Douglas Dorow - The Ninth District

He thought about sleeping in, a birthday present to himself, but figured it must be about time to get up. Turning his head to look at the alarm clock on the dresser across the room, all he saw was a red blur. Squinting made it a little better. Five something. Reaching for his glasses on the nightstand, his hand ran into last night’s half-full glass of water, tipping it onto the floor.

He put on his glasses and looked at the clock again. 5:27. It was strange how he always woke up right before the alarm went off.

He laid his head back down on the pillow, letting it settle into the feathers, and stared at the ceiling. What day was this? His eyes moved around the room. Pictures the kids had drawn at school hung on the wall, and the stripes of light leaking in through the blinds, creating stripes of light and dark across them. Next to them was his FBI Academy diploma. On the dresser, next to the clock were the photos: his parents’ from the 25th anniversary party, the family shot from last summer’s vacation to the Black Hills, Mount Rushmore in the background, the kids’ birthday portraits. Things changed a lot in three months.

The buzzing started. Jack glanced at the clock. 5:30. Time to get up. He threw off the covers and swung his legs out of bed and walked across the room on knees that crackled with each step, to reach the alarm clock on the dresser. His fingers probed the clock until they found the button to end the noise.

He turned to face the full-length mirror on the closet door and straightened his back, grimacing as the pain shot through the lower vertebrae, part of his morning ritual.

“Happy Birthday, Jack,” he mumbled. “Not too bad for 40.” His gut wasn’t too big, he still had some hair, and when he smiled, he wasn’t bad looking. The dimples added something that his crooked nose took away. “Think I could get a date?” He turned sideways to the mirror and sucked in his stomach. Well, not if he was seen in this get up. He stood there in his ratty, old, college football jersey, the outline of number 84 still barely visible, and boxer shorts flaring at the waist with the elastic showing.

He looked back over at the pictures on the dresser. It would have been nice to have the kids wake him up with their giggles and birthday kisses. And he would have liked to wake up next to Julie too, but he didn’t know if that was going to happen again.

At the end of the school year, before summer started, Julie had let him know where things had stood. She needed a break and for him to think things over. He hadn’t been surprised that she was unhappy, but he was shocked when she told him she was leaving and taking the kids with her. She was moving out to the western suburbs into her parents’ house. Ten years of being married to an FBI agent had taken its toll. The hours, his being gone for extended periods, the frequent moves to new field offices. She was home now, close to family and old friends, and she didn’t want to leave. She wanted a commitment from Jack. A commitment that he would finish his career in Minneapolis and that they’d stay here to raise their family close to hers, to live a more normal life.

Jack struggled out of the clothes he wore to bed, put on his running shorts and a t-shirt, sat on the edge of the bed, and put on his socks and running shoes. Another part of his morning ritual. He stood up to stretch, twisted slowly from side to side, and bent over to touch his toes. His fingertips reached just below his knees. He rolled his head a couple of times clock-wise and reversed direction a couple of turns and shook out his arms. He was ready to go.

When he opened the door, the heat and humidity immediately enveloped him. Better to go out now than later when it really had time to warm up. He slowly jogged towards River Road and the paths along the bluffs of the Mississippi River.

Jack crossed the paths and scrambled down through the woods to run on the trails that ran next to the river. The bike paths above were nice, but below the bluff was another world. A world removed from the city. Woods, the river, and few noises other than squirrels foraging for food in the grass and leaves on the ground.

Jack liked to run to think, and running down through the woods along the river brought him even deeper into the recesses of his brain. Jack thought about the day ahead. He dreaded working on his birthday. He wanted to spend it with the kids. They were excited to see him, to give him his gifts, and to sing Happy Birthday. It was all they had talked about on the phone the past two days. If he didn’t have to work, they’d go to Como Zoo to see the polar bears swim or the Minnesota Zoo to see the dolphins. If he could make it through the day, they’d have fun tonight. Maybe this weekend they’d get to the zoo or go bowling. He’d let the kids pick.

Fifteen minutes into his run, Jack reemerged from the woods and followed the path up to the Ford Parkway Bridge. He was in the zone now, running without thought or effort, autopilot. The sun was peaking up on the east horizon, causing him to squint as he crossed the bridge. Sweat ran down his face and arms as one foot plodded in front of the other. Thirty more minutes and he would be home, ready to shower and face another day.

Dorow, Douglas

The Ninth District — A Thriller

The Governor jerked. Startled, he reached out from beneath the blankets and felt around on the nightstand to find the source of the repeated blaring. Finding the alarm clock, he rolled onto his back and brought it to his face while he pushed various buttons, trying to make the sound stop. The numbers glowed silently in front of his eyes, 6:03, while the noise continued. His heart beat hard in his chest.

“It’s your pants…cell phone,” Sandy mumbled. “Make it stop.” She grabbed the pillow and pulled it down over her head to muffle the noise.

The Governor got out of bed and grabbed his pants. Sandy had thrown them across the room last night before a long night of unbridled “body exploration,” as she called it. He felt as if he had been explored and conquered. The ringing had stopped before he got the phone out of his pants pocket, but he held it in his hand and sat in a soft chair by the window, waiting for the telltale beep indicating the caller had left a message.

The phone beeped; the display showed a message was waiting for him. He glanced back at the lump on the bed and debated retrieving the waiting voice message or climbing back under the sheets for some additional needed sleep, his thumb playing with the numbers on the face of the phone while he tried to make a decision.

The window air-conditioner unit kicked into life to catch up with the rising temperature of the apartment. Sandy snorted and pulled the pillow tighter over her ears.

Walking into the living room, the Governor looked out the window as he pushed the button to retrieve the message. Waiting for the call to go through, he studied his naked reflection in the window. He was happy with how he looked. At fifty, he was fit, looked good in and out of his clothes, and was able to attract and bed women much younger than himself. His short, black hair was speckled with gray, giving him an air of class. He followed a regimen of yoga and tried to watch what he ate. Sandy had even got him to start running around Lake Calhoun with her.

The voice in the phone told him to enter his password. Once he completed this, he heard a familiar voice. Listening, he looked out the window at the world coming to life.

“Damn,” he breathed. He pushed the button to end the call, gathered the rest of his clothes, and got dressed.

He sat on the edge of the bed and gently pried the pillow from Sandy’s hands to reveal her face. “Princess, I have to go.” He reached out, brushed the stray hairs off her cheek, and tucked them behind her ear.