J is for Jinked

(Author’s Note: Abridged excerpt from Blood On His Hands. I expect to have Blood published by October 2019. Watch for updates.)

low angle photography of traffic lights
Photo by Josh Hild on Pexels.com

The skanky kid, who hit on him at Michaelson’s Bar, was heavy on his mind as Jack Tyler stood in front of the closed establishment. At the time, he did not know he was fending off the advances of a murder suspect, but it explained a lot. Whether it was because Jack was thinking about that as he stood in front of the ‘Closed Until Further Notice’ sign, or it was just plain good luck, the kid materialized on the corner across the street, a block south of where he stood with his partner Tomio Dubanowski.

The kid wore a long, trench coat that looked like it belonged to a much bigger man. His back was turned but he had black hair the same length and cut of the kid he’d rebuffed at the bar. When he turned, his black hair shadowed half of his face but his tic was unmistakable. It was him. Had to be.

“Tom.” Jack grabbed his partner’s arm. “Corner to the left.”

“What?” said Tom, turning.

“Move casually, look to your left, toward the avenue like you’re upset the bar is closed and don’t know what to do.”

Tom turned as if he were looking for somewhere else to go.

The kid paced the corner. Every time a car went by, he looked into it as if he expected to know the person inside.

Tom said, “Who do you think he is waiting for?”

Jack said, “Who knows. We need to be cool about this.”

“Okay. Here’s a plan. Sling your arm around me and walk as if we’re lovers just out for a stroll. We’ll go over and say ‘Hi’.”

Jack hummed and slung his arm around Tom’s waist, kissed him on the cheek, and pulled him tightly against his side.

Tom turned his head and snuggled against Jack’s shoulder, picking up the charade. He said, in a loud whisper, “If it’s him, our take is we remember him from the bar. We can ask if he knows when it’s reopening.”

Jack replied, “Sounds good.”

Keeping in tune with each other to create consistency, they strolled, arm in arm, beyond Michaelson’s toward the main part of the district. They stopped every few steps to check their phones so they could snap pictures. Once or twice Jack stopped their stroll and stole a kiss. It gave them time to observe the kid’s odd behavior.

The kid moved closer to the avenue, farther from them. Was it an unconscious response as they walked toward him, or a coincidence? He moved further, another block beyond them, still on a corner, still across the street. Animated, he paced the walkway from one intersecting lane to the other, gesticulating as if talking to a companion. His head twitched to the right as if he was ditching buzzing flies or mosquitoes.

“That is the same tic,” said Jack.

“He twitched like that?” said Tom.

“I thought he was tweaking at the time.”

“Something is going on,” said Tom.

“Meth, mental illness…both.”

“Jack, if this kid is responsible for the robberies as well as O’Connell’s murder, it would explain why your,” he waved his hand up and down Jack’s torso, “weird visions escalated before having contact. He was in the neighborhood.” Tom quietly observed the strange kid across the street. “He definitely has some kind of bug in his head.”

“Yeah, we need to get to him, to help if nothing else.”

As they approached, the kid’s mutterings became audible. “Hurry, hurry, you motherfucker. I don’t have all day. Gotta take care of it, gotta take care, take care of it, now. It has to be now. Now, now, now. Hurry, hurry, you mother. Hurry you mother. Fuck her.” His head jerked to the right.

Jack faltered a step and felt Tom’s arm wrap tightly around his waist. He recognized, too keenly, the manic tenor of the chatter, too much like his own. He shuddered when he said, “I’m positive he is the same kid.”

“When has it ever been this easy to find and catch a suspect?” said Tom.

Were they about to arrest Kevin O’Connell’s killer?

Neither one of them wanted him to respond to their presence in any unpredictable ways, so, they waited for the light to cross the street, giving him plenty of time to see them. When the light turned, they stepped into the crosswalk. He stopped pacing to look at them.

Tom waved. “Hey,” he said cheerfully.

The kid’s eyes popped open.

“Hey, man,” said Tom. “You okay?”

Jack said quietly into his ear, “He’s gonna rabbit.”

Like a flash, the kid turned and sprinted up the street away from them.

“Shit,” said Tom as he ran for their vehicle.

Jack ran after the kid.

The kid was fast, but Jack knew he couldn’t sustain the speed; he didn’t look healthy enough. All he had to do was outlast him, and years of swimming had given him that kind of stamina. Unless the kid was tweaking, then it was anyone’s guess as to how long he could run at this speed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw their unmarked truck flash its lights. Jack trusted that Tom had called for backup.

Tom gunned the engine and peeled past the kid, to drive him back toward Jack.

Instead, the kid ducked into a narrow alleyway. Tom slammed on the brakes, but Jack motioned him on and then sprinted into the alley to follow him. Three steps into the narrow space, he gagged and had to cover his nose, overcome by a wave of piss stench. As he jumped a tumble of cardboard boxes, he heard the tires of the truck squeal as Tom raced around the block to meet them on the other side.

It was clear that that kid was familiar with this alley. He tunneled through with amazing speed to the next block.

Tom rushed toward him, pushing him left toward Michaelson’s Bar. He was visibly tiring and stumbled twice. Jack caught up enough to catch a whiff of rotten fish before the kid jinked to the left, away from the street, and doubled back, squirreling past him. Jack lost his footing and slammed his shoulder against the side of the building. Before he could get his feet under him, the kid ducked back into the alley. “Damn little rodent,” said Jack as he sprinted after him.

At the end of the alley, Jack skidded to a stop. He had no idea which way to turn. Sirens screamed from three directions. Tom passed in front of him, having turned left as he pursued the kid around the block. Another squad pulled up next to Jack. He pointed toward Tom’s car. The squad raced on, and Jack ran after it. As a second squad passed him, he quit running and bent over his knees to catch his breath. It was never easy to catch a suspect, but one way or another, they had him. He straightened and ran.

I is for Intimidate

Excerpt from Broken, a work in progress.

Senior Inspector Jack Tyler hated receiving calls about missing children, especially in the wee hours of the morning. Half asleep, he jogged down five stories of stairs to the foyer of his apartment building. Each step nudged his mind toward wakefulness. He left the building at a run, and kept his speed the first two blocks north. He slowed his pace to turn east, and to avoid a few puddles. His heart rate was up and he felt a little more grounded in this world.

On the far corner in front of his destination, seemingly unbothered  by the aftermath of a heavy drizzle, a crowd of punks jostled each other in mock martial arts posturing. The light was low, emanating from one source, a yellow bug light over the door of the building. Sleepy residents leaned out of their darkened windows, yelling at them to stop and go home. He counted eight males, and one female. The youths’ movements were just uncoordinated enough to indicate that it was the end of a revel, not the start.

He stopped about forty yards from them to pull his credentials, and check the snap on the security strap for the gun hidden under his jacket. Revelers were unpredictable and it was unclear if he was seeing exhaustion, drunkenness, or a group high on something. With as much bravado as he could muster, he approached them. “Inspector Tyler, Detroit PD.”

The female looked up and ran. Alerted by her reaction, the males followed like a flock of crows. A ninth person hiding in the shadows stepped into the yellow light. The man, who was puffed up like a threatening bear, clenched his fists and faced Jack. Jack was tall; this man was taller by at least two inches. His shoulders were broader by half.

“What the fuck do you want, pig?” he said. A momentary gleam flashed in his eyes that said, ‘I know you.’

Jack supposed his involvement in high profile cases may have given his name a modicum of notoriety, but to his knowledge, his face had never appeared in the media. Had they had a previous encounter? He zipped through his mental catalog of remembered faces, but could not find this man in it. Rattled, he said with authority, “Excuse me. I need to talk to a lady in that building behind you.”

The kid swaggered toward Jack. “You ain’t got no business with anyone here,” he growled.

“Look man,” said Jack, flashing his credentials with one hand, while holding his other up in a peace offering. “I didn’t make the call. There is a distraught mother in there worried about her kid. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?”

“You see a kid, here?” he snarled.

Just one, thought Jack, close enough to see that the man was barely in his twenties, twenty-five at most. “Look, I have no problem with you; I just want to talk to the worried mom.”

The kid backed down a notch.

“We good?” said Jack.

“Phillip, you let that po-leese by, you hear?” said a woman from the second story.

“Ain’t Phillip no more. Folks ‘round here call me Rat Snatcher,” he yelled at her.

“Rat Snatcher,” she belly laughed. “I don’t give no nevermind about that. You let that officer up here, you hear me Phillip?”

The bear of a kid cut his sleeve and shoved his fist toward Jack. Then he turned and swaggered down the street.

“Your mother too, buddy,” Jack muttered as he ran up the stairs to the door of the building. He could feel Rat Snatcher’s acute stare hot against his back, but he didn’t turn to confirm it. He had his name, Phillip. There was at least one person who knew him. If Rat Snatcher was involved in this missing child case, he knew he would have no trouble finding him again. For now, it was best to leave grumbling bears alone.

H is for Home…

Possible scene for Broken, a work in progress

All he wanted was some toast. Was that too much to ask? Tom Dubanowski clung to the hospital issued walker as he shuffled across the impossible expanse of Jack’s apartment. His gut twisted. He shook, a quaking leaf helpless in the storm of pain coursing through him. It was a stupid metaphor, but it was all he had to work with.

In the small kitchen, a loaf of Canyon Bakehouse was in easy reach next to the refrigerator. Thank the gods. When he plunged the bread into the toaster, another eddy of pain gripped his side. The walker shook under his grip. He scooted it away from him and grabbed the counter. Every damn move he made, every breath he took, hell, every thought he had, knifed his innards.

“Get it together,” he whispered.

Jack could not find him like this. There would be no reasoning with him, no way of convincing him that he was okay on his own. He wanted to be in his own apartment, miserable with himself, engaged in his own private, pity party.

“Come on,” he said to the pathetic husk he had become. He bent over the sturdy counter until his weight rested upon it. The granite was cool against his swollen cheek; the darkness in the kitchen shrouded him. He could do this. He had to. He could not take his pain medication on an empty stomach.

The front door closed with a gentle snick.

Shit. Jack.

The toast popped with a snap.

Startled, he grabbed his belly. With both arms around the pain, he calculated what it would take to push away from the counter, unfortunately not quick enough to follow through with an actual plan.

“Tomi?” said Jack, stepping softly into the kitchen.

Dammit. Tom’s broken whininess was on full display for Jack to see. One traitorous tear, a beacon of distress, leaked from his unpatched eye, ran over the bridge of his nose, and dripped onto the counter. He sniffed. “Take me home, Jack. I want to go to go home.” A sniveling little baby was what he was.

Jack pressed a warm hand against Tom’s back. “Tomi, Tomi, Tomi,” he said. His voice was soft and comforting.

It threatened Tom’s resolve. “Please, Jack.”

“Uh, huh,” he said, agreeably.

Jack reached into a cupboard above Tom’s head to grab a bowl. When he reached for the toast, he shifted his hands upon Tom’s back. The solid pressure between his shoulder blades became his focus, an anchor against the tide of pain that rolled over him. It took him to a place of calm, a place he could not find on his own. Dammit.

The crisped bread scraped against the basket inside the toaster as Jack pulled the slices from it. He broke them into large pieces and dumped them into the bowl.

He was closer now. The warmth of his body seeped into the back of Tom’s legs and backside.

“You think being on your own is a good idea?” said Jack. His breath caressed Tom’s ear as he wrapped his arms around Tom.

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” said Tom.

“I see. You can watch my blubbering breakdown into insanity, but I can’t take care of you.”

One of Jack’s shoes tickled Tom’s bare right foot.

“You ready?” Jack said into the back of his head.

“I can’t,” he whimpered.

“Yes you can. There’s a chair right behind me.”

“I can’t do this, Jack.”

This. This was relinquishing autonomy. This was molly coddling. This pathetic, mewling kitten act was not him.  

Jack pulled him away from the counter.

Before he could process the wave of pain that flooded him, he was sitting in one of Jack’s comfortable dinette chairs. Jack crouched in front of him, holding his hands against his quaking knees.

“Okay. Here’s what is going to happen next. I’m making hot milk toast with honey. You will eat it. We will get those medications into you. Then I am wrapping you into that bed over there.”

Tom looked across the living room of Jack’s apartment through the open door toward Jack’s bed. He didn’t want to be in Jack’s bed broken and needy. He wanted…he wanted something…he wanted what he didn’t have the energy to accomplish right now. Tom shook his head. “I want my own bed, Jack.”

“What you want and what you’re going to get are two different things now, aren’t they, Tom?” He squeezed Tom’s fingers.

Unable to speak, Tom sniffed and raised his eyes, meeting Jack’s gaze. Determination glittered in a deep, shimmering well of love. Could Jack see how scared he was? Could he see how grateful he was? Could Jack see how much love he felt for him in this moment?

Jack winked. As he rose to warm some milk, he kissed Tom’s cheek, lingering, so his next words ghosted reassurance across his lips. “You’ll get through this, Fly. No worries.”

Tom sighed. Maybe it was his neediness. Maybe the pain dissolved his reticence. Maybe his heart was whispering, “Everything you require is here, right now.”

Why was he trying to run from it?

Jack was his port in this storm.

Jack was his home.

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.)

D is for Desperate

To say that Jackson Tyler was a happy child would be a lie. He wasn’t sullen, he didn’t have a temper, and his pretty, little face didn’t own a scowl, but happy? No. He was thoughtful, and found intimate, personal delight about the world in general, but he didn’t often share that because anxiety was a central part of his being. The world, for Jackson, was titanic: he heard everything, he saw everything, he felt everything, and some tastes and smells were so overwhelming that he had an absolute aversion to them. His favorite place to get away from it was the pantry of canned goods off the kitchen. It was dark, it was quiet and canned goods didn’t smell.

This made life difficult for Martha, his stepmother, who was the only mother he’d ever known. Her greatest joy was feeding her family; she loved being a wife, creating a beautiful home with flowers, candles and potpourris on beautifully set tables, with beautifully prepared foods. But, she didn’t have family often because her husband, Harrison, Hank to his friends, was a foreign correspondent for the San Francisco Chronicle, so he was travelling most of the time, and when he was home he was hustling for the next story.

So, Jackson was her company, but he wasn’t satisfactory, because he didn’t talk much, and he only liked grilled cheese sandwiches with canned pears, at least at this particular moment in his short, five-year history. Eating for him was particularly troublesome if he was involved in an internal drama of imaginings that sometimes came true and sometimes did not, or if some imaginary irritant was bothering him, then, he didn’t eat at all.

One lovely sunny day, after spending the morning in a frantic state of five-ness, Jackson was winding down, minding his own business, sitting on the floor in the dark pantry. Martha, in her haste to get lunch on the table tripped over one of his outstretched legs and fell. Unfortunately, she skinned and bruised her right knee and tweaked her wrist. It took a moment for her to right herself. When she did, she saw him sitting there, teary-eyed and sniveling, balled into a shell, because it was his leg that tripped her.

She lost it. She yanked him off the floor, shoved him out the back door into the light of the day, into the titanic, swirling world, and said, “Why do you have to be so difficult? You cannot come back into this house until I serve lunch.” Then she locked the door.

He threw himself at it, slapped it with his tiny fragile hands, and cried, “Mom, mom, let me in, let me in.”

 An eternity passed with no results for his efforts – and then, a bird, pounding its head against a pole at the base of the yard, caught his attention.

Tear stained and shaky, he slowly climbed down the steps and walked toward the telephone pole where it was performing this strange and wondrous behavior. When he got to the base of it, he leaned his hands against it and looked up at the little bird. For one heartbeat, the bird’s head was a blur while it pounded its beak into the wood, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Jackson suddenly knew the world as the bird did, one gigantic, frantic, hunt for food. Hunger was a monster, consuming every one of Jackson’s senses. Together, Jackson and the bird could think of only one thing, “Find an insect, eat.”

In all his five years, he’d never felt so murderous, had never thought of needing food so desperately.

The bird tapped again, and the world blacked out for an instant, and then Jack heard them, he actually heard the insects crawling, chewing, and scratching inside the wooden pole. He cocked an ear when the bird cocked an ear, and listened. His meal was close. The world blackened for an instant as he pounded, trying to reach them. He listened again. There was an insect right under the surface. Crazed with hunger he rapped again.

When he and the bird grabbed an insect, then two, then three, four; Jackson swooned with relief. He awoke when he heard his mother’s voice, “Jacksie. You okay Baby? Mommy’s sorry she lost her temper.”

“I’m okay. I was a bird, Mom. He was hungry. He eats insects.”

“That’s nice, dear. It’s time to come in. I made grilled cheese sandwiches with sliced pears on the side.”

“Okay.” As Jackson followed his stepmother, he felt heavy with sorrow, though somehow, he knew it wasn’t his. How could it be? He was a bird, he’d already eaten lunch. Life couldn’t be better.

He looked at his stepmother, and saw the heavy, woolen shroud of sadness that she wore. He took her hand and smiled. “Don’t worry, Mommy. I’m okay.”

“I know, Jacksie. Mommy’s okay too.”

He wasn’t so sure about that.

C is for Cowboy…

At seventeen, Tomio Dubanowski was a ‘cool’ guy, and everybody knew that the cool guys rode bulls. What was eight seconds? Nothing. Any fool could hang on that long.

He gathered his savings, forged his parents’ signatures, and sent in an entry fee.

One evening, a week later, around the family dinner table, his sister, Kimi said, “Tell them.”

“Tell us what, Son?” said Josef, his father.

“I sent in my entry for CHSRA.  I plan to join the circuit. Bull riding.”

Josef choked on a sip of wine. His mother set down her fork and folded her hands. Kimi excused herself from the table and began clearing plates.

Josef cleared his throat. “I don’t remember signing any forms for that?”

Tomio looked to his sister. She shrugged and grabbed the platter of roast beef.

“Uh. You must have, I sent it in.”

“Tomio,” said his mother. When she used that tone, the world was going to crash around his ears. “Please excuse yourself and go to your room.”

He lay on his bed in his darkened room, wondering if he could get a refund. He dreaded what his parents were calculating as punishment for forging their signatures. There was a knock on his door, but before he could answer, his father walked in.

Tomio sat up.

Josef sat in the chair at his desk and sighed. “Obviously, your mother and I are appalled about the signatures. You stepped way beyond the line.” He folded his hands together in his lap.

Tomio appreciated his restraint.

“What a knucklehead. Sittin’ on a horse pushing cattle is not the same as bull riding. Roping steers doesn’t make you a bull expert, or even strong enough to handle leading one in a kiddie ring. What the hell were you thinking?”

“All the cool guys are doing it.”

“All the idiots, Son, not the cool guys.”

“You want me to be a cowboy, well here it is, cowboys ride bulls.”

“Aaugh. Cowboys work herd. Idiots ride bulls.” Josef shook his head. “What’s done is done. I called around; there are no refunds. You either forfeit or you ride.”

“I want to ride.”

“Your mother and I expected that.” He hung his head. “There’s only one thing for it, I guess.” He looked Tomio squarely in the eye. “We had better get prepared. I don’t plan to lose my only son to some son-of-a-bitch bull.”

For the next three weeks, Tom spent every afternoon after school working with his father, learning the tricks of the ride. The owner of the ranch where his father worked had a mechanical bull and Josef got permission to use it. The first week, Tom flew off within the first couple of seconds.  By the second week, he could ride a full ten seconds at the middle setting if he used both hands. By the end of the third week, he could hold his form at the highest setting for a full ten seconds.

It was time to try a real animal. The ranch had two young bulls that were not ready for breeding. Tom thought they were magnificent, but he knew that riding the bulls at the ranch would not be the same as mounting a seasoned rodeo bull. Rodeo bulls knew tricks, tricks that could kill a man. He was tough, he knew that, but he wasn’t stupid. Bulls were tougher.

The night before his first competition, Tom’s dad said, “Come.” In the garage, he grabbed a box from the top shelve above his workbench. Inside it was a very beat up, old hockey helmet with an attached face guard.

“What’s that?” said Tomio.

“It’s my old helmet. You can wear it tomorrow.”

“Cowboys don’t wear hockey masks.”

“They do if they’re smart,” said his father.

“Dad, I can’t be seen wearing that thing. It’s not cool.”

“Do you want to be cool, or do you want to survive?”

“Both.”

“Then you’ll wear it.”

Tomio turned away.

“No, Son.” Josef grabbed him. “You wear it, or you don’t ride.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“Try me.” His dad’s eyes were fierce. Tom had no doubt that he could take him out with one swipe of his big hand and should his father decide to use another tactic, it would be hard to sit a bull if his butt was burning, Reluctantly, he took it.

“Good. I’m looking forward to watching you handle that bull, tomorrow, Knucklehead.”

A rattling water truck circled the arena, wetting the turf. The crowd roared when the rodeo clown danced around the truck, especially when the driver shoed him away with an overly large cowboy hat as if swatting an annoying mosquito.

Tom looked down on the bull in the chute. Old Faithful. He was fierce, a lucky draw for any rider that wanted to rack up high points. Tom just wanted to survive. “Well, here we go,” he said, as the bull reared and banged against the wall of the chute.

A horn blasted, signaling the exit of the water truck. The announcer’s voice boomed through the PA system, “Tom Dubanowski, Number Thirty-five on Old Faithful.” The crowd groaned.

Tom gazed toward the top stands, where his family sat.

His father jumped up in alarm.

It was the cowboy hat. What his father couldn’t see, was that he wore the hockey helmet under the borrowed hat. If his father missed it, the cool crowd would, too. 

Old Faithful snorted and bolted in the chute.

The sights of the event, and the roar of the crowd vanished as Tom’s focus narrowed. It was just him and the bull. Out of the silence he heard, “You ready, son?”

Tom sighed. He climbed onto Old Faithful’s back and felt the muscles of the giant beast bunch under him. Eight seconds, that’s all the time they needed to spend together. Just eight.

The voice from the silence said, “Get off the ground as soon as you can. Faithful comes around, every time, to stomp the rider, but he’ll help you get a high score if you can stay the distance.”

“Stay the distance,” Tom whispered. The bull bunched in anticipation. Tom tightened his hand on the bull rope. He prayed to the gods that he had enough rosin on his glove.  

He heard the countdown, “Three, two, one.”

The chute swung open. Old Faithful reared and leaped forward. Tom’s legs flew up and his body flew back, but he held on. Faithful bucked twice, gaining ground in the arena and then started a quick, tight, twirling motion. The cowboy hat flew off. Tom didn’t have time to worry about his image.

Faithful changed directions and kicked out with his hind legs, then twirled some more. The motion caused Tom’s teeth to tear through his tongue, but he held on.

Three more twists and Faithful bucked again. Then he leaped into the air and Tom prepared for the worst. He sunfished, a bizarre leap with a belly roll, all four legs twisting to the right. Tom’s elbow and shoulder wrenched with the motion, but he kept his fingers locked tight on the rope, held his right hand high. He worked hard to keep his legs forward. If they slipped back, he was a goner. He would fly over Faithful’s head and be crushed at the end of this maneuver. His legs stayed up. Faithful hit the ground with the force of a meteor hitting Earth, and Tom’s teeth clashed together. Pain flared up the sides of his head.

 Faithful wasn’t done. He bucked to the left, made a quick right turn and bucked hard. He sunfished once more, and Tom thought “Please buzz me out.”

A clown ran toward them, motioning “Get off, get off now.”

Tom let go, and flew to the left, crashing into the ground on his wrenched arm.

He dimly remembered, “Comes around, every time…stomps the rider.”

He scrambled to his knees, got his feet under him, and ran for the nearest fence. His left arm was useless, but he grabbed the top rail with his right and hauled himself over it. He fell again on the other side, this time twisting his left wrist underneath his body. All he could think of was, “Thank the gods I am right handed.”

That night, in the emergency room, while he and his mother waited for the X-rays, he said, “Do you think I’ll get a cast?”

“Oh, Tomio.”

“I hope so. That would be cool.”

“You don’t need cool. You have this.” She poked his head.

His father walked in and said, “That was some ridin’. Didn’t appreciate the scare with the hat, but guess you had somethin’ to prove.”

“Just wanted to be cool, Dad.”

“Well, thanks for wearing the gear.”

The doctor stepped into the cubicle. “You, young man, have no broken bones.”

“Aw, dang it,” said Tom.

“What you do have is a severely sprained wrist and elbow. Your shoulder could use some rest, too.”

“Do I get a cast?” said Tom.

“No,” said the doctor.

“But I want a cast.”

“Tomio,” said his mother. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“How about if we wrap it and put it into a sling? All the cool guys wear slings.” He winked at Tomio’s parents. “I’ll set up physical therapy for next week.”

Tom sat quietly as the doctor wrapped his arm, and set it into a sling. Then he said, “Sorry I didn’t win, Dad.”

“Who says you didn’t win,” said his father. He winked at his mother.

“I popped off before the buzzer,” said Tom.

“Are you kidding me? You rode two seconds after the buzzer, high score of the day.”

What?” said Tom.

His father pulled a buckle from behind his back. It was huge, glittering with silver and gold. A bull and rider flew above the CHSRA emblem. Tom’s hand shook as he held it. He had never considered winning. He just wanted to be cool.

His father said, “Is this summer from now on?”

Tom shook his head. “No way. I am never doing that again. But I am cool, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, you’re a real cowboy,” said his father.

  1. California High School Rodeo Association; California’s division of the National High School Rodeo Association. In 2004, a few brave riders started to use hockey helmets and face guards in the bull riding event. Now, most youth associations require them. That was not the case when Tom was riding. http://www.chsra.com/

B is for Battle

(Author’s Note: I first wrote this story in 1968. There was no Jack, just ‘the man’. He was not a police officer, just a Good Samaritan. The accident was a multiple car pile-up on 280 South, San Francisco, not the Marina District. Like Jack, he suffered tremendous guilt about his inability to save the woman in the car ahead of him when looters took advantage of the situation. I probably saw the accident on the news, and then my imagination took over. I tried to write this into the novel, but it works so much better as a backstory. Thank you in advance for reading it. Comments appreciated.)

If you were to ask Jack about his battle with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, he would probably shrug his shoulders, smile, and then walk away. Maybe, before he did so, he would offer, “Have a nice day,” depending on his mood, and what was bugging him, both externally and internally. After spending a lifetime deciphering premonitions or inadvertently reading the minds of others, he is tired.

In the beginning, he didn’t feel anxiety, just wonder. Now, the constant stimulus rips holes in his sanity. The first crisis happened on April 10, 2001, three days before Good Friday. He was twenty-five, cocky, a rookie for San Francisco PD, and eager to impress his superiors. It was his first Easter season as a married man, and his first child was on the way. It seemed especially poignant that year to celebrate. He was half-awake, half dreaming, when his Nokia screamed from the kitchen.

“Jack, what time is it?” said Meghan, starting to look like she’d swallowed a basketball.

“A little after 4:00 am.”

“Can’t you tell them to leave you alone at this hour?”

“Naw. I need to take this. I think there has been a car accident.”

“You can’t know that,” she grumbled.

“I know. Sorry.” He leaned over her and kissed her.

She quickly pecked back, then rolled over and cuddled into her pillow.

By 4:30 am, Jack was on his way to San Francisco’s Marina District not to check out a car accident, but to check out a complaint about altered manifests at Pier 64. It wasn’t something that needed to be checked at this hour. He understood it was a call for the rookie, but he was glad to be out on a fog-free morning before rush hour trapped him behind a snake of cars.

He exited King Street onto Third and as he did so, he glanced in his rearview. An eighteen-wheeler barreled toward him. The two trailers fishtailed across lanes on either side. Jack lightly touched the brake, hoping the driver behind him would take the hint and slow down.

He didn’t.  

As the driver lost control, Jack saw the front of the truck point east while the first trailer skidded forward, jackknifing the cab. The second swung toward him. Jack revved his cruiser, but just at that moment, a small car pulled in front of him, and he had to brake for it. The trailer kept sliding toward him, a groaning avalanche in slow motion. It shoved his cruiser into the small car. Jack saw the woman in the little car reach behind her at the same time that she tried to steer away from the inevitable nightmare crashing into her from behind.

Sandwiched between them, Jack watched in frozen horror as the chassis of the trailer subsumed the rear of his vehicle. The front of his car humped the vehicle in front of him, trapping the three of them in a bizarre ménage a’ trois of vehicles. He chuckled at the inevitability of death, and then the world went black.

He couldn’t have been out for more than a couple of minutes. Consciousness came haltingly, flashing vignettes of sound separated by the roar of silence: the inside of his head buzzed as if he stood next to a very active beehive, the blare of a car horn sounded muffled as if under water, a baby screamed in the distance. The vehicles groaned as they settled after the collision. The air was acrid with the stench of burnt rubber and oil. The sky was very blue. It hurt to look at it.

He tried unrolling his window. It worked.

“Hey,” he yelled. The woman was slumped in the front seat of the car under his. Her hand hung out of the window and blood dripped from her fingers. She wasn’t moving.

“Oh, god, no. No,” he said as he tried to shove open his door. It wouldn’t budge. In the distance, he thought he heard sirens, but the wheels on the big rig were still rotating, so maybe he heard them squealing. He looked around for the truck driver, but there was no sign of movement in or around his overturned cabin.

He wiggled out of the window. It hurt to breathe and he was dizzy but he had to get to the woman in the car under his. He was sure she had a baby.

As he dropped to the pavement, a wave of nausea hit him at the same time that a volley of bullets hit his car. Had he still been in it, he would be dead. He crawled to the car in front of him, but another volley of bullets flew around him. One of them grazed his head and he felt a flame of pain before the world blacked out again.

The next time he woke, he squinted against the brilliant white glare of lights in a room. An annoying beeping noise pummeled the air to his left. The top of his right hand stung as if a giant grasshopper had clamped its chomps into it. He stared. A bandage held a tube in place.  

“Welcome back,” said a deep voice.

“Where?”

“Mission Bay.”

“The lady and the baby,” said Jack as he struggled to get up.

“Hey, hey,” said his partner. “Your wife is on the way. We don’t want you mangled any more than you already are before she gets here.”

“God,” said Jack, as he sank into the pillow. “Did the mother in the car – ?”

“No. She took a bullet.”

“Oh, god,” said Jack. She needed him and he couldn’t get to her.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” said his partner.

“The baby?”

“Social Services until we can locate family. He’ll be fine.”

“Shooters?”

“Didn’t get them all rounded up. Bunch of thugs taking advantage of the situation. The truck was full of computer parts.”

Jack whispered, “Shit.”

“Yeah. The law of the jungle.”

A month later, Jack was still fighting to get out of that car. Every night he woke his poor wife and ruined his own sleep. PTSD was the diagnosis.

Six months later, the nightmares had settled into sporadic stress-induced seizures of anxiety. Visions of death and mayhem hit him like the bullet that grazed his head. He battled them by counting to nine, washing his hands, or tapping a pencil until he drove other people nuts, especially his wife who saw him at his lowest. At least twice a week, she found blood on the sheets under his pillow where he’d cradled his hands, after biting his fingernails to the quick.

On those mornings he’d ask, over and over again, “Are you going to leave me, Meg, are you going to leave me?” until she screamed at him to shut-up.  

By the next year around Easter, the shrink, hired by the precinct to work with him, declared he was suffering with OCD. He had always been open to psychic information, but now the errant thoughts distracted him. His job performance was suffering; his marriage was suffering. Trapped in a constant battle, he was the only one that could fight it. OCD was a demon, driven by its own sick need to exist. There could only be one victor between them. OCD could win and Jack would live a life of torment in Hell, or he could fight with all he was worth.  

Fight or give in.

There was really only one choice. With a son gracing his life, he would battle until he was victor.

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….