Oh, dammit.  I knew that this was a bad idea.  I stared at the huge, imposing man, praying that he somehow wouldn’t remember me from the dozen collars, all those searches.  Please, I thought to myself, let him only think of me as “faceless drug dealer number twenty-three.”

And then his eyes fell on me.  His face lit up in furious, scowling recognition, and I felt my heart sink down into the ground through the soles of my police regulation boots.

The man came stomping over, and I had to consciously squash my instinct to turn, sprint away, maybe hop a hedge or two or look for one of my friend’s houses to duck inside.  Instead, I forced my back to stand up straight, to gaze ahead and waiting to be addressed.  Never mind that I was shaking in my stupid uniform.

“You!”  The man’s roar was filled with disbelieving fury.  “What in the nine bloody hells do you think that you’re doing here?”

Now that he addressed me, I returned his gaze, forcing my eyes not to pull away.  “Here to protect and serve, sir!” I called back, desperately willing my voice to remain strong.

As the man chewed his jowls, his face growing red with apoplectic fury as he searched for words powerful enough to convey his displeasure, I suddenly flashed back to when a Mexican gang had attempted to move in on my selling territory.  I’d been snatched off the street, blindfolded, and hauled before their jefe, a hulking man in an ill-fitting suit.

That jefe had tried to intimidate me, too, to scare me off of “his turf.”  I hadn’t backed down.  I warned him that my bosses wouldn’t tolerate his intrusion.  I had stayed strong, and four days later, the darkly tanned man grabbed someone that he shouldn’t have touched and “mysteriously vanished” in the middle of the night.  He didn’t even have time to grab his product or his cash.

This was no different.  So despite the quaking in my bones, I stared evenly back at this huge, hulking police sergeant as he panted in my face.

The man was still struggling for words.  “But, you can’t be a damn officer,” the man finally spat out.  “You’re a criminal!”

I felt a couple of the other recruits in my line shifting their eyes over to me, and groaned internally.  I’d known that it would come out at some point, but I had hoped for more time to bond before it was revealed.  “He’s scum!” the instructor continued.  “Listen up, recruits, because this is your first learning experience!”

The man stepped back and stabbed his thick, meaty finger out at me.  “This man,” he went on, “is a small-time drug dealer, and has been busted on many occasions, often by me personally!”

“But never charged.”

Whose voice was that?  Wait a minute, it was my own!  What in the world was I doing?

“You never convicted me, never pressed any charges,” I went on, my voice only quivering slightly.  “And every time the police needed a lead, I always helped out.  I did my part – and now I’m going straight.  Is it so bad to want to join the good guys?”

I glanced around at the other men standing on either side of me.  Their eyes were lingering, but I caught a couple faint nods.  Maybe they were, just the slightest bit, impressed.

The sergeant had gone bug-eyed at my little speech, and as he looked at the rest of the recruits in the line, he could see that they weren’t turning against me as he’d hoped.  “Well, maggot, I hope you’re ready to have every last ounce of that old life beaten out of you,” he snarled.  “Because I know you, recruit.  I know that you’re scum.  And I’m gonna punish you for every single plastic baggie you’ve pushed!”

For a long minute, the man held my gaze.  I forced myself not to break eye contact, not to look away.  And finally, almost reluctantly, he stepped back and surveyed all of us in the line.  “As for the rest of you,” he announced, “don’t expect me to go any easier on you, just because you weren’t drug-dealing little punks in a past life!  Now, fall in, and get into that classroom!”

We fell in, trooping into the indicated room.  I glanced around at my fellow recruits, half expecting to see the same angry stares that the sergeant wore.  And there were a few.  But there were also some nods of comfortable acknowledgment, even a couple quick little grins.

Maybe I could do this, I thought to myself.  Maybe the leopard really could change his spots.  Maybe I could really leave my old life as a dealer behind, become an officer – go legit.  I certainly knew what to look for, how to deal with the gangs and the pushers!

I was certainly going to try.

Hey, my phone’s ringing!  Why?  Who in the world is so desperate to talk to me at 9:38 in the morning on a Tuesday?

Oh, here it is.  Hmm.  Unknown number.  Well, this doesn’t seem promising.  But whatever, it’s still ringing, and I’m out in public.  People are starting to look at me.  This feels a little uncomfortable…

Sure, I could just hang up, which is what I’d do in private.  If it’s really important, they’ll leave a message like a voicemail, and if it isn’t important, then I saved myself lots of time!  Like, a while three minutes!  But if I do that out in public, people will think that I’m intentionally ignoring someone.  They might think it’s my girlfriend or something, and assume that I’m a mean person.  Which I’m not!

Crap, this is taking too long.  It’s still ringing.  Better just answer.

“Hello?”

Oh no.  They’re using my last name, pronounced incorrectly.  This isn’t good.

“Excuse me, what’s this about?”

Well, that jumped them ahead all of two lines in their script.  God, it’s a telemarketer.  I hate these.  No, I don’t want to buy anything!  If I did, I most certainly wouldn’t do it this way – I’d use this amazing new invention, called the Internet!

How are telemarketers still in business, anyway?  I mean, it costs a lot to employ a person on phone lines.  And I thought I was on some sort of list.  Wasn’t there a thing about this in Congress?  A National Do Not Call list or something?  But it probably got vetoed by Congress anyway, since they’re all being paid by corporations.

Oh my god, this guy is still talking.  How long is his script?  I can see the line moving.  I’m going to have to put in my coffee order soon.  Can I put him on hold?  Will he even notice?

Wait a sec.  He paused.  He’s waiting for my input.  I wasn’t listening.

“Er, what?”

Oh.  He’s wondering if I’m happy with my provider.  Provider of what?  Cell phone service?  TV service?  Probably land line service, considering how backwards this all is.

“Yes, I am happy, not looking to change.”

Nope, he’s still going.  Trying to sell me on extra features.  I’m still not sure what this service is.  And if I wanted extra features, I’d just buy them!  I mean, look at me.  I’m out paying for overpriced coffee in this shop, just because I can.  I most definitely have disposable income, I’m broadcasting right here!  I don’t need your charity bundle!

Of course, Mister Telemarketer can’t see any of that.  Another flaw in his marketing plan.

“No, no thank you.  I really don’t want to buy anything.”

Geez, can’t he take a hint?  I’m next to order, and I can see the barista glaring at me.  It’s not my fault!  This guy called me!  I don’t want to be the jerk on the phone at the coffee shop!

Eh, screw it.  This is worthless.  I’m dumping this chump.

“Thank you, thank you, no, goodbye!”

Aaaaaand click.  Whew.  I hate that.

“Okay, yeah, I’d like to order… um…”

Crap.  I didn’t have time to think about what I wanted.  Great.

Continued from here.

“Yeah, you sound sober!” I pointed out.  “Weren’t you drunk just a moment ago?”

Dan looked back at us, blinking a couple of times.  “I am!” he insisted.  But then, a moment later, he shook his head in wonderment.  “I mean, I was…”

For a moment, we just all looked at each other.  Ari, perhaps because he’d been sober from the beginning, was a little quicker on the uptake.  “No way,” he said, and he grabbed his own cup of coffee.

Dan and I both watched as he lowered the cup from his lips – and screamed.

The scream went on for quite a while, until Dan slapped a hand over his mouth.  “He’s gone too far the other way!” he cried out at me, as Ari battered at the bigger man with flailing arms.

I stared back, wide-eyed.  “What do I do?”

“I dunno, find something with alcohol!”

I spun around, staring at my kitchen.  We had (well, Dan had) finished off most of my beers.  In desperation, I grabbed the jar of vanilla – distilled in alcohol.

We shoved the bottle into Ari’s mouth and forced a couple gulps down his throat.  As we watched, holding our breaths, the man finally calmed down a bit.  “Holy crap,” he gasped, staring at us.  “That stuff is strong!”

“What happened to you?” I had to ask.

Ari shook his head back and forth, searching for words.  “Okay, you know when you take a shot on an empty stomach, and you just feel the world lurch as the alcohol hits you?” he finally stammered out after a minute.

We both nodded.

“Well,” the man concluded, “it was just like that, but the opposite.  And way worse.”

After that ordeal, we all needed a drink.  And not of my brewed coffee concoction.  Dan scrounged up some more beers, and we sat around, staring at the still mostly full jug of black liquid.

“Could make a fortune outside bars at last call,” Ari finally offered.  “Sobers people up with a sip, that stuff does.”

“Yeah, but one wrong sale and you’ve got somebody screaming,” I retorted.

After a minute, Dan just shook his head.  “Damn, man,” he finally said.  “You definitely brewed something, that’s for sure…”

Dan and Ari were both watching as I revealed the bottle from the refrigerator, struggling a little with its weight.  The three-gallon jug was nearly full of dark brown liquid, sloshing back and forth with a bit of foam cresting the tops of those waves.  The liquid inside was dark, murky, the brown of bloodsoaked mud.

It didn’t look especially appetizing, I had to admit…

Staring at the big jug, Dan lifted his silver can of beer up to his lips and chugged the rest.  “Dude, arr you sure you mmrade this stuff right?” he slurred, his breath probably high enough proof to be flammable.  “I mean, it kinda looks like ah beer…”

“Yeah, if you close your eyes,” Ari cackled.  He was the designated driver, and thus his wits were somewhat sharper than his sloshed companion.  There was a reason why I’d waited to reveal this until fairly late into the evening, after all.

I shook my head at them as I fumbled in the cupboard for a couple of cups.  “Look, I might have taken a couple liberties with the approach, but I’m sure it can’t be that bad,” I protested.  “I mean, people have been making beer for thousands of years!  How hard can it be?”

The cups were out, and I carefully poured a couple fingers of beer into each.  The liquid swirled into infinity, dark and mysterious.

The three of us gathered around and stared into it.

“Tryy it,” Dan whispered, waving an elbow vaguely in Ari’s direction.

“Heck no,” his friend returned, not taking his eyes off of the dark miasma.  “You’re the drunk one, you’ll taste it less.”

I waited, trying to seem as innocuous as possible.  I mean, sure I brewed it, but that didn’t mean that I necessarily wanted to try it!

And to tell the truth, I wasn’t really sure about this batch.  I’d tried my hand at brewing a couple times before, strictly following the recipes that came with the yeast, and it had turned out decently acceptable.  But this time, I’d decided to experiment, take some liberties, just tossing things in.

I had been expecting something nice and full-bodied, with a taste of coffee.  I hadn’t been expecting the blackness and consistency of motor oil.

Finally, all eyes on him, Dan picked up the cup and took a gulp of air.  “Screw youse, I’s not afraid,” he announced, and took a sip of the oily liquid.

When he lowered the glass, he looked as though he’d just taken a big bite of lemon.  His whole face puckered up.  “Wow, that stuff is bitter!” he exclaimed, lowering the still half-full cup.  “My god, man, that stuff is strong!  Tastes like the most concentrated coffee I’ve ever had!”

Dan shook his head back and forth, but Ari glanced over at him.  “Hey, what happened to your voice?” he asked.

“My voice?” Dan repeated.  “What, is something wrong with it?”

To be continued on Friday!

The doctors told us that the chance of it happening was low.  Exceedingly low.  She’s a very rare type, they’d tell us.  The organ in question is very sensitive, easily damaged, and doesn’t last long after death.  These organs, of this type, almost never came on the market.  Sarah was at a high spot on the list, but the list meant almost nothing.  Most people left it through death, not through a happy ending.

And then the call came…

As soon as the doctor told her, Sarah had me on the phone.  “They found one!” she all but screamed, and I could hear her excitement as clear as day.  “I’m going to get the transplant!”

Of course, we were a bit concerned, as well.  This wasn’t a minor surgery, after all.  Sarah was going under the knife, and sometimes, we knew that patients didn’t wake up.  And yet, we were determined.  We were the perfect couple, with the perfect story.  We were going to make it.

That was yesterday.  The happiest day of my life.  Of our lives, perhaps.

And now, today, it was all different.

Once again, I looked down at the note in my hands.  I had read it so many times, I probably had the words committed to memory.  But still, I couldn’t stop myself from bringing my eyes back to those lines, hand-written on the sheet of loose paper.

Andrew,

I’m so sorry.  I know you deserve more than this.  More than what I could give you.

But I have to go out, to see the rest of the world.  There’s so much more that I want to experience.  When I met you, I thought I wouldn’t have any chance, and you were my breath of life, my touch of the outside world.

Now, though, I can go see it all for myself.  And I can’t pass that up.  Maybe one day, we’ll meet again.

Love, always,
Sarah

I crumpled the note up in my hands.  For a long time, I just sat there, on the empty hospital bed, staring off into the distance.

How ironic, I couldn’t help thinking.  The best day of my life, immediately followed by the worst.

I stared down at the piece of paper in my hands, sitting on the edge of the bed.  I could feel my suit wrinkling, crease lines forming in the fabric, but I didn’t care about it.

It didn’t matter.  Nothing else mattered.  Just the words on that sheet of paper.

I reached up and rubbed one hand across my face, hoping that somehow, when I reopened my eyes, things would have gone back to the way that they were.  That she’d be back…

With a couple fingers, I absentmindedly twisted the wedding ring around my finger.  That was a habit of mine, one that I’d had for many years.  I guess I still wasn’t quite used to wearing the thing.  Our marriage hadn’t exactly been… traditional.

I wondered whether I should just take the thing off.

I could still remember our wedding, now several years previously.  It hadn’t been super well attended, of course – there are only so many people that can squeeze into a hospital room, even the largest one.  And with Sarah still needing to be constantly hooked to all of those machines, well, moving her really wasn’t an option.

But despite that, we still managed to squeeze as many people in as the room could hold.  More than was recommended, probably.  And even though Sarah had to struggle for each breath, I could still see her eyes shining as she pulled away her oxygen mask long enough to repeat back the priest’s lines.

And her eyes never left mine.

What a weird story, huh?  Guy visiting a hospital falls in love with a patient.  Sounds like one of those crazy stories that you read on the internet in a forwarded email.  But I promise you, that’s what happened.

And Sarah loved me back.

(If you’re paying attention, by the way, you probably caught that past tense.  Just read on.)

Living like that, as we were, was definitely a challenge.  But somehow, incredibly, we made it work.  I’d head over to the hospital after every day of work, and we’d laugh away the hours, me perched on the edge of her bed, one arm around her shoulders.  We’d compare our meals (mine from the cafeteria, hers from the nurses), and sometimes, after I slipped the nurses a folded bill or two, they’d close the door on our room and give us some time alone.

And throughout it all, we never gave up hope…

This story is a continuation. Start here.

The doors open once again.  My worst fears are realized.

Donaldson.

The boss.

My boss.

I’m pulling hooky and my boss is in the elevator with me.

Shrink back.  Hold briefcase.  Don’t make eye contact.  I’m just grabbing an early lunch.  Not feeling great, hoping some OJ will be enough of a pick-me-up.  Don’t want to infect the office.  My shield feels flimsy.  I don’t know if it will be enough.

The boss is in.  Doors close.  Tick, tick, we drop through the floor.

Three floors down, and he clears his throat.  “Barry.”  It’s not a question.  My gut’s in knots.

“Headed out early?”  This is a question.  No, it’s an interrogation.  I lift my eyes, and he’s locked on like a laser sight.

“Just an early lunch, sir.”  That quiver in my voice is good.  Shows I’m being truthful.  I just wish it was on purpose.  “Not feeling so great, hoping that some fruit might help prevent any sort of flu, nip it in the bud.”

Narrowed eyes.  Is he buying it?  I can’t tell.  “Flu.”  He wants an explanation.

I scramble to give it to him.  “Had a couple late nights, sir.  Might be coming down with something.  Don’t want to affect office productivity, though.  If it’s bad, I’ll push through and work from home.”  There.  Good work ethic.  Promote that man.  Or at least let him out of the building.

“True,” he nods after a minute, and I have to fight to hold in my sigh of relief.  “Want to keep the herd safe.”

He leans in.  I try not to lean back.  “By the way, on the topic,” he adds, his voice dropping.  “Have you heard about this ebola thing?  Just caught a whisper of it.  Bringing doctors back here, I heard.”

“Sounds quite nasty, yes sir.”

“I might duck out a bit early, stock up on supplies.  Caught a whisper that there might be shortages, maybe even riots.  Don’t want to deal with that.  Working from home’s a good idea, Barry.”  A nod, a nudge from an elbow.  “Good man.”

We’re slowing down.  The doors open.  Sweet, sweet freedom awaits.

Let Donaldson out first, though.  Watch him stride across the lobby in his suit.  Keep the downcast expression.  Keep on thinking about being sick.  Gotta play this right.

…and he’s gone.  Step through those big doors.

Breathe in fresh air.  Arch back.

Freedom!

This story is a continuation. Start here.

“You must have heard the news.  I can’t believe they’re doing it now.  Those poor people, and with the holiday right around the corner.”

I don’t want to look.  But I feel myself caught.  The gravisocial field is too strong, and I don’t have enough managerial thrust to escape.  I turn, sigh, and nod.

“Hi, Bertha.  What are you talking about?”

She’s still in her chair, but I can feel that tugging field rolling out like waves from her.  She doesn’t stand much, but she doesn’t need to.  She’s like a small mountain, pumping out ever-present clouds of sadness.  Whenever someone has a balloon of happiness, she’s always ready with a pin.

“Marketing,” Bertha repeats, as if I should know.  “They haven’t hit their targets.  Half the division’s being laid off.”

Didn’t know.  Don’t care.  Need to get away.  “Well, I’m sure that they’ll be hired back soon enough,” I say, putting on a fake smile.  “Besides, they make a ton.  They’ll be fine.”

“It’s a bad sign,” the cloud of sadness insists.  “Means more layoffs are coming soon.  Might hit our department.  Someone will be going.  And probably someone new, or someone close to retiring.”

My teeth hurt.  I keep them clenched.  “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I say.  But it’s not enough.  I can’t fight sadness with optimism.  Gotta try a different tack.

I flick through my options.  Ebola?  No, blew that already.  Other sad things?  I’ll just be caught forever.  Happiness isn’t enough.  I’ve got one more card left.

Time to play for shock value.

“Actually, Bertha, there’s a video I’ve been meaning to show you,” I say, trying to lean around her to reach her keyboard.  I don’t think I can make it around.  There’s too much ’round’ to make.

Instead, I wave at her keyboard, and finally, she passes it over.  She’s a little confused, but with me for the moment.

Pull up YouTube.  “Sail Cat.”  Awolnation.  This might be my ticket out.  Bertha’s over the hill, she doesn’t watch viral videos.  Not even the old ones.  I’ve had this bullet ready in the chamber for a while.

Play.  Video’s going.  “Aww, stray cat?” Bertha rumbles, but she’s still watching.

Music’s building.  Here it comes.  “SAIL!”  Off goes cat.  Gasp goes Bertha.

“Oh my gawd!  I can’t believe it!  How do I watch it again?”

“Just click right here.  No, here.  No, this button.  Look, just let me.”  Video’s playing again.  Bertha has all her attention on the screen.  The field lessens.  This is my chance.

Sprint away.  From behind me:  “SAIL!”  “Again, again!”  I’ll have to find some more cat videos for next time.

The elevators are ahead of me.  Jam the button.  C’mon, c’mon.  Ding.  Yes!  Through the line, into the room, and I’m free!  The doors are closing!  The doors are closing!

The doors are… caught on a hand in them.

I’ve got a bad feeling about this…