud of myself; that was a long way up. I didn't actually make contact, but I definitely got my foot up there before he smacked me and pulled my hands behind my back. He can move pretty fast for a gangly guy.
"Wajja hit me for?" I have to say it, just because. It wasn't a hard hit. Mostly to get me off balance so he could restrain me, I think.
"You tried to kick me!" I can hear astonishment in his voice. It was a good kick.
"Yeah, well I missed. You din."
"Behave yourself, or I'll handcuff you."
Handcuffs? What? I'm dangerous?! Not sure how I feel about that.
A small huddle of uniforms loafs at the man door beside the garage bay door.... pretending not to watch the show. They disperse as we approach. Inside is a long bleak looking hallway with extremely bright fluorescent lights. You can't even cast a shadow in here. People who are being arrested are taken through, here, I'll bet, to make them lose all hope. It occurs to me that the fertilizer is about to hit the ventilator. It occurs to me that maybe I'm in deep kaka. How did this happen? How does a reasonably good kid who does all her homework, and has a fan club of little kids who love it when she babysits end up in jail? Maybe the roundhouse was a bad idea. A shame; it was a good kick.
There's an equally bleak room at the end of the long bleak hallway. Along two walls of it there are bleak jail cells. I know they're jail cells because I've seen cells like them on television. Little rooms with 3 windowless cement walls and a wall of bars open to the main room. The ones on TV usually have a barred window for the criminal to look hopelessly at freedom out of. This one has no window, and narrow bunk bed cots. No privacy either. Another cop appears from somewhere to open the barred door of the smallest cell, and I stop. Tallguy mutters "Watch her" as he steps away from my side and turns to leave. I didn't notice when Hulk left. He was behind me. Maybe he didn't even come in.
"Lucky you. You get a private room," the new cop smirks. "The matron will be along shortly. Take off your belt and your shoes, empty your pockets, and in you go."
"Who's the matron? What do you want my stuff for?"
"The matron is the nice lady who's gonna search you. We need to make sure you can't hurt yourself."
"What? I'm gonna hang myself with my shoelaces?" I'll have to sit down to take my shoes off. There's nothing in this room to sit on, so I go into the cell and sit on the bottom bunk of the bed. There's no other furniture there either. Not anywhere. No bathroom either. Good thing I have a strong bladder. When I have my shoes off, I ask Smirky "You after my socks too?"
"No, you can keep them for now."
As I rise to hand over my belt, shoes, and the worldly goods from my pockets... including some loose change and bills, my house key and a tiny, but very sharp Swiss Army knife, Smirky steps back from the cell door, closes and locks it. He holds open a large manila envelope on his side of the bars, for me to drop all but my shoes into. I have to reach through the bars to do it, which is creepy.... like I'm suddenly untouchable. in just a few minutes I've morphed from a teenage kid happily staggering home from a party, into something dangerous or unclean. Society has to be protected from me now. Smirky's not much taller than me. He looks through his eyebrows at me as the knife goes in the manila envelope. He must be near the end of a long, hard shift. He doesn't smell good. Kind of like the boys' locker room after a big game. It's not somewhere I spend a lot of time, but I had a part time job helping the janitor last year. Is this always Smirkey's job, locking up the trash that's picked up off the street, or do they trade off, and sometimes he gets to ride around with a buddy in a cruiser?
There's no sign of the matron. What kind of search is she going to do? Will I have to take my clothes off? I'm not liking that idea. I'm glad I listen to my Gran's advice, and always make sure my underwear isn't disreputable. "What if you're in an accident?" she says. Yeah Gran, or what if you're taken to the police station and strip searched? Meanwhile Tallguy and Hulk show up with a clipboard and a list of questions. As it happens, Hulk does speak. Now he does most of the talking. I expected his voice to be deeper, but he's a mellow tenor. I'll bet he's a good singer. I'm a good singer too. They used to get me to sing solos in church when I was little.... back when I still went to church.
"What's your name, miss?" They want to call my parents.
Think of something ordinary. "Mary."
"What's your last name, Mary?"
Oh jeez, I dunno..... "Brown." They want to identify me so they can call my parents. No way are they calling my parents in the middle of the night.
Tallguy and Hulk turn to each other, and, in unison, raise their eyebrows. "Where do you live, Mary Brown?"
"I don' memember."
"What are you doing out so late, Mary Brown?"
"On my way home."
"On your way home from where?"
"Pardy."
"What kind of party, Mary?"
"Friends. Fire pit, hoddogs, shmallows." Wobbly pops, beer, shooters. How many high school kids had back yard fires tonight? Will they be able to figure out where I was?
"Where was the party, Mary?"
At the dreamiest guy in town's house.... who doesn't know I exist. "Someone's house."
"Whose house?"
Sasha's house. "Dunno; went with my friend."
"What's your friend's name?"
Charlotte's parents will ground her for life if they find out she was there. "Jane."
"What's Jane's last name, Mary?"
Oh, jeez.... no, not Brown.... "Shmith."
There's a long pause. Tallguy looks annoyed; Hulk is patient. Is this the 'good cop, bad cop' schtick?
"How old are you, Mary Brown?"
"Thurdy Shicks"
More perfectly choreographed eye contact and eyebrow lift. They must practice this.
"You need to tell us your name, miss."
"Did. Call me Mary. Washhur name?"
He chooses to ignore my attempt at polite conversation."Oh yes; you're Mary Brown, and you're 36 years old, and you don't know your address. How were you planning to get home, Mary, if you don't know your address?"
"Thought I'd prolly reccanize it when I saw it."
"That might take a while."
"No hurry."
The door behind them opens, and an extremely large woman rolls in. Large, but not tall. She might be wider than she is tall, teetering on tiny, sensible brown slip-on loafers. I'm guessing it's a while since she's actually seen her feet, let alone been able to touch them. She wears a dark uniform, of sorts, with shiny buttons and her name embroidered on her enormous chest. Brigitte. If that's supposed to make her seem friendly, it's a wasted effort. She looks about as happy as someone who was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of the cat upchucking on the bedcovers. I don't know what she's so cranky about. She'll get paid well for this. She should thank me. Brigitte nods to Smirkey, and he unlocks my cell door. I back into the furthest corner, never taking my eyes off her.
"Stand with your hands on the bars in front of you, and your feet apart," she barks. Brigitte is a Brigadier General, accustomed to being obeyed. With a dark chocolate voice that could sing bass to Hulk's tenor. I wonder if she's in a choir. Or a band. I try to imagine her in a sequinned evening gown. Not possible.
I'm relieved that she doesn't seem to want me to take my clothes off. As I grip the bars and look through them at the cops, she firmly pats my pockets, along my sides, and inside my thighs. She grips around my ankles and wrists, and up my arms and legs. She's efficient, thorough and impersonal. And done in less time than it took her to get here. Does she get paid for the trip, or just for her time in the cop shop? Seems to me that when you're on call, they have to pay you for at least a few hours, just for showing up. Nice work, if you can get it. I wonder why I've never seen 'Jailhouse Matron' listed on any of the career options at job fairs. She steps back out, takes the clipboard and pen from Hulk, and while Smirkey turns the key in the lock, ensuring the world is safe from me, the Brigadier General makes some notes. And without another word, she's gone.
"Now, miss," Tallguy has taken the podium. "You need to tell us who you are, so someone can come and take you home. They're probably worried about you."
I'm feeling chilled. I take the folded blanket from the foot of the cot, unfold it, and wrap it around myself. I look directly into his eyes. Blue, like the sky way up there where his head lives. I sit on the cot. "Lemme out, an' I'll go home."
"We can't do that. You're a minor, and it's the middle of the night."
"Not a minor. I'm 36." And glad I didn't have my wallet or I.D. on me, or the game would be up. Not that they're fooled. I don't look a day over my 16 years.
"Right. Well, in that case, we'll have to take you to see the judge in the morning, and he can decide what to do with you."
"T'morrow'sh Shunday. He'll be in shursh." A wave of exhaustion forces my head to the pillow. I lift my feet from the floor to the cot, turn to face the wall, and I'm instantly asleep.
.......
A steady chatter of conversation wakes me. I open my eyes to the underside of a bunk bed. Not a nice bunk bed. Institutional-minimalist. Why would anyone put this in their home... and where the heck am I? And why do I have a splitting headache?
"Stay away from the vanilla extract Jake. That stuff'll kill you." Deep authoritarian voice.
"Yeah, yeah man, sure." Jake has the gravelly voice of a heavy smoker.
"You headin' for the soup kitchen?" Slow drawl.
"No man, it's Sunday. They don't do soup on Sunday." Smoker Jake replies.
"You look like shit."A fourth nasal voice... how many of them are there?
"That ain't me man. You lookin' in a mirror." Jake is a joker. Raucous laughter.
"C'mon guys, you know the drill. Collect your stuff and clear out." Mr Authority again.
"Hey, he's got my belt. That's mine. Gimme my belt. " Smoker Jake wants to start something.
"He was wearing it when he came in last night, Jake. Sure it's yours?" Mr Authority keeps the peace.
"It's mine, man. I gave you a beer for it." Slow drawl.
As the banter moves down the hallway of lost hope, I don't move a hair, hoping to be invisible, somehow. In my jail cell. That was, obviously, next to the drunk tank.
"Sez on the roster your name is Mary Brown. I gotcha some breakfast, Mary Brown." The deep voice of authority has passed his best-before date, with frost at his temples. The beginning of a beer belly. And very tall. Are all cops tall? A paper bag rustles in his hand. The scent of deep fried potatoes hits my nose like a blessing..... "Hope you like hash browns."
"Oh God," I lunge for the bag. "Is there anybody in this world who doesn't like hash browns?" There's a bacon & egg sandwich in there too... with.... moan.... melted cheese squirting out its sides. His other hand passes a supersized take out cup of cola between the cell bars. The ice rattles against the straw deliciously as I inhale about half of it.... then collapse on the cot with a groan and grab my head as my skull splits, spewing my brain into my lap. Brain freeze AND a killer headache. Is this the hangover people talk about? Am I gonna puke all that good greasy food right back up?
"If there is, I haven't met 'em yet." He's sounding pleased with with himself. I'm afraid if I open my eyes to look, I'll throw up. "We got Tylenol."
"Extra strength?"
"Sure. How many?"
"Two...... Please........ and ....... thanks for breakfast." Is this just 'good cop' strategy? "If you're trying to get Brownie points, I'm still not gonna tell you my address."
"No sweat. I'll send you a bill."
"I'm not telling you guys where I live."
Which, of course, reminds me of where I live, and how much trouble I'm in. "So, I guess you're letting all the drunks out now, after breakfast." I hear the key turn, and the cell door opens. There's a nudge at my shoulder. I crack one eye open enough to see two extra strengthTylenol on the cot beside me. The light stabs my brain like a hot needle and I grope with closed eyes for the pills. The cell door creaks closed and the key rattles in the lock again. I cautiously wash the pills down with a small mouthful of watery soda and lay back down on the cot with my forearm over my eyes.
"Yeah, that was the last of them a few minutes ago."
"Not all of them. What about me?"
"You're not a drunk; you're a minor. We can't let you go without adult supervision."
"Puh-leeze"
"It's the truth. Unless you've got ID saying you really are Mary Brown, age 36, we can't turn you loose on your own."
"So you'll just keep me here, feeding me junk food and Tylenol until my 18th birthday. Cool."
There's a low rumble... maybe a chuckle? "Much as we all enjoy your company, we can't do that either. Take a nap till the drugs kick in."
It's good advice. I wake to the sound of a woman's voice.
"Miss, I'd like to come in and talk to you."
I cautiously crack an eyelid ever so slightly. There's no white-hot-needle-in-the-eyeball anymore, so I gradually open it wide. There is a dull throb at my temples, but it's pretty low-grade. I carefully open the other eye and turn my head toward her voice. She's young-ish and pretty, and very fashionably dressed. The cop with the frosted sideburns stands beside her with the keys. He looks old enough to be her dad. He's probably somebody's dad. I wonder if his kids like him. What would it be like to have a dad who's a cop?
"May I come in?" she repeats.
"Do you need my permission?"
"Yes, actually, I do."
"You a lawyer or something?"
"No, I'm a social worker. I'd like to help get you home."
So I give my permission. She's polite, friendly, and officious. Dad-cop sets a chair inside the cell for her. she sits. She's Karen, and she's here to tell me 'these are the things we can do, and these are the things we can't do. We just want to get you safely home.'
"I'm not telling you anything. Just let me out and I'll go home. I do know the way. You don't have any reason to keep me here. I haven't done anything illegal."
"You're a minor; you were intoxicated."
"Well I'm not drunk now."
"we're trying to help you."
"Taking me home in a cop car would not be helpful."
"Maybe not." She gives me a long, intense look, stands up and calls Dad-cop. They go off somewhere together.
I feel a little nauseated. I close my eyes against the steady throb at my temples; it seems to help. I must doze off again, because I wake up to the sound of the key in the cell lock again. Dad-cop opens it wide, and gestures me over the the checkout desk. He walks behind it, reaches under and pulls out a manilla envelope labeled 'Mary Brown', empties it on the counter in front of me, then reaches down for my shoes. I pocket my keys and money, but he takes the penknife before I have a chance to grab it, says, "Karen'll keep this for you until she drops you off." Walks around the desk to the door to the hallway of lost hope while I hop on one foot at a time putting my shoes back on. I'm threading my belt into my belt loops as he opens the door and gestures with his head down the tunnel of Trauma. "After you, Mary."
Karen is at the side of a car outside. She opens the back door on the passenger's side for me, says, "no funny stuff from you," and gets in the front. She's obviously been briefed about the roundhouse. For some reason, that feels good. There's a cop at the wheel, and a little dome with a light like the ones on top of cop cars fastened to the centre of the dashboard. It's an unmarked police car. "Where to?" she asks.
"I'm not telling you where I live."
"OK. Tell us where to drop you off."
So I tell them to take me to the south side of a school about 4 blocks from my house, and that's where they take me. She's going on about 'services available to minors at risk', hands me a bunch of pamphlets about depression and drugs and sex trafficking and family violence. Says there's help if I need it. She's trying to catch my eye but I won't look at her. The car stops in front of the school. She gets out and opens my door. "I guess you can find your way home from here." She hands me my penknife.
So I hightail it behind the school. I run the length of the building, back around to the front, on the other end, creep behind a cedar bush, and watch the cop car drive away. It turns at the end of the block, in the direction I ran before I went behind the school. When it's out of sight I cross the street we came in on, and run in the opposite direction the cops went, up the driveway of a house I know doesn't have a fenced yard, through the yard, down the alley and through another yard. Sprinting, I zigzag my way through a maze of houses and yards for about a half hour, till I reach my street. Then I slow and walk as calmly as I can to the fourth house on the south side of 109th avenue. Though it's not yet noon, the sun is already hot, and I'm sweating. I use the tail of my t-shirt to pat my face dry. My long hair is tangled and lank. I try to comb out the worst with my fingers.
He's sitting in the shade on the front step, pretending to read the newspaper. It's a beautiful summer morning, so there's no reason not to sit on the step to read the newspaper, but that's not something my dad ever does. He's been watching for me. I know he's seen me, because he has the paper up high, blocking his view of the sidewalk, pretending he doesn't know I'm there. I see my stepmother through the kitchen window at his left, probably washing the breakfast dishes. I know the precise moment when she sees me; she leans to the window and slides it wide open so she doesn't miss anything. She'll be saving this all up for later. Her eyes are slits of malice and her mouth a thin line of righteous satisfaction.
The gravel of the driveway crunches under my sneakers.... the ones with the dangerous shoe laces. Dad doesn't budge. I stop on the lawn a few feet away from him, pick up the scent of Old Spice. Even sitting down he's giant. A gentle giant. "Mornin'.
The paper rustles as he lowers it enough to look over it. Raises his eyebrows as if to say, "Oh, it's you!" Though I often come home at 'ungodly hours', I've never been out all night before. "Where were you?"
"In jail."
His eyes roll to the heavens and his head shakes in disbelief. Can you believe this girl? "Right" he snorts. "where were you?"
"I was in jail." This is going well.
He folds his paper noisily, rises to his feet, shaking his head in exasperation, turns his back to me, stalks up the cement steps and through the screened door. Communication is not one of his superpowers.... or any kind of conversation, for that matter. I hear the aluminum door slam behind him as I make my way to the side entrance. I go straight through to the bathroom for more Tylenol, and into my bedroom, where I flop face down onto my bed for a nap. My brain is pounding against my skull. God, I stink. I'll have a shower when I don't feel like puking.
I know she won't light into me when he's home. Through the rest of the day, I steel myself for her acid tongue Monday morning, after he leaves for work, but it never comes up again. To this day he doesn't believe I was in jail that night. Who knows what she believes. It's not entirely out of character that she's never brought it up. She likes to save things, worry them to a razor edge against her stone heart, and stab you with them when she sees an opening.
She's only five foot two, but demons don't need to be big.
