I forgot to mention that I hadn't added a disclaimer to this story. Anyways, I don't own any of the characters in the story that have already been mentioned on the show nor do I own the words to Walt Whitman's lovely poem. I only own the characters that I have made up in this story. Enjoy and reviews are greatly appreciated.
The earth expanding right hand and left hand,
The picture alive, every part in its best light,
The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted,
The cheerful voice of the public road, the gay fresh sentiment of the road.
It had been a month since he had tasted the freedom of the open road, a month in which he had been able to get some money to help aid his trip. It was good month. He was able to use his skills again, but not that often. About half way through the month in Miami the itch had returned and wanted to get back on the road and starting exploring again.
As he drove up the western coast of Florida, he could see the Gulf of Mexico on his left hand side, dry land on his right. He loved every moment that he spent on the road. There was something to be said of freeing nature of his trip; he was becoming a different person. Faith had sensed it in his voice when he had phoned her the week before he left and she had told him so. His relaxed nature of his voice had come back, the easiness in which he and Faith talked returned. Hopefully it would be this way when he returned, but he wasn't going to get his hopes up.
As he drove Highway 19 that drove him north and west, he continued to wonder why he was taking the trip in the first place. He thought it was selfish that he would even consider taking such a trip, but he knew that he would regret not taking the trip if didn't do it. The regret would have haunted him for a long time and would have eaten at him.
Turning off at a rest stop that overlooked the Gulf, he grabbed his camera and ventured out to a point that he could get a good vantage point to get a decent photograph. He never had had a knack for taking photographs before the trip, but as the trip wore on, his photographs had gotten better. One email that he had received from Davis told him that they were damn good and maybe he should consider a career as a photographer.
Looking through his photographs on his laptop that night at a motel in Tallahassee, confirmed what Davis had told him. They were good; maybe he would put together a book of his photograph once he returned home. Would maybe end up being a Christmas present for a group of small people he knew, maybe with some description underneath them. Faith and Davis would appreciate them, look at them with careful consideration and thought.
Staring into the darkness of the room, he wondered if he should actually quit and become a photographer full time; maybe take crime scene photographs. No, he would miss being on the job too much; miss taking down a skel; miss the thrill of the chase; miss the New York air, as awful as it was. But if he could make it as a photographer, he could travel around the world and just roam around the world, not hanging his hat for too long in one place.
Right now, he wasn't going to be focused on what he was going to do when, and if, he got back home. Those sorts of decisions would be made later, when things were much clearer in his mind and more settled and when he was home.
His eyes gradually became heavier, until his eyes closed and he fell asleep, unaware of the world around him.
O highway I travel, do you say to me Do not leave me?
Do you say Venture not-if you leave me you are lost?
Do you say I am already prepared, I am well-beaten and undenied, adhere to me?
One thing he had never encountered was that how long it was to drive places. Maps were entirely deceiving; never told one exactly how long it was till the next town or city, which is why he never really ventured far from the main highways. Yet at the same time, it was the venturing off the main highways that had afforded him the most insight into who he was and who he had become in the past two years.
Most of all he was afraid of what the road beyond the main highway would bring him; no telling what sorrow might upset him. He had prepared himself for the unexpected, to learn from the road itself. He continued to drive.
Feeling a bit hungry, he pulled off at the first rest stop he found that had some indication that there was food for him to partake of. He couldn't believe how tired he actually was; nobody had told him how tiring a long drive could be.
As he sat down at the table, all he wanted to do was to lay his head on the table and not think about anything else. Glancing at the menu that was placed in front of him, the words blurred together to the point where he couldn't make out what was written on the plastic menu. Never had he experienced the sort of exhaustion that he was now experiencing. He glanced at his watch and then at the clock on the wall. The time was different by an hour.
"What's the time?" He asked the waitress as she filled his coffee cup.
"Whatever it says on the wall."
"Oh." He vaguely remembered passing a sign telling him of the time change. He looked up at the clock on the wall. It was a little past 7, but his watch read that it was a little past 8. Whatever the time was, it was late and the road had started to get darker and his body was tired.
The waitress came back and took his order. He picked up the book he had purchased at a second hand bookstore back near his motel in Miami. Many days on the beach had rendered him useless and caused him to search out the small little area of Miami that he had stayed in. On of the things he had found was a small bookstore.
He couldn't remember why he had gone in, but perhaps he was looking for something for Faith or Emily, certainly not for himself, although he had ended up buying some stuff for himself as well.
Having never been a reader, he had surprised himself when he caught himself purchasing several books.
And it wasn't the typical guide book that he had been inclined to look at in the weeks before he left for his trip. It was an actual novel that he had purchased. Something with substance, something with depth, something that had meaning to him.
It was a second hand bookstore that was not far from the hotel and had started by purchasing what people considered to be "beach books" and devouring them almost as soon as he had purchased them.
It had been the day before he was to leave Miami and found a book that he had heard of back in that bar in Atlantic City. He had forgotten of the book until he saw the spine and remembered the book that the bartender had mentioned to him.
Now he was engrossed by the adventures of Sal, Dean and the various people they encountered along the road.
Putting the book down was harder than he ever thought it would ever be, but somehow he did. Looked out the window, he could see the darkness that had encroached several hours ago. He was feeling weather-beaten, not only from the road, but also from the events of the last few years. He could see his reflection in the darkened window. The scar had faded a little bit more and was less noticeable than it had been when the 5-5 had been destroyed, well at least the one that he had known.
O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you,
You express me better than I can express myself,
You shall be more to me than my poem.
The room he was in was fairly simple, but he didn't mind. It was only going to be one night; at least he hoped that it would be. The waitress who had served him had offered him a job as a short order cook. He hadn't any real experience as one for quite some time as the last time he had done anything for anyone other than himself, and even that was very rare, was back when he was in the Army. He had hated it; nothing exciting happened in Mess except when somebody burnt the toast for breakfast, and usually that was him.
His real talents didn't really lie in cooking, but he remembered how this trip was about trying new things. Lying in bed awake that night, he wondered what everybody was up to. Faith was probably working another case, wondering if she would every find a clue as to what was going on and if she would ever find the perp. Davis was probably working with Finney on the Anti-Crime Unit they had been assigned to. Sully was probably up in his cabin wondering when the cold snap would end and when he could go out and fish. Swersky was probably up to his neck in paperwork. Sasha was probably working some sort of detail in the mayor's office.
It was weird how everybody else had, in a sense, moved on with their lives, yet his life seemed to be stuck in a rut, not really going anywhere. He wasn't going to move up in the department or move up into another area that would give him what he craved: freedom. But this trip in a way was giving his ambitions for freedom wake-up call. It was in a strange but wonderful way expressing who he was, who he had become, and where he would go. This was trip that was going to define him; make a man out of him. Well, it would show them that he was a man and could face the responsibilities of a man. If it wouldn't show them, at least the perception would be there.
He continued staring at the darkened ceiling, wondering if being a beat cop was what he was really meant to do in life. He had tried to get into ESU and had been unable to do so. He had had a go around in ACU for a while and had enjoyed it, but circumstances dictated that he was unable to live with, namely Cruz's inability to what was right in the eyes of the law. The fact that Noble had gotten away with murder made him seriously reconsider ACU. His conscious was to be thanked for that, as he didn't know how he could have lived with that. Noble had been a thug and a murderer, getting away with stuff he wouldn't want his brother to get away with.
But he supposed this trip was to show him and others that he was more than a cop who patrolled the streets of New York on a daily basis. Life was more complicated than locking the usual skel who wanted to make a huge deal out of getting their chops busted.
He could feel his body gradually falling asleep, the weight on his eyelids getting heavier and heavier. There was nothing but sleep preventing him from going back out exploring some more. Tallahassee wasn't exactly speaking to him, so to speak. There wasn't anything that was going to keep him here.
I think heroic deeds were all conveiv'd in the open air, and all free poems also,
I think I could stop here myself and do miracles,
I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me,
I think whoever I see must be happy.
It was a bright and early morning and a large cup of coffee that greeted the open road once again. The coffee was hot and bad, just like he liked it. The road was basically empty and by the time he decided to grab something for breakfast, he was already halfway across the Florida panhandle. He really wanted to end up in Pensacola by nightfall, if not into Alabama by nightfall.
Veering off the road to a small diner that he had just noticed up ahead, he parked in front of the diner and turned off the engine and just sat in the car for a moment, wondering why he had just decided to do what he had done. There really was no reason for him to do what he had done, but he knew that he had done it for the right reasons. Taking in a deep sigh, he got out of the car and moved towards the diner and sat down in one of the various booths that lined the windows. He could have sat at one of the stools, but for some reason he needed to look outside, despite the grayness of the sky outside.
There weren't a lot of customers in the diner; it was only him and another customer and the waitress that had taken his order and the cook who was going fire up that meal. They had probably been open for a few hours before when came by and served the truckers when they had come through.
Staring out at the road that he had come off of, he could see that the traffic just beyond, people making their way to whatever they were going to. There wasn't exactly a lot of traffic and he wasn't in a huge rush. He had another two months to get back before the department had his hide.
"You goin' somewhere?" the waitress asked as she set down his breakfast in front of him.
He moved his head from the window to where the waitress stood. "What?"
"I asked you if you were goin' somewhere?"
He shook his head. "Nowhere in particular." He took a sip of coffee.
"Y'all from around here?"
"Nope." She just continued to stand there as though she had nothing else to do. Clearly she didn't cause the other customer had already left and he was the only one there.
"So where are you from?"
"New York."
"Now that wouldn't be New York City?" She was getting on his nerves.
"Born and bred."
"What do you do, if you mind me askin'?"
Of course he minded. "I'm a cop."
She sat down in the seat across from him. "You mean to tell me that a handsome fella like you is a cop and not gracing the cover of People magazine?"
He couldn't help but roll his eyes at the comment and looked at the woman sitting across from him. She appeared to be about his ma's age, the lines on her face clearly told how old she appeared to be, but circumstances could have aged the waitress much more than she really was.
"Your mama must be mighty proud."
"Yeah, she is."
"I imagine your daddy is too."
He grew silent, not really wanting to answer with a comment.
"You don't get along with your dad all that well, do you?"
He shook his head.
"Well, not every man is made out to be a daddy."
"You can say that again."
"You like being a cop?"
"Yeah, yeah, I do."
She just sat there, all quiet. "My husband was a cop; long time ago."
"Really?"
"Yeah." There was a small smile on her face, as though she were pleased about something or other. "Died on the job." She let out a small sigh. "I miss him."
"I imagine you do." He scraped the last of his breakfast.
"You have any siblings?"
"One; a brother." It was hard to imagine now Mikey as a sibling, but Mikey would forever be his brother, dead or alive.
"What does he do? I imagine he is cop, too. Must have your mother in a tizzy."
"Uh, my brother ran from the cops whenever he would spot one."
The waitress' brows furrowed. "What do you mean by that?"
"My brother was a drug dealer, but he tried to turn his life around."
"What do you mean by that?"
He swallowed and was quiet for a moment. "My brother's dead."
"Oh." She was quiet for a moment. "If I may ask, how did he die?"
If anything, she was extremely nosy, just like his mother. "He was dismembered; we still haven't found his head and we probably won't ever find it." A tinge of sadness was in his voice, as a tear made its way down his face.
"Oh. What happened to your face?" She had noticed the spider web scar on his face, which was partially hidden by the bandage.
"I got shot."
"How?" The woman was anything but helpful, but it was nice to talk to somebody else about what had happened.
He breathed out a sigh before he continued. "Do you want the whole story or just the short version?"
"The whole story."
"How much time you have?"
She looked around the resturant; there wasn't anybody else in the resturant besides the customer that she was now talking to. He appeared to be a similar age to her son who was now stationed halfway around the world. "All the time in the world."
He cleared his throat. "It's really hard to say where to begin because there are so many ways to tell it."
"Maybe I can help. What did your brother do to end up in the fashion that he did?"
"He was dealing ecstasy. I thought he had finally beat the whole business of dealing, but he proved me wrong when he and a guy named Spider were stopped by some cops I worked with. When I found out, I tried to get him to turn himself in to the police, which he ended up doing. Then my dad hired this sleaze ball of a lawyer, Lester Martin, who got Mikey turned loose on a technicality. As a result, Mikey got killed because he was perceived as being a threat and ended up on the side of a street in some garbage. When I had to tell my mom the news, I can't tell you how hard that was."
He looked in the waitress' eyes and for the first time saw true sympathy in almost a year and half since he had woken up from his coma.
"I can only imagine how difficult it was for you to do such a thing. I remember how I felt when one of my husband's colleagues came to tell me that he had been killed. All I remember was that it was blur of words and the only thing I seem to hear that he was dead. I can't imagine what your mother went through."
"Yeah, she went through a lot in such a short time."
"What do you mean by that?"
He took a deep breath. "While we were at my brother's wake, a car with a bomb inside of it was driven into the building and my ma was injured. She had a broken arm and couldn't breathe properly. While my colleagues and I were waiting for news of her, a couple of masked gunman came and shot at us. I shielded my partner, only to get injured severely myself."
"Is he okay?"
"Yeah, she's fine; she's now a detective."
"You had a female partner?"
"Yeah, we met our first day at the academy and sort of have had each other's back ever since. But she's moved on and kinda left me behind."
He looked up at the waitress, expecting some sort of answer. They were quiet for a few moments. "I am sure she appreciates that."
"I don't know; she hasn't told me as such."
"But surely she must. I mean, not just anyone would do that for one's partner."
"I guess not."
"She probably thinks you are a hero, along with your other colleagues."
He just shrugged his shoulders. "It wasn't anything; I was just doing my job."
She furrowed her brows. "How can it be anything but heroic? I am sure her husband and children appreciate what you did for them."
"I don't think her husband gives a shit that she's alive."
"What makes you say that?"
"Her husband, as you put it, apparently gave her divorce papers in the precinct house and basically forced her to take the detective's promotion. She almost lost custody of her oldest and lost custody of her youngest."
The waitress became quiet. "Oh. You want some more coffee?" Bosco nodded and she grabbed a hot pot of coffee and refilled his cup.
Bosco took a sip of the hot liquid. "He was a jag-off anyways. He didn't deserve her anyways."
"You love her, don't you?"
Bosco was mystified. "No, I don't. If you knew what she did after I got out of the hospital, you wouldn't think that I love her."
She outlined the design that was on the table with her fingers, not paying attention to the younger man's expressions. "You love her."
"How do you know?"
She looked up and looked him square in the face. "Oh, let's just say experience tells me that you do. My son was exactly the same when he met his wife a few years back."
"You have a son?"
"Mhmm. He's stationed in Iraq right now. Can't wait until he comes home, whenever that is."
"What branch? I served in the Rangers almost 10 years ago, went to Iraq during Desert Storm." His natural curiosity peaked when he found out that he had something in common with her in a place so far away from home.
"He's in the Marines; stationed somewhere."
"Move him around a lot?"
"Yeah, but it's what he loves and I support him. Did your mother support you going into the Rangers?"
"Yeah, not at first though. She wanted me to do something else, something other than go into the military. But it was my only option if I wanted to become a cop, not that it was alright with her."
"She doesn't like your profession?"
"I think she would like me to be something safe, like an accountant or something, not that it could also be dangerous at times."
"Well, us mothers love to have our children safe, sort of put them in a protective bubble and make sure that they don't get hurt. I can understand your mother, understand what she feels like day in and day out, especially what you have endured."
"My partner said the same thing a few years back."
The waitress chuckled. "Your partner is a smart woman."
"Yeah, she is; smarter than me, that's for sure."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that."
"What do you mean by that?"
She swallowed. "There's all kinds of smarts, not just book smarts, I should know."
He closed his eyes for a moment. "Yeah, I guess." He glanced at his watch. It was almost 10 and he needed to get going if he wanted to get out of the state by nightfall and he wasn't going to do so if he just sat here and talked.
"You need to go, don't you?"
"I guess; I mean I don't have to be anywhere immediately, but it would be nice to get going again." He wiped his mouth with the small paper napkin. "Thanks for the talk; I really appreciated it." He flashed her a smile.
"Well, you be safe, I am sure your mother wouldn't want you dead."
He could only just nod. He reached for his billfold and grabbed a bunch of bills, hoping it would cover the cost of the meal, as well as a substantial tip.
"It's on the house, Officer." She said as she cleared the dishes.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure." She appeared to be having a rough go of it and Bosco wanted to help in anyway possible.
"Okay." He was going to leave the money anyways, but before he did he had one question to ask. "What's your name?" He knew what her name was with the small tag that adorned her outfit.
"Uh, Elizabeth, but people around these parts call me Lizzy or Liz."
He sat down again, patting down his jacket, looking for a pen and an envelope, not able to find either. " Um, do you have a pen and paper that I could use?"
"Yeah, I do." She reached to the shelves below the cash register and gave him a clean pad of paper and a pen. Sitting down in the booth, he wrote her a note and left the money that he had intended to pay for his meal, along with his card, if she ever wanted to thank him or repay the favour or whatever the hell she choose to do. He left the diner, probably never to return, hopefully putting a spring in her step.
She thought she had cleared the table the young officer had been sitting at when she had noticed the paper just sitting there on top of the table. Taking it, she noticed a small white card with the name Officer Maurice Boscorelli, NYPD, Patrol Unit, along with some contact numbers near the bottom. She also noticed a pile of cash that was sitting inside of it. Taking the cash from inside the folded piece of paper along with the card, she unfolded the piece of piece of paper.
Liz,
Thanks for the talk today. I can't tell you what the last couple of hours have meant to me; you helped clear some things that needed to be cleared and helped me to express what I am feeling beneath everything I am trying to hide.
I want you to accept this money as an appreciation of what you did and I am sorry for what happened to your husband and I hope this money can help pay some bills or allow you to do something nice for yourself for once.
I am no good with words, which was always my partner's bag. If you want to contact me at any point, I have included my card.
Once again, thanks.
Sincerely,
Maurice Boscorelli
NYPD
A small tear came down her face and prayed a silent prayer for that officer that had she had met today, hoping that he would find whatever peace he could find before he got home and that he would have a safe journey home, wherever that might be.
A loud ring came across the diner and she looked up. A customer had come through the door and sat down. Placing the note, the money and the small white card in her apron, she reached in for her own pen and paper and grabbed a few menus. She needed to get back to work and not focus on the young man who acted so much like her own son for the time being, maybe she would phone the numbers later when she got a chance when things got quiet again.