Somebody Call the Cops [Aaron]

[Dolorosa (DELETED 10231)]

Time moved slowly in Harper Rock. Even on days when Carmen tried to keep busy, when she pushed past the sometimes overwhelming impulse to do nothing but sleep, hours dripped by like tar pitch. When, or if, she finally managed to drive out of this nowhere city, Carmen wouldn’t be surprised if it were hundreds of years later, and the minute she stepped over the border she would turn into ash.

When she was younger, she read a story about a man who had trespassed into a fairy court—or maybe had been invited in; Carmen wasn’t clear. Either way, the fairies must not have minded at all. The man drank and danced and ate with them, and at the end of the night, full, drunk and merry, he stumbled back to his house. But there was nothing left of that house, and an altogether different house stood where his house had. An old man, who was understandably suspicious of visitors at this time of night, answered the door. “Who is it?” he asked. The man said his name, and at this the old geezer paled and said, “You’re shitting me! That’s my great-great grandfather’s name!”

Something like that, anyway.

And the man turned into a pile of ash and blew away, presumably dead.

You aren’t supposed to eat anything in fairyland. Not pomegranate seeds or turkish delight. Nor tea cakes, nor taffy, nor baba ganoush. What about the drugs, Carmen wondered. The LSD was good, the Ecstasy not bad, the changa divine. If seven pomegranate seeds cost Persephone seven months a year, how many months for a tab of acid?

She waded through the tinkling canisters of nitrous oxide that littered the camper van and drew back the curtains. Grandpa was on the floor, snoring, his black-grey muzzle perched on his front paws. “Come on, Rip Van Winkle.” She woke him gently, scratching behind his floppy ears. He stirred and blinked up at Carmen, then yawned. “Come on,” she said again. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

#

She rolled up a cigarette on the steps of the campervan while Grandpa ate on the grass, then wandered around to piddle all over the place, agonizingly slow. Peeing took it out of Grandpa, now; he had to squeeze every drop straight out of his kidneys. He was still squatting when Carmen spotted the fat tick right at the corner of his muzzle, shining like a big, black bead. She got up, picked it off, and then ground the tick into the earth, saliva gathering at the corners of her mouth.

Grandpa and Carmen looked at each other, Grandpa’s eyes bleary, the strain of all his years on his face. “Good boy,” she said, patting his head. “You show ‘em.”

#

Carmen set up her kit just outside River Rock Station. She leashed Grandpa to a bike rack, set up her amp, mic, and pedals, and opened her guitar case to catch the pennies and dimes that people threw in every now and then.

Alone, Carmen could only draw audiences of five or six people at a time. But when Grandpa was around and howling along to his favorite Lila Downs song, they could draw in crowds of almost ten or fifteen people at a time, because who doesn’t like a big old dog with hip dysplasia?

Carmen really liked this song, too. It was one of those songs, one of those really good boogies that you sing in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep, so you and your husband sing and dance under the stars, and your big stupid dog howls along and the night is deep and the fire is bright and there’s nothing wrong in the world, nothing at all—

A high-pitched wail startled Carmen right out of her flashback. She waded up as if out of a pleasant dream and realized Grandpa wasn't howling anymore, and instead a woman was screaming over the wailing of a startled little girl—“That vicious thing bit my baby!” Grandpa sat there, growling low, still but tense, and the woman held her child to her chest.

Carmen stopped singing and put her guitar down, quieted the effects pedal. “Is she all right?” Carmen asked.

“All right? That monster nearly bit her hand off!"

“Let me see—”

“Don't touch her!"

There was no blood, and the child was obviously all right, but now that her mother had kicked up a fuss, it wouldn't stop wailing. A man piped up, “She was pulling on the dog’s tail and poking him or something.” And yet another person, “You should muzzle that thing!” "Hey, **** off, lady, it's just a dog." And soon the small crowd of eight turned ugly, shouting about what to do with the dog and who should sue.

The woman with the child had her cellphone out. “I’m calling the cops,” she snapped. “I’m going to tell them there’s a vicious dog on the loose.”

“Can you please just—”

But again people started talking over each other, and time slowed down, and sounds became incomprehesible. Carmen could do nothing but keep her hand tight around Grandpa’s leash and in the soft, warm space between his ears. “It’s all right." He was whining now. Shaking. “It’s going to be all right.”

[Aaron]

Every Saturday was the same. The routine started at five in the morning and ended just after nine at night, with dinner for one, usually something out of a packet, and old reruns of Friends.

Aaron sat at his desk, his thoughts waging war up stairs as he stared across the room at the water cooler, not seeing it. Thai food could be nice, he thought, he hadn’t bought a good bowl of Nam Tok in months, but the cold weather called for something more substantial, something served hot. He pictured himself finally gathering the courage to say ‘Choo Chee Suk Jai’ to one of the wait staff, while somehow managing to keep a straight face. Pronunciation of delicious Thai dishes was not his forte.

Pizza it is.

The tiles on his desk clock turned over. One in the afternoon meant lunch for most of the suckers stuck on the Saturday shift, including Aaron. Half an hour didn’t give him enough time to walk from the station to the cafe district and sit down to enjoy lunch, but it was ample time to stop by his favourite local bookstore, not to pick up a book mind you, just a lotto ticket. He knew his chances at winning anything were slim and that buying a lotto ticket was a lot like buying a dream for the week.

“Gotta be in to win.” He repeated their stupid mantra, as if trying to convince himself that he wasn’t wasting money, and that eventually his commitment would pay off.

“Good luck.” The lady behind the counter told him.

“Yeah, I need it.” He always replied, at which point she would laugh awkwardly.

He folded the ticket away in his wallet and stuffed it into the right pocket of his police pants. Aaron wore a plain jersey whenever he was on break, but his height, crew cut, and ridiculous combat boots usually gave him away as an officer of the law, to anyone who took the time to study him at least.

Outside of the shop, Aaron turned in the direction of the station and put his hand over his pocket to make sure he had everything. The urge to wash his hands struck, and he prompted himself to to do that before returning to his desk. He had a box of stale crackers in the drawer that would go well with the smoked salmon he had left in the fridge.

“I’m calling the cops!” He overheard a woman up the street bark, and walked towards the crowd that had gathered. Aaron could feel the notepad he kept on him burning a hole in his back pocket. Typical, work on break.

He had every right to ignore it. No one was bleeding to death, there hadn’t been any gunfire; someone else could take this one. The small hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he walked by. Guilt. Damn it.

“I’m constable Loch, what seems to be the problem here?”

Aaron was met with a wall of accusation and yelling from some, while others merely scrutinised him with squinted eyes.

“Officer, this woman’s dog bit my child!”

“I saw it!” Someone else said.

“That’s not what happened!” Another chimed in.

Guilt. A useless emotion. The stale crackers and smoked salmon would have to wait.

He had everything he needed at least. The dog, the owner, the victim, a witness for and against. “You, you, and you,” he pointed them out, “stay here, everyone else please move along!”

He was conscious about the way he spoke, using a firm tone of voice, a lot harsher than he usually sounded. Authoritative his ex-girlfriend had called it, often accusing him of answering the phone the same way. It made her roll her eyes. He hated that.

The information from the witnesses was conflicting, but easy to jot down. Aaron nodded as he scratched at the page with the point of his pen, attempting to seem interested. His mind was still on lunch and how quickly he could deal with the situation in order to get back to what he was doing. “Thank you for your time,” he dismissed the pair, but they weren’t so easily satisfied and started raising their voices again.

“We can’t have animals like that roaming the streets!”

“He wasn't roaming! People need to watch their children, it wasn’t the dog’s fault!”

“I have your contact details here,” Aaron reminded them both. “I’ll call you if I have any further questions.”

They hurried along then, looking back every few steps, trying to stay within earshot. Constable Loch gave them a look that moved them along, one that seemed to suggest he wasn’t going to repeat himself again. “Ma’am, I need to take a photo of your child’s injuries.” He realised then that the woman sitting with the dog hadn’t said a word.

“Well, no, why?” She asked, holding the child close.

“For my report.” God damn it, he would have to write another report, he thought, what about lunch!

“Oh, of course,” she said. “Show the officer your hand, sweetheart.”

Aaron plucked the small camera from the top of his breast pocket and switched it on. It was small and square, a little like a GoPro, only cheaper, something all field officers had been requested to wear, what with everything that was going on in Harper Rock. Aaron was bad at remembering to switch his on, especially while he was on lunch and out of the office. He took two pictures, one of the top and under side of the child’s hand. There was a small red mark on the palm, the result a warming bite at best. No harm done, but a bite all the same.

“You’ll see to it the animal is destroyed?” The woman asked.

****, what do you say to that? Aaron looked at the kid, then the dog, then the woman sat beside the dog, and finally back to the mother. “I’ll be in touch,” he promised. He lied. He had far bigger cases to follow up on.

Lunch his stomach reminded him. He hoped no one else had heard that.

“Thank you, officer.”

Aaron nodded again and watched the woman go with her child. ****, he thought then. What to say? “You all right, miss?”

[Dolorosa (DELETED 10231)]

Carmen’s almost preternatural ability to stay still and quiet when being scolded made a teacher call her “independent to a degree that is detrimental to her study.” Her parents had taken offense, but they’d quietly agreed and, when they were home, also told her she was obstinate or sullen. Or, according to her poor abuella who had to take care of her when her parents were out at literary parties or traveling, “a stubborn burra who would stand straight in a gale.”

It was that stubbornness she tapped into now, the stony quiet she adopted and spread over her back and Grandpa’s while the woman crowed about how she was going to “have that beast destroyed.” She smoked her cigarette, stroked Grandpa’s neck. Grandpa sighed every now and then—deep, groaning, worried sighs.

When the woman finally walked away, dragging her still-wailing child along with her, Carmen finally looked up at the big blonde police officer. “You all right, miss?” he asked.

“He’s just a dog,” Carmen said. “Just an old dog.” She trailed away and looked off after the woman’s now-retreating back. “He has arthritis.” Carmen looked up at the man again. He was very tall, and it hurt her neck a little bit. “You’re not actually going to... (She paused, looking between Grandpa and the cop.) Are you?”

[Aaron]

I just want lunch, he thought.

Aaron put his hands on his hips. He had never understood how intimidating the gesture looked until he had first put on that uniform. In highschool he had been too tall and too thin to be considered good looking, or even mildly attractive. In police college when everyone was shacking up and hookups seemed to be expected (hell, event part of the norm), Aaron had lucked out due to his gawky appearance, his stick-out ears, and skinny arms.

Get paid to train! The recruitment ad had read, and Aaron hadn’t stopped going to the gym since graduating. Protein shakes and chin-ups had transformed him. Filled-in, Aaron was no longer subconscious of his height and, now used it to his advantage.

He studied the woman. She hadn’t moved from her spot. The patch on the top of his right arm itched beneath the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt.The smell of a freshly lit cigarette both grotesque and welcomed simultaneously. He thought about all of the advertisements blasted at him on the television. Smoking Kills. Quit, Before Your Time Runs Out. Every cigarette you smoke takes away fourteen minutes of your life. Downloading Caner. However, the best one had to be the poster of a woman on her knees giving a man head, only both of them were made out of cigarettes, and under the image a slogan read: Carry on, taking rubbish in your mouth.

Aaron laughed. ****.

“I really don’t want to call the pound out here,” he said, having managed to recover from the short burst of laughter in record time. “Just… would you move on, take the dog with you, maybe busk on the other side of town until things cool down and the incident is forgotten?”

[Dolorosa (DELETED 10231)]

He laughed, as if the idea of killing her dog was funny to him. Nevermind that cops liked to shoot dogs a lot; you saw it all over the news these days. Dogs and brown people.

The officer had his hands on his hips, and Carmen would have been lying if she said he didn't make her think about sex. He was big and tall and Ambercrombie fit, and attractive, even though he kind of had a goofy face. In another life she might have turned on the charm, asked him out, dazzled him over dinner with her smart-girl finesse. (You ever hear about Lorca, baby? To see you naked is to recall the Earth.) But this was life now: avoid eye contact, nod in shamefaced submission to the Long Arm of the Law and the demographic it protects.

"Sure thing, officer," she said. "Thank you. Really."