Peas in a Fucked-Up Pod
Setting: "It's Alive"
I dig my fingers into the back of my neck, squeeze the ice in the bag against my elbow. It's only sort of helping the throbbing. Meanwhile my gaze is stuck to the ambulance on the other end of the parking lot and the cops standing outside it. The other uniform is standing a couple yards away from us, his hands resting loosely on his belt.
"Are you feeling any better?" Rita asks again, maybe just to break the silence.
It's a beat before I can force myself to look away from the ambulance. "Yeah," I say, clearing my throat. "Yeah, I'm okay now." Physically, undamaged. Emotionally… well, as fucked as ever, but back to usual levels.
But career-wise, jesus motherfuck. I could be so seriously assfucked.
I dig my nails deeper into my skin.
I was still quaking from the adrenaline pumping through my veins when the uniforms arrived, pacing shakily around the parking lot and sucking on a cigarette. I'm not sure who called them. Maybe it was the bartender. When they approached me it was cautiously, like I was an animal. And even though I got where they were coming from, it still pissed me off.
"I'm Officer Moyse," one of them said. "This is Officer Yi. Can you tell us your name?"
"Uh, Debra Morgan," I replied. "Officer Debra Morgan. I work for Miami Metro." I pulled my badge out of my purse then, being very careful not to flash my service pistol— which I shouldn't even be carrying.
"Officer Morgan," Moyse repeated. And from the way he looked at me, I knew he knew who I was, the same as the idiot at the bar, the fucktards at the pier, everyone else in this whole goddamn, godforsaken state. "Can you tell us what happened here?"
I told them, even though I barely knew myself, as embarrassment and regret rushed up to burn away the adrenaline. It was just an overreaction, a stupid fucking mistake. Already I know he never grabbed me. He barely touched me. But, jesus, he scared the shit out of me.
"Tell him I'm sorry," I said after I explained what happened. "I don't know if it makes any fucking difference, but I am."
Moyse nodded at me, flashed what could've been a reassuring smile. "I will."
I nodded. "Thanks."
As he walked away Yi asked if it was okay if he stayed with us. I said yes, even though I knew it wasn't really a question. He's going to stand here and watch me until the situation is resolved, whether I want him to or not.
However it's resolved.
Jesus christ, I'm such a fucking idiot.
"I'm sorry," I say to Rita. "This is such a mess."
"It's okay," she says. "Really. I understand. I just wish there was more I could do."
I smile thinly. "You're such a sweet person, Rita."
"It'll get better, I promise." I swear I can remember saying something like that to her once, a long time ago. Slowly she reaches out, lightly touches my arm. I unlock my hand from my neck, slide it down to squeeze hers, just for a moment. And even though I still want to flee from this parking lot as fast as my legs can carry me, I feel slightly calmer, like maybe I'm not about to be buried under three hundred tons of molten lava.
That calm evaporates as I spot the guy I assaulted climb out of the ambulance, and as Moyse starts walking in our direction. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Yi shift a hair.
"Officer Morgan," Moyse says as he gets within earshot. "So Mr. O'Bannon has agreed not to press charges. He says he understands it was just a big misunderstanding."
"Really?" Something seems to uncork inside me, and a wave of relief thunders through me, so powerfully I feel myself shake. "Oh, jesus. Thank god. Thank you." I look past the cop at the guy, who's already walking toward his car, his friend at his back. "Jesus."
"We still do have to report this though. You understand?"
I look back at Moyse. "I know. I understand." Though as I say that I have no idea how this is going to play out when it reaches Pascal.
"Are you going to be alright?"
"Yeah." I lower the ice pack from my elbow. "Yeah, I'm fine now."
"Then we'll get going. Have a good night, Officer."
"Yeah, you too."
"Good night," Yi says, nodding at me.
I watch them as they walk to their cars, as O'Bannon pulls out of the lot. After a beat I turn to Rita, squeezing the half-melted ice between my fingers. "You ready to go?" I ask her.
"Yeah," she says.
I lead the way back to my car, open the door. As we climb inside I throw the ice pack and my purse to the back seat, then lean my head back against the seat, blow out a breath. "What a fucking night," I mutter, absently rubbing my elbow.
"Yeah," Rita says, shutting her door.
I turn to look at her. She's sitting there tightly and uncomfortably, and I feel a pang of guilt. "We didn't even get to eat," I say, slamming my own door. "Want me to stop at a drivethru or something?"
"Sure." She smiles at me again.
I nod and key over the engine, then reach for my seat belt. "Isn't there a Snappers near here?"
"I think so."
"Want to try that?"
"Sure. That sounds good."
Nodding, I turn to look out the rear window, back out of the space.
Five minutes later we're rolling down the highway. Already I'm going over and over the incident at the bar, thinking about how a sane person would've reacted, thinking about how I would've reacted two months ago. Thinking about what I'm going to say to Pascal when the report hits her desk. Thank god it won't be LaGuerta that I'll have to deal with.
Rita's phone rings, drawing me from my thoughts. She pulls it out and looks at the caller ID, sighs, then kills the call without answering. When she glances up she catches me looking. "It's the prison," she says, balling it up in her hand. "Paul again."
My brows crease. "Is he harassing you?" I ask.
"No, no," she says quickly, maybe too quickly. "I don't know. He says he's not going to make it in federal prison. That it's too rough for him."
I scoff. "Maybe he should've thought of that before shooting up a couple weeks into his parole."
"Yeah, that's more or less what I've told him," she says. For a beat she says nothing. Then, quietly, maybe just to herself, "I don't know."
"Don't let that jackass make you feel responsible for his shit," I say, fully aware of the hypocrisy in my saying that. "Paul put himself in prison. He knew what he was doing and he just didn't give a shit."
"I know, I know," she says, sounding noncommittal. Privately, I can relate. She sighs. "I don't really want to talk about him anymore."
"Alright." I nod. Because I can relate to that too.
We lapse back into silence. Eventually I drift over to the left lane, eying the squat little buildings we're passing. I know it's somewhere close.
"So how was work today?" Rita asks suddenly. "Dexter said it was your first day back?"
"Yeah," I say, then shrug. "And it was good, all things considered. Went better than I thought it would."
"Do anything interesting?"
"Yeah. We caught a homicide barely three minutes into my shift."
"Oh," she says, pauses. "And it doesn't—" she cuts herself off. "Sorry, nevermind."
I glance at her. "What?"
"It just…" she trails off. "It doesn't bother you? Seeing that stuff? After what happened to you?"
I look at her again, then back at the road, back looking for street signs. But in my mind all I can really see is the dead guy on the rocks, Chino sitting in the interrogation room with Doakes, Eva Arenas and her daughter's hollowed eyes. "No," I say after a moment. "I thought maybe it would, but it doesn't. Maybe I'm just numb to it." I laugh slightly. "Truthfully, I fucking love my job. I felt better today than I have since…" I stop, but for some reason I feel compelled to finish the thought, "since he took me."
Suddenly, finally, I spot the Snappers sign across from the next intersection, behind the light pole. "There it is," I murmur, speeding up while the light is still green.
I can feel her looking at me. And maybe just to preempt anymore questions, I decide to change the subject. "How about you? How's your job?"
"Oh, you know." She shrugs. "It's just a job. But I'm grateful for it."
"That bad, huh?"
"No, no." She waves me off. "Really, it's good. I like my coworkers, the pay is pretty good, I have benefits. Finally have some savings. I really am happy with it."
"That's great," I say, flipping my blinker, then making a left. As I make a right into the lot, I find the expected line, move to pull into it anyway.
"It's just the guests," she says as I pull behind the line of cars. "Sometimes I think my day would go a lot better if there weren't any guests."
I snort. "Is it wall-to-wall assholes?"
"Well, maybe not wall to wall…" She smiles, and finally she seems a little less tense. "Really, I shouldn't complain."
"Oh, but it feels so good." I ease off the brakes as the car in front of us moves forward, stop again after a couple feet. Put the car in park.
She nods. "Yeah, but even so."
With no other conversation springing to mind, I pull my hair behinds my ears, roll down the window and throw my arm out the door. I want a smoke.
"It's nice tonight," Rita says, also opening her window.
"Yeah." I inhale, smell fried fish and exhaust on the temperate air. But in the quiet I'm already thinking about the bar again, how that guy's touch sent a bolt of fear and pain through my skin. I've hardly allowed anyone to come within two feet of me since that night.
I tighten my hand over the side of my car, swallowing a flush of rage and shame. Because he took that from me too.
Yo, Mrs. Ice Truck Killer…
"Deb," I hear Rita over that thing starting to seethe inside me, and when I look at her she nods in front of us.
"Oh." I move into the car-sized gap between me and the next bumper, pull back into park.
"You know what you want?" she asks, leaning over to look past me at the menu board.
To run. Hard and fast and away. "No," I say instead of that, turning to look at the board too. My appetite disintegrated an hour ago.
"I may get the catfish. Would you want any of it?" When I glance at her she smiles shyly. "Sorry, I'm so used to sharing everything."
"No, that sounds good." Reflexively, I smile back, push away my thoughts. "Would you want some shrimp?"
"Sure."
As I look back at the board, her phone rings again, and again she kills the call before the second ring. This time I don't ask. Just start reaching out of the car for the intercom.
I pause halfway there, noticing a glossy paper tacked to the bottom of the menu— 'DAILY FRESH BAKED CAKES.' To my right, Rita mutes her phone, stuffs it into her purse.
And because I really am at a loss, and because we're both haunted by specters we can't really do anything about, I say the only thing I can think of: "Want some cake?"
She laughs a little, somewhat hopelessly. "Yeah."
Nodding, I press the button.
