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Cops

Beaumont Sebos

    I wake up and decide not to kill myself. I’m a big fat pussy. When you wake up every morning for eight years and actively decide not to kill yourself it’s because you’re a pussy. A real man would’ve killed himself years ago.
    Defeated, I roll off the mattress and shuffle to the sink. I brush my teeth and my toothbrush turns pink with blood. I don’t floss. I also chew the insides of my cheeks.
    I go sit on the sweaty couch that serves as my camper’s living room and smoke. Five cigs in and the hangover remains. My empty weed tin forces me to start drinking to get myself right. The two dumb blondes on the morning show drink this early, so it must be fine, right? I get my moral compass and political leanings from these two fake cohosts. Their teeth gleam with honesty. I pour a tall gin and tonic with a slice of lime for the health benefits. Protects me from getting a cold now, but destroys my liver for later.
    I’m feeling much better now and thinking about getting up and dressing in something other than my boxers. Maybe splash on some Old Spice just in case I meet the burnt out skank of my dreams. Just have to check to see if “Cops” is on first. I love that show. No matter how bad things get for me, I’m not being chased by the police as long as I’m in my living room watching other pieces of shit getting chased by the police. But it’s too early for “Cops.” That’s adult fare, you know. I settle for one of them “People’s Court” rip off shows.
    “Angel of Death” by Slayer suddenly thrashes from my cellphone. The assigned ringtone for my ex-wife. I close my eyes and wait for the song to stop. “Sadistic surgeon of demise...” and it ceases. Good. Last thing I want to do is talk to her now. Four G&T’s in, she’ll probably smell it through the phone and give me reams of shit. She thinks she gets a say because she added me to her phone plan when my service got cut off two months ago.
    Well, now that the phone has my attention, maybe I’ll go ahead and surf some porn real quick. I pick up the cell and go to my porn bookmarks when “Angel of Death” starts up again.
    Shit. Two calls in a row could mean an emergency concerning Sean or something. The 13-year-old hooligan hates me and hates his mother even more. But I guess I have some sort of responsibility for unleashing the asshole kid on the world. After all, my ex added me to her phone plan because she believes that I need to be available for him. I guess. So, here goes my day.
    “Hello.”
    “Why didn’t you answer before?”
    Oh, God. The shrill condescension. The heat in her voice burrows like a flaming mole rat into my brain. Whatever part of my hangover the drinks fixed comes rushing back.
    “What do you want?” Flat. Trying to enunciate through thickened lips and tongue.
    “Not going to answer my question?” Please, please die. Or let me die.
    “I was busy. What do you want?”
    “Did you get the message from Verizon? It’s only a week into the billing cycle and you’ve already used up 50 percent of the data usage for the month.” Just a torrential rain of bullshit flowing out of her mouth. “What? I know you aren’t calling around looking for a job.”
    “Okay.” Oh, God. End this.
    “Okay, what? What?”
    “Look. I’ve got no Internet. I only have the phone.”
    “Well, I use my phone for the Internet, too. And I don’t use as much data as you. Not even close. What are you doing? Watching your pornographies all day long?”
    “Okay.”
    “Okay? Okay? That’s it? Okay what?”
    “Okay, I watch ‘pornographies’ all day long and it uses a lot of fucking data.” I would never say any of this sober. “But fine. Okay. I’ll watch the fucking data usage and get some porn mags. Just don’t get pissed when Sean comes over and finds them all lying around.”
    “You’re an asshole.”
    “Fine.”
    “And how is the job search going, winner?”
    “Fuck you.”
    “That’s what I thought. Couldn’t even hold down a simpleton pizza delivery job.”
    “Come on! My car is fucked! How am I supposed to work without a car?”
    “Whatever. I’m not paying for extra data usage. Get a job. Christ.”
    She hangs up. I sit and stare at my belly. I’m 46 and not entirely obese. But I’m mushy and round like dough. I’m disgusting. I’ve just let it all go since she bailed on me. As much as I hate to admit it, she kept the worst of my depressed laziness at bay with her constant nagging.
    But, hey. At least now I’m free to do whatever I want.
    I glaze over and watch another hour of bullshit stupidity on TV before I finish all the tonic water. So, now I’m just drinking straight gin until it pours air.
    A roach tickles my leg and breaks me from my abyssal reverie. It’s after lunch and I haven’t had any food at all. Only sucked on the limes from my earlier drinks. I flick the roach off and take two wobbly steps to the cabinets. Nothing to eat except stale Cool Ranch Doritos, ketchup, limes and lemons.
    Well, I need to refill my weed tin anyway, so I guess I’ll have to make a trip. I just don’t know if I’m up for it. I can barely make it out of my bed much less make it out of my camper. But my needs are stronger than my will to have my body remain at rest. Physics!
    I call Chad.
    “Hello?” Sounds like he was sleeping. The fat fuck sleeps all the time. More sedentary than even I am. But at least he’s happy about it.
    “Yeah, Chad. It’s me. I need to get hooked up. Just a twenty’s worth, man.”
    “Uh, okay. Come on over.”
    “Cool. Listen, you got any booze over there I can get off you? And maybe some snacks? I’m all out here and don’t want to swing by the store.”
    “Aw, man. I gotta couple beers. You can have them, dude. And some pretzels, I think.”
    “Nothing with a bit more zing?”
    “Uhhhhhh,” I hear some rustling and bottles clanging. “I got like a quarter bottle of vodka.”
    “Yeah. Cool. See ya in a few.”
    “All right, man.”
    Now comes the hard part.
    I gotta get over there. I decide to throw on my old bathrobe to cover my shitty boxers. I snatched the robe from one of our family vacations years ago. Stains streak the white terry cloth and smokes have made quite a few burn holes. But you can still make out the name of the cruise ship. The Carnival Radiant.
    I slide my feet into my hiking boots, which are untied and uncomfortable from lack of wear. I rummage through the basket on the counter and dig out the 20 bucks I’ll need for the weed and stuff it into the robe pocket. The last of my pizza tips. I put my phone in the other pocket and open the camper door.
    I immediately want to call the whole fucking thing off. A hot wind blows around the fragments of a recent storm and the strobe light bursts of sun nearly send me into convulsions. Mud spreads throughout the entire RV park. Florida’s wet heat takes my breath away. I feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. Just burning crisp. Is the weed and booze really worth this shit hassle of a trip?
    I duck back inside and let the near darkness of the camper embrace me. It feels so good. I want to sit back down on the smelly couch and let it caress me.
    But then what would happen in an hour when the gin totally wore off? And plus, weed would take me to the level I need in order to contemplate doing something for the day.
    I can make it. I open the door of the camper and stumble down the metal steps to the soggy ground. The boots irritate my ankles and I nearly slip in the sludge. But I must press on.
    I trudge through the slop in front of my camper to the lime rock road. Its potholes are full of water, so there’s that to avoid. And I see that Andrew - not Andy, but Andrew - sits on a lawn chair out in front of his RV. A light blue tee stretches over his paunch and his orange Bermuda shorts match his orange flip flops and drink. Clean and bright, but a dim bulb inside his skull.
    His RV is a dozen years old, but it was a real big sweet ride back in the day. He takes care of it, but it still shows a bit of wear. I really hate this guy and his wife. They stay for only four months out of the year, quite long enough for me to want to stab them both in their sleep. I know what comes next. Oh, God.
    “Howdy, there neighbor.” All fucking like we’re friends and he gives a shit. I resist the urge to run because that would take effort and I would undoubtedly fall on my face even if I tried.
    “Yeah, afternoon, Andy.” I do a quick wave and resume my hike. He stands up to walk toward me. I shrivel.
    “It’s Andrew, buddy. Hey, I’ve noticed that Cora hasn’t been by in a while.” Oh, Cora. A used up piece of shit I picked up at Frenchy’s Pub. She ended up crashing at my camper for a week before I sobered up enough to realize what a horrible, scabby bag she was. I literally threw her out screaming and crying. What a disaster, especially since she gave me crabs.
    “Yeah, we broke up.” Irritated with this friendly bullshit, I try walking away again. The asshole clutches at the shoulder of my robe. I swing around and instinctively slap his hand away. My boots slip into a pothole and I take a tumble. I try to do a ninja roll or some shit to quickly stand up, but just flail around like an idiot. I give up and take a slow, humiliating climb to my feet. My face burns.
    “What the fuck, Andy?”
    “Whoah, there! You okay?”
    “No! I’m all covered in muck, asshole.” He takes a step back. “The fuck, man?”
    “Well, sorry. I was just trying to be a neighbor,” he stammers.
    “Yeah, well does it look like I’m feeling neighborly?”
    “I guess not,” he says with slight smirk. “Well, enjoy your un-neighborly visit to wherever you’re going.”
    “Will do, Andy, chap.” As if I needed any more reason to hate the guy. He rides around in his huge ass RV, taking up all kinds of room, breathing, keeping tabs on my comings and goings. Fucking asshole.
    I trudge past Andy’s RV, past an empty lot and then to Chad’s Airstream. It’s a bit older than my camper, but he keeps it in decent shape. He even has a few sad plants growing around the perimeter. The fat fuck.
    As I approach, I see the Airstream shift and then Chad opens the door. This slob lugs around a hulking mass of fat-dimpled flesh. And he’s nice and always has weed. I really hate the guy on a deep level.
    “Sup, man! What happened?”
    “Took a spill coming over.”
    “Yeah? Well, come on in, but try not to get mud all over my place, dude.”
    I want to punch him in his fat smiley face. It would be nice if he could just hand me the sack and I can be on my way, but too many eyes. Like Andy’s. The type that likes to call the police on dope peddlers bringing down the lot values in “his” shitty RV park. Plus, Chad likes to chat. Chatty Chad.
    The clouds begin building up again as I climb inside. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior of Chad’s pad. Cheap incense burns my throat and eyes, intensifying my headache.
    Besides the shit smell, Chad’s place is comfortable enough. He keeps his camper up better than himself. That’s for goddamn sure. I plop into one of the booths at the dinette where he stacks all his goods and brace myself for conversation. The place heaves as Chad squeezes in across from me. He plunks down the bottle of vodka.
    “Gonna eventually outgrow my shell. Ha!”
    “Good one, Chad.”
    “Yeah. How ya been?” He starts separating some buds from the mound in an old metal Empire Strikes Back lunchbox and puts them on a scale.
    “All right, I guess.”
    “Your ex still busting your balls?” You wouldn’t think his hotdog fingers could so nimbly pinch out just the right amount of bud for a $20 sack so quickly, but the guy mastered at least this one thing.
    “Yeah.”
    “Too bad. You look like shit, man. Ha!” He slides the weed filled baggie over to me. Score! “Twenty bucks, sir.”
    I slip my hand into the pocket of my robe and it’s empty. I check the other pocket. Only my phone.
    “Oh, shit, Chad. I know I had it in my pocket. Where the hell?” I stand up and pat around myself like the money is just going to be stuck to the outside of the robe or some shit. “I must’ve left it at home. Christ!”
    Chad’s normally passive stupid expression turns hard.
    “Then go get it.”
    Fuck! This means I would have to go through the same ordeal all over again. Walking. Andrew. Goddamn this whole day!
    “Chad,” I plead, “I’ll bring it over tomorrow when it’s not so hot and shitty outside.”
    “All right, buddy.” Chad takes the glorious sack and dumps it back into the lunchbox. “I’ll still have your weed here tomorrow.”
    “Shit, man. All right.” I quickly come up with a great idea. “How about just a bowl to get me through until...”
    Then, somebody knocks at the door.
    I’m the paranoid sort. I fall into a panic at almost any moment when dealing with weed. But an unexpected knock at the door in the middle of a pot deal puts me into pass out mode.
    “Holy shit! Who’s that?”
    “Shut up, idiot,” Chad seethes. He reaches under the dinette, pulls out a handgun and stands up.
    “The fuck, man?”
    “I said, shut the fuck up.” Suddenly Chad doesn’t seem like the affable slob I know. I want to throw up.
    Chad stands next to the door and looks though the peephole he installed for such an occasion. He turns to me and gruffly whispers, “It’s your neighbor. What’s he doing here?”
    I shrug.
    Chad puts the gun to his puckered lips, shushing me and turns his eye back to the peephole. Then, the knock comes again, this time a little louder and longer.
    “Guy looks kinda pissed,” Chad mutters.
    Through the other side of the door I hear Andrew yell.
    “I know what’s going on in there! If you want your dirty drug money back, then you better open the door!”
    Chad glares at me. “He’s holding up your twenty bucks, dumb fuck.”
    It must’ve fallen out of my pocket when I took that tumble. My lips go numb and swirling blackness creeps at the edge of my sight. I’m losing it.
    “Oh, man. What are we gonna do?” Panic rises in my voice.
    “Shut up,” Chad hisses.
    Andrew pounds on the door again, this time hard enough that the Airstream shakes.
    “If you don’t open this damned door right now, I’m going to call the police,” Andrew screams. “I don’t want this drug crap going on here anymore. Let’s settle this like men!”
    Bile rises into my mouth. I begin to see stars and my chest feels like it won’t expand to take in any air. Full scale panic attack is imminent. I have to get the fuck out of here. This place has no air to breathe other than poisonous incense. I have to get out and get through this shit. Flight. Flight! FLIGHT!
    I stand up and spit out a huge glob of bile onto Chad’s floor. He looks at me in horror and disgust. I lean heavily on the dinette table.
    “That’s it,” Andrew yells through the door. “I’m calling the cops on you!”
    Chad opens the door to the Airstream. I see Andrew’s lemon-pinched face for a brief second before Chad’s bulk blocks the view. Then my knees buckle and everything swirls as my breath fades out.
    I wake up on Chad’s floor to the sound of screaming, then a squishy thud. I struggle to my feet, stumble over to the closed door and look through the peephole. I’m horrified.
    The rain has started. Andrew lies sprawled out in the mud, unmoving and face down. Yelling, with blood flowing down his face, is Chad. I recognize Andrew’s sagging wife standing across from him. She holds Chad’s gun, pointing it at him. Real fucking bad.
    I watch as Chad lunges toward her and the gun goes off. Chad pummels into the bitch and they both fall into the mud. The wench starts screaming but Chad no longer moves.
    Flight! Fucking FLIGHT!
    I lock Chad’s door, turn away from the shitty scene and grab the frying pan on Chad’s stove. I pull up the blinds on the window next to the dinette, smash through it with the pan and clear the glass as best as possible. I grab the Empire Strikes Back lunchbox full of weed and the quarter bottle of vodka and chuck them out the window. I climb on the table and thrust myself through the opening with frying pan in hand.
    My robe catches on a piece of glass jutting from the frame as I fall on my back in the mud. I struggle to rip the cloth free and I hear approaching sirens. My panic exceeds passing out.
    The robe comes loose with a chunk of glass still wrapped in it. It snaps toward me and digs into my shin. I don’t feel it and the sirens are getting closer.
    I scramble to my feet in the slick mud. I gather my treasures from the muck and run toward the flatwoods that sit at the edge of the RV park. My boots don’t want to come easily from the mud, so I high-step like a show pony, my toes curled up to keep the boots from slipping off. I don’t look back as I part the wire fence and plunge into the woods.
    The rain pours as I settle beneath a palmetto bush and look to see what’s going on.
    There are four Hernando Sheriff’s cars outside Chad’s house. They put Andrew’s wife into one of the cars, but I can’t see what’s going on around the other side of the camper where Chad and Andrew are laid out. Neighbors mill around, surely making up their own stories about the event. The police wrap yellow tape around the Airstream.
    I open up the bottle of vodka and take a swig to warm up. Even in the heat of summer, the rain chills when you sit in the woods wearing nothing but a ripped robe and boxers.
    Ambulances come and go. I can’t see who or what gets loaded into them. More police show up, as well as an SUV marked forensics. I’m fucked for sure, so I take in more of that potato liquor. They take two large garbage bags out of Chad’s place. I can only assume it’s his big stash.
    I’m feeling the effects of the vodka when I notice cops appear on my side of the camper examining the broken window. I begin to shake. They take pictures and talk. They look around at the ground and toward the woods. God, I hope the rain has washed out my prints. I know they can’t see me at this distance through the rain and foliage, but I try not to breathe. I see a few officers going door to door in the RV park. After an eternity, the two cops behind the camper walk around to the other side.
    Metallica’s “The Thing That Should Not Be” starts playing from my phone. Sean’s ring tone. I grab the phone from my pocket and quickly answer it to silence the damn thing.
    “What?” I whisper.
    “Hello to you too, dad.”
    “Yeah. Sorry. Hi Sean. I’m kind of busy. Everything okay?”
    “No. Mom won’t let me go to the school dance tomorrow night because I didn’t finish my homework last week. Why are you whispering?”
    “I’m just tired. Sorry about the dance. Your mom sucks. Nothing I can do about it.”
    He sighs in the deep irritation that only teens can.
    “You could talk to her if you weren’t such a dick!”
    “Sean, I don’t have time for this shit right now,” I growl through clenched teeth. If I could reach through the phone and rip out his entitled teenage heart and shove it straight up his ass, I would. “I wish I could help. I wish I could come over and drive you to the stupid dance myself. And then all your problems would be solved until tomorrow when you find some other fucking bullshit thing to whine about. But that’s just not possible right now. Plus, your mom’s probably right. So, there you go. I’m a dick and that’s that.”
    He hangs up without saying another word. Not even a “fuck you.” Yet another bad memory I’m so easily able to create.
    I’m well buzzed by the time the news cameras arrive. I place the frying pan over the bottle opening to keep the rain out. The sky darkens and the news people have huge lights on their cameras as they chat lively in front of the scene of the crime. The rain continues to come down as the cops begin to leave. They seem done with talking to the other RV tenants. From my angle in the woods, I couldn’t see if they ever knocked on my shitty camper or not. Shit. Maybe they went inside and searched it. Maybe they’re hiding in there for me.
    I do know that my bottle feels empty and I’m drunk, but the chill worsens. Fucking miserable.
    I have no idea of the time when the last cop car pulls out and the tenants disperse to their own crappy lives. I toss the empty vodka bottle and take the long way around the RV park. No way I’m going to walk straight through to my camper, even on a night darkened with rain.
    I make a drunk mess trying to slog through the woods to the cow pasture that borders the east side of the park. I struggle through the wire fence and limp through the pasture. There’s no cover here, so I go as quick as I can. My torn and bloody robe drags through the grass and cow shit. I don’t really feel the pain in my shin. Just a low heat of sorts.
    When I’m directly opposite my camper, I power walk a straight line to it, struggle one last time through the wire fence and slip inside.
    I take in the familiar aroma of sweat and failure as I flick on the lights. No police hide in waiting. The roaches scatter, except for one brave palmetto bug in the far corner. I put the lunchbox on the table, peel off my robe and throw it at the palmetto. I miss by just an inch, but that fucker doesn’t even move. Just its antenna twitches. Braver than me.
    Fuck it.
    I plop into my couch and open the lunchbox. It’s full of bright green weed and it’s surprisingly dry for the most part. I turn on the TV and holy shit! “Cops” is on!
    After such a shit day I deserve a night of relaxation. I pack the first bowl as I watch some dumb transvestite get arrested for stabbing her boyfriend with a pen.
    Sorta glad I didn’t kill myself this morning.

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