"There must be some mis-uh-der-stan-ding officer. My husband wouldn't drive like that," demanded the woman, "He wouldn't assault a police officer."
The whole place was going to explode; the whole place was boiling over in hooting convicts. The bastards were all trying to get out, trying to burn and loot some more. And Darryl had to deal with the one woman who thinks that the most important part of his job is to fix a speeding ticket.
"Ma'am I do not have jurisdiction to overturn the judge's ruling. It is not my place to change bail. I know Officer Perez has occasionally exaggerated what constituted an assault and I sympathize but I don't have the power to release your husband without bail."
That was the seventh time he said those sentences since 11:23pm, the time she walked into the office on her spousal rescue mission. Shouts and chants gave themselves free reign. Plenty of rioters claiming that they were simply protesters and that they were caught up in the events. What do we want? Freedom. When do we wannit? Now! Officer Cummings walked through and hit their fingers on the third hour of that chant. He figured that their repetitive stupidity was enough justification for a display of judicial pressure. Only a couple of fingers were broken, although one screaming guy wearing a jacket that proclaimed "VEGAN till Death! I'm Drug Free and you should be too!" and several anti-pornography, anti-corporate, anti-police brutality buttons got his head a little to close to the bars. His nose bled over the entire cement floor. Darryl, as an oppressed Asian, should help his fellow proletariat. Someone shouted that sentiment at him. Darryl's fellow proletariat was Officer Cummings, not the asshole college kid. Darryl was by nature a peaceful man having no need to explain these intricacies.
The woman was concluding the ranting. There were calls that weren't being answered because this bitch demanded he pay attention and pitched her voice a few octaves higher when he answered the phone. He was only the fourth dispatcher and they put him on double duty tonight.
The Longhair cells were strangely quiet. They had a silent charm. Years later when protests commemorated this night, the assholes would say that the cops were more polite to the Longhair Nazis than to the radicals. The screaming and yelling and attempted beatings would not be mentioned. The Longhairs looked like the old photos of his parents --- dirty and colorful. His parents weren't nearly as polite nor were they racist. These Longhairs called him Mr. Gook, and told him it was nothing personal. Some day they would have to execute him in the cause of racial purity. But they didn't have anything against him as an individual per se.
Mrs. Infitio was not nearly as polite.
"Do you have the bail money? I am informed $300 is not a lot of money for someone in your stature."
"You have not been listening to me. It is the principle of the thing, not the money. Look, Mr. Whatever…"
"Folwell," replied Darryl. Korean adopted names were always the height of comedy. Leif Garret, Diane Boyer, Ginger Smith--- all these were good Korean adopted names, of which Darryl encountered. He hated rice, thought Jackie Chan was stupid, couldn't stand sushi, didn't know until last month that sushi was Japanese not Korean, and didn't care that Sulu from Star Trek never got laid. Still he grew up hearing about peoples' brothers who were killed in Vietnam.
"Look Mr. Folwell. My husband is not the kind of man you should be locking up. My husband is a friend of the police and the Mayor, and he always liked your people. Thought you were the nicest bunch of people. Maybe he drinks a little but is always in complete control. I know, you should know. My husband shouldn't be locked up with them. It won't make that much difference if you by accident let out one man because of clerical err, would it? It wouldn't be a catastrophe? Clerical err."
"I am sworn to uphold the laws of this state," you condescending bitch.
"Are you Japanese?"
"Sorry I don't follow…"
"Because you were once allies of a people who thought that just following orders was perfectly acceptable. If you aren't Japanese, then whatever backwards communist country expelled you did not prepare you for America where we don't lock up our loyal citizens simply because we don't like their attitude."
"Interesting," he said concealing the smile.
"Yes! Yes it is interesting, Mr. Fong Sai Yuk or whatever your name is. This is America goddamnit and people deserve a little respect you sonofabitchgookbastard. I am going to call your superior officer tomorrow and then you are going to beg me to let you keep your job. My husband shouldn't be locked up. If you don't act according to the rights and privileges of this adopted land I could have you deported, would you like that, you get to brutalize your own kind instead of decent people like my husband. You are making a very dangerous enemy, and…"
Gun barrel to desk, potential energy becomes kinetic and the bitch shuts up. Bill gave him a worried expression. Darryl glanced a glance back that said, "I got the safety on." Then there was the dramatic pause.
"Thank you. Thank you for enlightening me to the ways of your fine land. I would hate to mess up and be sent back to Nebraska. However in my limited time, I have familiarized myself with the concept of a little man with a little power. It gets real nasty when that little man happens to be the one with the power. And in your situation, I am that little man with that little power that unfortunately is more than you have now. There is no call for your language, or your behavior and if you do not depart from my presence I will lock you away for interfering with my duties as a sworn officer of the law. Do I make myself clear?" Darryl had studied an entire weekend's worth of Christopher Walken movies for that feral tone of menace.
Darryl glanced at Bill to usher Mrs. Infitio out the door. Only Darryl, Bill, and Mrs. Infitio noticed that ever so subtle shove out the door that almost threw her on her face. She screamed but the door was closed behind her.
"I thought you were from Wyoming," laughed Bill as three more perpetrators were lead in bloody and unhappy.
"No it was Nebraska I think. Nebraska Wyoming Wisconsin, one of those militia strongholds. I almost joined the KKK but they wouldn't have me. They said I was still technically Asian. Stupid fucking white people."
"I'm white."
"You're a Hebe, doesn't count."
"I eat hot dogs on Yom Kippur, I don't give a rat's ass about Israel. It's also a technicality."
"You'll be wearing side curls and asking for Friday nights off in no time."
"I already have Friday nights off."
"See."
"Technically I can still get the major holidays off."
"Like the weekends"
"YOU'RE ALL UP AGAINST THE WALL! ALL YOU PIGS ARE UP AGAINST THE WALL WHEN WE ARE THROUGH WITH YOU! HEY OUCH I got rights"
"I used to say that," smiled Bill.
"Hey Bill, can you look up Grant Infitio? See how he's doing? Maybe we can release him and give him the bus fare to get as far away from that woman as possible."
"No need. He's dead."
"Officer Derek Bright didn't make it," announced Officer Calloway.
"SHIT"
"How did he die?"
"Crashed his cruiser into a building trying to avoid rock throwers."
"Don't you remember three days ago?"
"That was Grant Infitio?"
"Who's Grant Infitio? I said Officer Bright was dead." Officer Calloway had a ghoulish need to be the bearer of bad news.
"That's tragic but he's the sixth one tonight, we will be taking out ads in the employment section tomorrow. What do you want me to do about it?"
"That's cold. That's really cold."
"Back off," said Bill, "we're shell-shocked now. Tomorrow and the entire week we'll be getting our revenge and our grief out."
"Who's Grant Infitio?"
"Dead guy, knifed by his Longhair inmate. His wife just tried to claim him, three days after his death."
"What kind of lush is she?"
"Yep. She's been on her share of benders."
"Damn."
"She's going to blame me for his death. She's going to make trouble."
"Let her try. Let's see her try to sue us when we are in mourning."
"Now who's being cold. That's damn mercenary."
"I loved Officer Bright like a brother, but he's dead and his death shouldn't be in vain."
"So we use it to avoid heat from killing off one of our inmates?" Darryl was slightly disturbed with the amount of amusement Bill derived from this possibility.
"We didn't kill him. The Longhairs killed him. We'll go bust some heads and keep them indefinitely."
"Great idea Bill."
"Darryl the serial killer," said Bill trying to sound funny. The other officer left and Darryl went back to work.
Government building up in smoke, send a squad car. Salome's Pizza being robbed, send the squadron. Best damn pizza in the city, so shoot to kill. Shove those donut shop jokes up your ass, it's 24-hour pizza places that are Heaven. Officers in altercation with juveniles, send five cars full. Actually send seven. Too many psychos trying to get settled with their anti-authoritarian streaks tonight. Orders kept coming. Phone calls kept coming. No sleep for the protectors.
When Trash fell out of sleep she felt Hell pounding on her face. Smile and a fuckyoutoo to the world. Be it a few minutes or a few hours after Dogshit's departure, she did not know. The dog raised its head; she scratched it behind the ears. It took her ten minutes to give up the search for Dogshit's body, and venture out of the alleyway.
She remembered Alois when his name was Patrick. She would call him Puke. He hated the nickname and she was merciless. She hated him now. Of course, she was destined to pound the living shit out of him. Still she missed calling him Puke. She felt a tinge of remorse, wondering if the nickname drove him into the arms of Nazism.
It was yet night, a bank clock told her 3:48 am, too late for leftovers from the Vegan restaurant. The possibility of sunrise was approaching, one of the advantages of a squatting and scavenging lifestyle. Silence following the roar scared her. A car came screaming around the corner careening off of walls, scratching its paint job, breaking stop signs. She was too tired to be amused.
Keeping ten feet between them, the dog trailed behind. In an unfamiliar street, she sat and watched the dying embers of today's civilization. Tomorrow there would be more action, more fighting, more building and destroying. Tonight there was merely quiet solitude, broken glass, and pools, left by the overturned fire hydrants, heralding the dawn.
Then the screams began. In the place she stood, the solitude of the post-riot night had not come. The screaming must have been in its own place, oblivious to the time of fire outside. A woman, panic-ridden and blonde flung herself to the window only to be dragged away. Trash prayed silently for deliverance from that life. Even if her resources became exhausted and she had to go the prostitute path, she vowed never to become a cheap blonde screaming out a window.
Trash mumbled something, noted the dog, tried to deny her senses. Calm assurance spoke to her, telling her that her inclination to walk away was unfounded and horribly asinine. It said that her destiny was linked to the woman screaming outside her window trying desperately to be heard. Calm destiny would beckon her into the next world of the journey. Constant alarm, paranoia, and terror had vanished. Distant fires soothed her nerves.
Still screaming, still scrambling, still bleeding, the lady again tried to jump out of her window. The fat fucker was going to kill her like Jack could have killed his girlfriend. Jack was always polite to her; he wouldn't be so polite if she had stayed.
Trash didn't care. Trash didn't care about this stupid bitch. The moonlight didn't care, why should Trash? Trash would never have been so stupid to fuck some fat pig bent on killing her. Trash only did guys like Dogshit, easily beaten into submission. Trash had no inclination to lose her willpower, her energy, or her mind to the welfare of someone undeserving. Trash could convince herself that she were completely in control of every situation to the point of extremes in preservation of that control, and the universe smiled on Trash in her arrogance.
Items tossed themselves to the cement walkway. Wigs, glass, combs, screams. Dull thuds punctuated a chant of Bitch! Whore! Cunt Cunt Bitch! Whore! These words did not bother Trash but his usage of them…
"Oh for CHRISSAKES! Shut the FUCK UP!" exploded Trash's resolve. It was an exultant cry of freedom. The dog yipped a bit.
Silence. A second of calm before there could be applause. Visualize a small twitch of Trash's lipring. The woman disappeared. Only Fatfuck remained. A dramatic pause and then the words ejaculated from his frame:
You Want What's COMING to YOU --- Do YOU!!! Then Keep on TALKING you fucking bitch!
Trash almost shrugged and walked away with a goodbye finger. Trash would later blame her actions on grumpiness, insomnia, and latent loyalty to feminist textbooks. She would not admit that part about the dog seeming to dare her to continue.
"Come on. Come on down --- FUCK WITH ME --- fuck with Mr. Fatfuck and you think you can handle me! You think you Chickenshit motherfucker thinking I'm gonna give a flying fuck about you macho bullshit motherfucker can't fuck yourself and you wanna fuck with ME!!! Fuck yourself! Yeah come on! Mothercocksucking dickless piece a shit! Limpdick flyfucking pussy licking son-of-a-BITCH let's see you! Wanna fuck with me! Let's see if yo fist can hit something that isn't wanting you to hit it."
Somewhere in that he stopped responding. Disappeared from the window, and in her drunken litany Trash did not see the woman sobbing alone. She was pleading with Trash to leave there, but Trash did not hear. Trash almost felt sorry for her when the fat guy emerged with a baseball bat. Inner peace crap vanished as the baseball bat and oh shit oh shit oh shit she was running again.
The ritual call and response:
CHICKENSHITBITCHCUNT I'M COMINFORYOU AND YOUFUCKI GONNA FUCKYAUPDAASS HOW DO YOU THINK OF THAT NOT SO THOUGHT ARE YOU AND YOU'LL BE EVEN LESS TOUGHT WITH MY BOOT UPYOURASS!
This was not part of the plan. One of these fucking days, she was going to let people fight and not get involved. She jaywalked across the street, seeing the movie theater advertising Casablanca that week. There was no damage to the movie, so maybe the movie would still play. Her thoughts lingered over that possibility until the baseball bat bit into her skull and the pavement punched her face. Then it was only the sharp jab in the spine.
He was panting; she felt blood in her nose, the feeling of arid pain in her throat. He dropped the bat and pulled her by the little hair at the back of her head. She heard "you're so stupid" and couldn't tell if it was his or the voice in her head.
His left hand supporting himself, his knees holding her down, his body could have toppled. With her free hand she reached the knife out of her pocket, but the swipe missed him completely. He raged and twisted it out of her hand, almost breaking her wrist. With anger he sobered enough to pound her head into the cement.
She felt her nose break, the cartilage snapped like candy canes. Her lip poured blood and the vomit tickled her throat. She twisted about and managed to scratch some skin, but he only grabbed her hand. He stopped, gripping both her hands, without a free hand in which to slap her.
"Don't talk so tough now do you bitch? Huh. HUH. Answer me WHORE!"
She was trying to say something strong, but she was distracted by her need to keep her lunch.
"Fuck it," he said after a second of silence, "you ain't worth it." Her arms hit the ground as one more fist punched the back of her skull. Then he walked off. She whispered "fuck you too" but he couldn't hear. That's when she puked. Just a little dribble ran down her chin. Memory stopped then.
Not to be paranoid or prone to conspiracy theories, but Dwight suspected that there was more to these riots than a bunch of hotheads throwing bricks. It could be the race wars of either Hassan Ali or the Longhairs, but it was not random. Dwight would have been better off had he never watched public access.
It wouldn't matter so much to Dwight --- Uprisings vs. riots, concerted effort vs. bad juju, warfare vs. random violence--- so much had someone not decided that his apartment would look better as a fire. His worldly possessions were reduced to a Fishbone shirt, a pair of boxers, a fuzzy bathrobe, slippers and a near mint copy of Action Comics # 43. His cat, Malcolm, couldn't be considered a possession. Dwight's art supplies, computer, television, illegal cable box, and complete Bessie Smith compact disc collection were not so lucky. He didn't even have enough time to get sick of Mariah Carey.
As he stood watching his home transform into smoke, he didn't want to speculate. The possibilities increased exponentially. His stupid neighbors that complained about his music, the landlord, the local Nazis, and his ex-girlfriend could have burned down his house. For the sole purpose of seeing him look stupid with a comic book in one hand and a fat tabby in the other hand, someone burned down his apartment.
Volunteers from the local homeless shelter living were talking about that shelter going up an hour before. He made mental calculations based on bus routes that didn't exist this late and he was going to have to go to his ma's house on the North Side. She hated his cat.
Cheryl hated the cat even more. Cheryl lived closer but she'd laugh in his face if he showed up at her doorstep with his problems. Maybe there wouldn't be laughter; maybe she'd just look sad, as this was their final breakup. He was certain of it. Even if she did take him and make him sleep on the couch, Malcolm would be at the animal shelter before he could wake up. She was allergic and hated cats on general principle.
She hated Dwight now too. She told him that the last time they were together. They had sex (fucked? made love?) and she told him that it was the worst fuck she ever had. She didn't say it like that. She was trying to be honest, painfully honest. Karl said he would have slapped the bitch. Karl wouldn't have done shit. Karl was just as afraid of Cheryl as everyone else.
Tears pushed Dwight out of his nostalgia. The neighbors were crying. Five children, three adults and half of them were bawling. They were Hmong and lived in the same place for three years. Only one of them spoke to Dwight. He asked Dwight to turn the music down. They would have parties all night long, talking and shouting and they would tell Dwight to turn his music down. The mother worked at the local K Mart; torched yesterday, only children's merry-go-round left standing.
"Do you have any insurance?" he asked despite the lack of introduction. The mother looked at him with cold hatred. He was black. She probably thought he torched the apartment personally. Or did his music start burning up the hallways? It was sad that immigrants could learn racism so easily, thought Dwight, possibly mistaken.
"Take this. It's worth money. Take it to a comic book store. Or an auction house. They'll set you up," said Dwight, handing over his nest egg.
"Thank you," said one of the hostile teenagers. Dwight walked away, trying to ignore the confusion in their faces, and thoughts over how they'd waste the comic. They'd probably throw it out or use it to wrap fish or read it or something.
Malcolm was shrieking. Understandably it was time to walk across town, knock on Ma's door, tell her that she was right about his apartment being a rotten place, and to apologize for waking her. She would cook soul food, with a little prompting. It would be fun. It would be fun until she asked him why he was still working freelance.
Two people rushed past him in a hurry. Dwight didn't take it personally. He was a six-foot tall black guy in a bathrobe carrying a nasty, fat, ugly cat. Malcolm looked mean even when he slept. He had that attitude problem ever since the operation.
His voice sounded of cabbage rotting in the sewer. " My name is Mr. Siffer, but you may call me Louis, if that is your preference."
"Lou Siffer?" asked an incredulous Dogshit. Dogshit never liked cute satanic names. However, this guy was dead so he could call himself whatever he wished.
"Would you like to know our destination?" asked the charbroiled one.
"No."
They were in one of the better parts of town. Professional paperpushers had been buying up houses. Nothing good ever got thrown out anymore. The local nightclub had been shut down. Property values were up. Local all night coffeehouse closed its doors last April, sending assorted regulars scurrying for new neighborhood dives. The only thing left standing in the wake of urban beautification was the 24-hour restaurant. Win one for the punks, thought Dogshit.
Three hours ago that restaurant burned. A disgruntled dishwasher, caught up in the momentum of the evening, destroyed his lousy job. Win another one for the punks? Dogshit felt he should have been happy for the proletariat, but he liked the place. The employees gave him extra food and never kicked him out. The Jukebox played Screaming Death constant, no matter what anyone selected. As they walked past the shell of a blackened wall, Dogshit felt a tinge of nostalgia.
Lucifer asked, "so have you ever heard of 'Our Lady of Perpetual Safety'?"
Dogshit grunted.
"It's a beautiful place, if a little rundown"
Dogshit tried to squat there but moved on after a night. Too many noises, mice, squeaks, and emotions choked him. Once he met someone who claimed to have stayed for a month. The guy wished that he had stayed only a night, but Dogshit didn't believe him either way. The guy kept looking over his shoulder and talking about the avenging demons that followed him.
Upon residential streets they walked. A strong need among the people to feel suburban borne crappy video stores, consignment shops and two overpriced markets. This church came into view. It would be mistaken for another house, except for an old sign hanging in the front and a crucifix adorning the roof. Paint was peeled yellow. The west wall had a large gaping hole through which many could enter.
"Why are we here?" asked Dogshit.
"Redemption."
"What about your dog?"
"What dog?"
Squirrels fought over candy wrappers in the nearby bushes. The lunar crucifix reflection twisted into the house next door. Everything was too quiet.
Dogshit wanted to protest but the man looked at him and he stopped. Dogshit stood by the fire hydrant for a second and then the hand pointed and Dogshit was on his feet. He reasoned that he was here by choice but he didn't believe in free will. He said that he was going into the church because he was completely free and reasonable and beyond the influence of petty superstitions. By walking into a spooky church, Dogshit was proving that he was free to choose for himself without fear or coercion.
Abandon all hope. Get out of my head. Abandon all hope. Get out of my head. He knocked on the door, and Dante stuck in his head like a sticky rancid pop song.
"What are you waiting for?" heard Dogshit.
"Sorry. What am I knocking on the door for?"
"Just knock," said a more feminine sounding voice.
"Right."
Dogshit knocked and the door made no sound. His knuckles bled when he began kicking it. The leather in his boots died in vain. No sound. He tried the doorbell and it was broken as he suspected. Finally Dogshit turned to confront the old man with the stupidity of this endeavor. That's when the door opened with the smell of old shoes and sad mice.
Dogshit's entrance cut off a nightmare of normal suburban lifestyles. The creaking under his feet announced the imminent demise of all wood. Opening lobby, defaced with satanic symbols, exhaled mildew. A carpet was only half-alive and boards hung precariously from the ceiling. He recognized the smiling face with the demon horns as his own illustration. He spraypainted it years ago. Someone wrote the word Ewok over it. Next to the picture was Dogshit's "333 x 2" scratched in black letters.
Someone whispered in the corner interrupting Dogshit's nostalgia. Dogshit looked but no one was there. Pulse increased, and just that dark corner with a spider and three unhappy flies. Wind whistled through the broken windows. An eerie sickening green light enveloped him. He turned to see the door close. He knew there was no way he'd get it open. It was going to be a long night.