Category: fiction, writer,

G is for Grief…

 (Author’s Note: Appearing in the San Joaquin and Sacramento Valleys after significant rainfall, usually during the cooler months, Tule Fog is described as a low fog. What that means is that the heavy, thick cloud is barely higher than the top of a sedan. Seriously. Drivers in big rigs can see over it. Their lights sometimes shine above it. Drivers in cars are blind in it.

When I was in my twenties I drove a junky, but much loved Volkswagen Beetle. The floorboard on the driver’s side was mostly missing. There was enough foot space to drive safely, but I could see the road fly past underneath my feet. Lucky for me. One foggy day, I was driving to San Francisco through the Valley when Tule Fog appeared. It was bad. I was scared, so I turned around and headed home. It got worse. The only way I could see the road was to look straight down through the floorboard as I drove. That’s Tule Fog.)

Senior Inspector Jackson Tyler and his partner, Junior Inspector Tomio Dubanowski had worked together only six weeks, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Tom preferred to drive. He had been a pilot in the Air Force before becoming a cop, and missed having his hands on the controls of a plane. Street driving was pale in comparison, but at least he could feel the power of the machine when he drove, or so he said.

“Tyler, Dubanowski,” said Chief Tyrone Jamison, of Precinct Twelve. “Missing paraphernalia at the Outdoorsman. Get on it.” The Outdoorsman was a shop for all things camping, someplace Jack imagined Tom would enjoy, even if it was for a possible robbery.

Silent as a stone, Tom stood up, gathered his equipment, and handed the keys to the Expedition to Jack.

Jack cocked his head, a silent question, “Why?”

Tom shrugged, and sullenly walked to the garage.  

The drive seemed longer than it really was, because Tom did not talk. Instead, he leaned against the door of the car, pressed his cheek against the windowpane, and watched the city roll past them. One block away from the camping store, he blurted, “Jack. Have you ever wondered what it feels like to die?”

“Uh, why are you asking?” said Jack. There had been no deaths on the force, and the department hadn’t shown any films about handling contentious situations, or what to do if shot or otherwise injured on the job.

“Well, I just think that as police officers we should expect it. I want to know what I am getting into, how it’s going to feel.”

At that moment, Jack drove past the Outdoorsman, turned right, and pulled into the lot behind the store. “Tom, I would love to be there for you, but right now….”

“Yeah, okay,” said Tom, putting on his ‘time to be a cop’ face.

That evening they stopped for burgers and fries. At the table, Tom said quietly, “What do you think it feels like to get mortally shot or stabbed? Do you think the body shuts off the pain centers? I don’t want to know pain.”

“Why are you thinking of this. Did you see something? Did somebody you knew in the Air Force pass?” Jack spoke very softly.

Tom deflated. While he stared at his lap, he said, “I’m sorry. I guess this anniversary has always fallen on a day off.”

“Anniversary?” said Jack, looking at him warily, knowing he was about to hear about something devastating.

“Three years ago, while I was still in the Air Force, my parents celebrated their forty-second wedding anniversary. It was foggy, that horrible Tule fog in the Great Valley – they were heading home to Turlock from San Francisco. The officers at the scene said that my father jerked the wheel and sent the front of his car under…uh…an eighteen-wheeler. It was passing on the left. The front of the car…uh…was crushed….” Tom couldn’t finish the description. “The officer said it was quick.”

He swiped his nose. Then he whispered, “I felt them scream, Jack.”

Jack was horrified. How did he not know this about his new partner?

Tom continued, “I don’t think about it most days, but for the last three years, I’ve thought about it on this day, you know? Their anniversary.”

“And wonder what they went through.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I think about dying. Does it hurt? Will I be afraid? What if I’m not ready? I want to be ready, so if it happens, I’m not caught off guard. How do I do that, Jack? I…I don’t know how to get ready.” He sighed. “I was given a book to read when I joined the Force. It was about dying and what to expect, mostly about what happened after, notifying family, handling effects, but there was some information about how the medics would respond, what the body would do, what they would do to it.” He shivered. “It was supposed to relieve fear, but it just created more for me. I skimmed it, and then planned to live.”

“Maybe that’s what you should do now?” Jack shoved his hand across the table, but then retracted it when he realized Tom didn’t want it.

Tom sighed. “I miss my parents, Jack. I miss my dad. When stuff happens, I reach for my phone to call, and then realize there is no one there.” Tom’s eyes filled with tears, which he quickly wiped away.

Jack’s eyes filled in response. He also wiped them away. “I am so sorry, Tom.”

“I didn’t want to make you feel bad. I…like I said, I think this is the first time I haven’t wallowed in this alone. Every other anniversary has been a day off.”

Jack grabbed his phone, opened his calendar, and set a reminder on yesterday’s date.

“What are you doing?” asked Tom.

“I’m setting a reminder for next year. ‘Remind Tom to call in sick tomorrow. We have plans.’ Does that work for you?”

“Um. Yeah. I think that will work.” Tom accepted his hand this time.

F is for field strip

Backstory for Blood On His Hands

Senior Inspector Jackson Tyler stepped onto the patio at the back of the precinct. “I have been looking all over for you…why have you field stripped your Glock?” he said.

“It didn’t feel right at the range this morning,” said Tom, a Junior Inspector for Detroit’s 12th precinct, and Jack’s partner.

“Why didn’t you leave it at the armory?”

“I should have, I know, and I will, but I just wanted to see for myself,” said Tom. The truth was, he missed the routine of field stripping a weapon. Each gun had its own peculiarities, its own wear and tear marks, its own patina. Somehow, the character of the gun said something about the character of the man who held it. He wasn’t sure what that said about him and the Gatling guns fitted to the Warthogs he flew.

He shrugged his shoulders, and glared at Jack. Caring for his gun was a form of meditation for him, a chance to reflect on life, and on death. He resented the interruption. He held the empty barrel to the light to look through it. This gun could take a life or save one in a fraction of a second, but only if it functioned properly.

Jack left him to it.  

Since Tom had joined the Inspector Corps for Detroit’s Police Department, there had never been a reason to fire his weapon in the field, but he knew it was there ready to defend him and the people he had sworn to protect. Like all officers, he practiced regularly, cleaned it as recommended, and this was the first time it felt…off. He could not explain it, especially after taking it apart and cleaning it. The barrel was smooth, the pins looked good, he saw no rough patches or scratches anywhere on it. It felt good in his hand. However, when he’d shot it at the range earlier in the day, the recoil just wasn’t right.

He sighed.

He took his time, wiping away excess oil. Sure that his gun was shiny, and clean, he put it back together. He returned to the bullpen and sat at his desk.

Jack came in and sat in the desk across from him. “The armory is taking guns for another hour. You could have it back by morning.”

“Uh, thank you. I didn’t know that’s where you went.”

“Tom, trust your intuition. Turn the damn thing in.”

Tom hugged his gun to his chest. He knew it was just a tool, but he had a personal relationship with an instrument that gave him so much power over life. Calling it a ‘damn’ thing hurt a little, though he knew Jack meant nothing by it. Though he and Jack had never discussed it, he knew Jack was as particular about his Smith and Wesson as Tom was about this gun.  

Tom said, “My place or yours for dinner tonight?”

“Let’s go wild and eat out. My treat.”

“Ooh, is that date?”

“Go turn in your gun,” said Jack, ignoring his jibe.

Tom saluted his partner. On his way out, he whistled “Life’s Lessons” by Lynyrd Skynyrd.

E is for Egregious…

“…shocking, appalling, terrible, shameful; a glaring unpardonable error. I made an egregious error of judgment, okay? What do you want me to say? I’m sorry?” Jon backed up two steps when his stepfather’s face turned hard and angry.

Phillip said, “That’s enough, young man. Get to your room. Your mother will bring you dinner later. And forget about escaping out the window. It’s been screwed shut.”

“You can’t do that,” said Jon. “It’s a fire hazard. I demand egress from my room!”

“Jon, just go to your room,” said his mom.

Jon glared at his stepfather one more time before stomping to his room. He slammed the door.

Phillip said, “I’m torn between taking the door off the hinges, or getting one of those compressors that makes it impossible to slam it.”

Meghan shivered.

“Hey, hey,” said Phillip. His voice warmed as he soothed her. “He’s safe.” He rubbed circles across her shoulders. Phillip was her rock.

“I can’t imagine what gets into his head to run off like that. Sacramento, Phil. He went all the way to Sacramento this time. He lived with a homeless man, on the streets. What are we going to do? What if the police hadn’t picked him up?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Have you called Jack? He deserves to know his son ran away again.”

“Oh my. I forgot.”

“Here.” He took the wooden spoon from her hand. “I’ll stir the sauce. You call the ex.”

Meghan dialed her ex-husband’s number. He worked for Detroit PD, Inspector class, a continent away from Stockton, California. She prayed Jon wasn’t like his dad, mentally tormented with OCD or some other illness. She prayed he was just a boy with wanderlust, like Jack’s father, Hank, had said.

Her eldest, Rick, never did anything like this and he was Jack’s blood too, so…, “Hello?”

“Jackson Tyler.”

“Yes, Jack, it’s me, Meghan.”

“Did you find him?”

“How – how did you know?”

“Hank told me. I can catch a flight this evening.”

“No, no need. We found him. He was rounded up with the rest of the homeless people in Oak Park.”

“Oak Park? Sacramento? Oh, god. Is he all right?”

“He’s angry, Jack. I don’t know what to do with him. This is the second time he’s run away.”

“The second time? Why didn’t I hear about the first time?”

“We knew he was in town, suspected he was at a friend’s house. He was. Sometimes kids do this. I didn’t think much about the first time, but he scared me this time Jack.”

Jack didn’t answer right away.

He was estranged from both of his sons, but especially Jon, who didn’t understand why he left when they divorced. Jon was only three and a half when she’d kicked Jack out of their lives. She hooked up with Phil soon after. Truth be told, Phil was there waiting for her, otherwise she would not have had the courage to ask Jack to leave. Nobody else but the two of them need know that. It certainly didn’t factor in her youngest son’s recent behavior.

“Do you think it would do any good if I talked to him,” said Jack.

“No. He doesn’t really know you anymore.” She knew that had to hurt, but it was true.

“Still,” he said.

“No, Jack. Leave him be. I’ll ask if he wants to call you, but I know he won’t. I just wanted to keep you informed.”

She heard him sigh.

“Jack?”

“Yeah, okay, Meghan. Thank you for calling.” He hung up.

Was Jon’s poor judgment a delayed emotional response to his father’s absence? She didn’t think so. Phil was a lovely man, and a good father.

“Hon?” said Phil. “This sauce is done. Do we let Jon eat alone, or do we invite him to the table?”

She gazed at him. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Well, I don’t want him to have another reason to leave.”

“That’s the answer. Jon,” she said.

“But, I sent him to his room, told him you’d bring him dinner, later.”

“Then, that’s exactly what I’ll do. Gather up the plates and utensils. Let’s join our errant son for a picnic on his rug. I’m sure he has a story to tell.”

(Author’s Note: This is a backstory for one of my working titles, Broken.)

A is for Attitude…

…and Tomio Dubanowski has one. As a child of mixed descent, he came by it naturally. He grew up in an otherwise homogenous, rural, and redneck town in Northern California. Life there was rough – Turlock, the wild west, demanding and unforgiving. Tomio quickly became Tom – tough, scrappy, and the class defender of teased girls and other small boys his age. He learned everything he needed to know about life in kindergarten.

By fourth grade he was a thug at school, so different than the artsy, sweet kid he was at home. The principal knew him well, and he never had homework because he completed it every day while sitting in the office where there were no distractions. His parents simply did not understand the child he became at school.

Sixth grade was devastating, a year he would not have survived without attitude. It was the year he began to question his sexuality, the year a cousin came on to him because he recognized a kindred spirit. His attitude about it was defined on the last day he walked home with his best friend. It was early November. He and Robert, known by most of the students in his class as Basher Bob because of his amazing batting skills, were walking home after a game. Basher Bob had, as usual, amazed the crowd with his home runs. Tom slung an arm over his shoulders to congratulate him on a triple play that won the game, but he broke an unspoken rule. There was a definitive time to how long a man hug was supposed to last. Tom was late, very late in his release. Bob shoved him to the ground, kicked him, and ran off. They never spoke again, but words flew around the school, words like fag, and girlie and butt licker.

It was then he decided that the answer to his questioning was a truth he should hide from everyone, including himself. His solution was to become the scrappiest, no-holds-barred brawler with an attitude that spoke of quick fists, rough language, and all-boy obnoxiousness that sent the gentler students running, but set him straight with the jocks. It was the way he survived high school, the way he survived the Air Force, and was serving him pretty well now that he was a cop. Attitude with a capital ‘A’ was everything.

And then he met Jack….