Tom Piccirilli - Every shallow cut

“Well, yeah,” I admitted. “But I don’t think I’m quite crazy enough to agree to being locked up in the Bronx Psychiatric Facility.”

“I could call a few of the orderlies to come by in an ambulance. They’ll help load you up, if you prefer.”

I stepped back and wondered if he was joking or if he was even more bent than I was. “Thanks anyway.”

He said, “You’re going to hurt yourself or someone else very badly.”

It sounded almost like a plan. We all needed plans in our lives. Schemes, agendas, ambitions, intentions. Purpose. I’d been drifting like a weather balloon lost in the clouds. I needed direction, whatever it might be. I needed a little hope that I still had a destiny to fulfill.

“Maybe that’s just the next thing I have to do,” I told him and shouldered my way out of his red door that would hide dripping symbols written in blood and allow the angel of death to pass by.

I headed back to the subway, but about halfway there the urge to write became overwhelming. I sat on a curb in front of a bodega, took out the pad and started to scribble so quickly and with such force that I tore through the pages. Twenty minutes later a bus tried to pull up to the curb but couldn’t because I was sitting there. The driver blasted the horn but I kept on writing.

A cop tapped me on the shoulder with his nightstick. He was maybe twenty-five and had the doubly smug smile of someone who had both youth and power.

“Do you need some help, buddy?” he asked.

“No.”

“You can’t sit there. You’re blocking a bus stop.”

“Right. Sorry about that.” I stared down at the pad and realized that I’d broken the point of the pencil off after the first couple of words. The rest was just indentations. I stuffed the pad back into my rucksack and got to my feet.

“Let me see some ID,” he said.

Everyone with a badge wanted to see my ID, like they had to make sure that I was really me. I wondered, Who would want to be me if they didn’t have to be me? I showed him my driver’s license.

“Are there any issues with your license I should be aware of?”

“What?”

He repeated himself. I repeated myself. We locked gazes.

“It’s a Colorado license.”

“That’s right.”

“What are you doing in the south Bronx?”

“Visiting a friend.”

“Where’s he live?”

“In a big brick house with a red door a few blocks away. I don’t know the address. Apparently there’s a lot of Santeria worshippers around there.”

“Sir, would you mind turning out your pockets?”

He tapped the license across his knuckles and the grinning face in the photo seemed to mock me. I didn’t answer the cop. I looked at the photo, taken seven years ago, and wondered who the fuck that guy was and why my name was printed under the picture. The cop kept flapping the license, the face bobbing, my head pounding.

I turned out my pockets. They were empty except for my wallet and car keys.

“Have you been indulging in any alcohol or drug use?” he asked.

Would the cops frown on lithium, Prozac, and Xanax the way they did heroin and crack? Was it more acceptable to be a junkie or to have hit the wall and come crawling back home to practically cry on the doorstep of your childhood love, who double-locked you out of the house?

“I had some powerful green tea,” I said.

“Are you using a euphemism for marijuana?”

“No, I am not.”

“I see, sir.”

I hadn’t expected the police in the Bronx to be so friendly. I just figured the guy would grab my wrist and wrench my arm up my back, cuff me, and throw me in the back of the patrol car.

“Sir, what’s in the bag?”

“My novel,” I said. “Or a part of it anyway. My agent’s girl is going to type it up. He’s sure something will break for us soon. And he’s going to keep pushing the other manuscripts. I’m keeping the faith. He’s going to get me a nice fat cheque soon. Hollywood is always after new material. This new book, he’s got a good feeling about it. Everything is going to turn around. He’s going to get me back on top.”

“Please open the bag, sir.”

I had a feeling my rights were being violated. I wanted to beat his young, handsome face in. Wasn’t there anyone anywhere who would just let you go on your way without making you try to explain yourself? How could you articulate what you didn’t understand yourself?

I smiled pleasantly. I opened the rucksack.

“Do you mind if I take a look at what you might have inside?”

“Not at all, officer.”

I tossed the rucksack at his feet. He bent to examine it and realized his mistake almost instantly. I brought my knee up hard into his chin. It was my signature move now, I supposed. An ugly crunch echoed across the busy street as blood burst from his mouth. The bodega boys stopped all the buying and selling of fruit on the sidewalk and froze to the spot. I didn’t want to fight a cop. I didn’t want to fight anybody. I wanted to be left alone, but I couldn’t even walk down a street in the south Bronx with an illegal gun packed in my bag without some bastard with his whole shitting life in front of him and the power of right and might on his side bothering me. The cop rolled and tried to reach for his gun. I nearly shut my eyes and waited for it to be over. Instead I booted him in the nuts. The gun fell out of his hand. A bus pulled up to the curb and a dozen people got off and nearly walked over the kid. I picked up my rucksack and got on the bus. The driver barked at me in Spanish and I handed him a bunch of coins. He tried to give them back and yelled louder. I pulled out a twenty and threw it at him, then went to sit. I didn’t know where the bus was going and I didn’t care. I haven’t killed anyone yet, I thought. I stared at the back of the driver’s head for miles.

It took me six hours to get back to Penn Station. The whole day was a blur of bus transfers and trains heading in the wrong direction. I finally figured out the way to get back home, caught the L.I.R.R. out of Penn and made it back to my brother’s house. I rushed up his driveway and threw the rucksack in the back of my car. There wasn’t any reason to go back inside except to get Church.

I walked in and my brother slid the ottoman out from under his feet and jumped out of his chair.

He hissed, “Where’ve you been? You’ve been gone for almost three whole days!”

“I had to see my agent,” I said. “I had a manuscript to drop off. His girl is going to type it up. He’s sure something will break for us soon. And he’s going to keep pushing the other books. I’m keeping the faith. He’s going to get me a nice fat cheque-”

“I had to take care of your dog. That’s not my responsibility.”

“Thank you. Where is he?”

My brother had the temerity to look a little self-satisfied. “In the garage.”

I glared at him. “You piece of shit.”

I went to the kitchen and through the door to the garage. Church was tied to a nail hammered into a work bench, sitting, waiting, looking a bit stunned. There was a bucket of water and an open can of tuna fish in front of him. When he looked at me he got to his feet and his ass started swaying. He groaned out a little yelp.

I untied him and pulled him into my arms and buried my face in the folds of his chest fat. I hugged him and after a while I began to whimper, “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry, Church, I’m sorry I’m sorry…”

The worst thing that had ever happened to my dog had been me finding him in that cage in the pet store. If I had just moved along he’d be settled in with some loving family, an attentive and adoring mommy and daddy, and a little girl that hadn’t been scraped out of a womb. He’d be chasing tennis balls around the yard and eating barbecue all summer long, stretched out on a patio deck.