Super Cop

Jake Speed wasn’t a man to trifle with. He was a man who dealt in absolutes. You were either a bad guy and deserved to be punished or a good guy to be left alone to continue your law abiding life. There was no grey.  Jake chomped on his comically oversized cigar as he drove through the busy morning traffic. The siren wailed overhead as Jake pushed his Impala to its limits, swerving through the other cars like a banshee over the Cliffs of Moor. He rubbed his grizzled, whiskered chin as he made a hard left in front of the bank and slammed to a hard stop.

He leapt from the Impala and walked confidently to the Captain’s car. Jake’s custom cowboy boots clomped audibly on the asphalt, louder than the near-by hovering helicopter. He removed the cigar from his mouth and spit onto the ground.

“Speed, glad you’re here”, said the Captain.

Jake growled low in his throat.

“The robbers have 25 hostages and are threatening to kill them all if we don’t deliver them a bus to take them to the airport”, said the Captain.

“We’re not giving them a thing”, snarled Jake as he clipped his police badge to his blue jean waist band.

He pulled his massive .45 caliber revolver from his shoulder holster and adjusted himself in his pants. He spit again and squinted at the one visible bank robber near the front entrance of the bank.

“What are you going to do Speed? I don’t want this to be messy! By the book Speed, by the Book’, shouted the Captain as Jake started walking toward the front doors of the bank.   

Jake held the hand cannon up to his side as he approached the front doors. He had seen this situation too many times before. It was just another day in the cop life. He’d stopped caring about his own safety long ago. It might have made him reckless. But deeply, he’d nothing left to live for.  It was after his lover plummeted to his death on New Year’s Eve that Jake Speed became a man on a mission. Brett had hit the concrete so hard right in front of Jake’s eyes and there was nothing he could do. Jake told Brett not to wear six inch platform heels. He’d blow up the world if that mean justice.  

“That’s close enough copper!”

Jake stopped and put his weapon down on the sidewalk.

“I’m just here to talk, to find out how we can help you get out of this situation safely”, said Jake.

“You’re that super cop, Jake Speed aren’t you”, asked the masked bank robber.

“I’m just a cop”.

“Oh, well, we give up then”.

The bank robbers dropped their weapons and started marching out of the bank. Jake picked up his weapon and started walking back to his Impala.

“Great work Speed”, called the Captain after Jake.

Jake had to fight the impulse to cry as he got into his car and gunned the engine. He still had to get to the cemetery to put flowers on Brett’s new grave. It was going to be a long Tuesday. 

Commonly

I harbor no illusions regarding my problems. I know I am not the only one with them. I know plenty of people with my problems. I’m like, “Hey! What are you doing with my problems? Those are mine”! And they flip me the bird and then run down the cobblestone streets of my imagination like a paper boy from the 1930’s. I know that my problems are not unique and that there is help available. However I tend to think that money is the only thing that could really help me. Of course, that is a common problem with us all. It’s a cyclical hell.

Maybe it’s the work I pretend to do on a daily basis here in my cube. Well, that’s not exactly true, I actually do my work but there’s nary a shred of me that enjoys it.  It’s truly a level of insanity we are all engaged in and I can’t figure out why. I suppose that would drive me even further insane. I know it’s bad when my eyes are constantly tearing up as I walk to the train in the morning, or sit on the train trying not to think about all the pointless crap I have to do, or now, as I sit in my cube, trying to convince myself to work.

I’m sure there’s hundreds of thousands of people at work right now, staring out the window, or at their machine press, or arm deep in the rectum of a horse, that dream of being somewhere else; of doing something else with their lives. Imagine if we all did what we actually wanted. Would the world be better? I don’t think so. Trains would crash together, planes would fall from the sky, there would be random hot air balloon bomb attacks I’m sure of it. Nothing would get done, everything would cease to operate. No one would want to be a septic/sewer repair tech or a human waste disposal operator. No one would want to be an ox testicle surgeon or rabbit stuffer. (As you know, all of humanity hinges on the performance of these jobs) But if we all did the job we wanted, we’d ruin everything.

“Oh, look 800 NASCAR drivers just crashed into the building, Awesome.”

Even though I’m being a little humorous about it, there are times I’d rather be a human waste disposal operator than shovel any more of this insurance shit. It’s why I can’t wake up in the morning; it’s why I feel the need to drink to excess at times. It’s unhappiness and it’s rampant in our society.  It’s rampant in me.

This is not about the clinical depression that goes undiagnosed in me. I’m sure it isn’t. I just don’t confront the problem because that’s what I was taught to do with bullies. Ignore the bullies and they’ll go away. Life is a bully, unsatisfying work is a bully, unrealized potential is a bully, and yet the more we ignore it and hope it goes away it gets worse and worse. Pulling our pants down at the pep rally in front of Christie Hotpants and her friends, making us talk uncomfortably about sex in front of the jocks, questioning our sexuality at a comedy club, laughing at us when we miss our train, setting unreachable goals the majority can’t meet; life is the biggest bully of them all.   

But then, maybe I’m just lazy and should get over it. I suppose that’s the most common trait we have these days.  Indifference and mortality. 

Blue Line Beauties

I rode the blue line train this morning on my way into work. The downtown station is actually closer to my office than the Metra station so my walk over isn’t as taxing on my poor withering body.

The train was extremely crowded this morning; crowded with incredibly cute and beautiful women. I was quite shocked. I had no idea there was such a treasure trove of lovely women riding the blue line in the mornings. Blondes, brunettes, mixed color hair, all of them fresh faced and wide-eyed. It was lovely. Of course, I didn’t talk to any of them. It just didn’t seem right. There’s such a feeling of, “don’t breathe near me”, vibe on the blue line. I did offer my seat to one of the young ladies as I am still a gentleman, but she declined.

That was the extent of any conversation that could have been had. I’m really out of practice with talking to women in a, “we’re not in a bar”, type of way. I know I could do it. I know I could easily say something witty, get her to smile and introduce myself like a total tool bag. But it’s the after that I hate. I have a vivid and evil imagination which causes me to imagine the entire relationship I might have with one of these beautiful women in a matter of a few seconds.

We meet, we smile, we have dinner, we date, we go to a few family parties, we visit South Carolina, we think about living together,  she realizes I’m not the man she thought I was, she yells at me about the state of our apartment, she apologizes for her freak out, I apologize for mine, but the ice is already too thin at this point and one morning she tells me that she’s met someone else whom she has a real connection with and she’s leaving.

The train gets to Monroe and she gets off and I feel sad to see her go, even though we never actually said a word to each other. I miss her already. I think it’s a terrible condition I have and it makes me feel pretty depressed a lot of the time. My imagination has gotten me into more trouble than I care to remember.

I try to live in the moment. I try to just go with the flow and be a man riding the ebb and flow of whatever situation, but I’m getting too old for that crap. It’s a struggle not to let my imagination run wild over the course of an imaginary relationship. I want one of these blue line beauties to see me and imagine how wonderful our lives could be and convince me that it’s not all doom and gloom at relationship station.  

But I do like riding the blue line train. I think I’ll have to do it more in the summer. 

It always gets me

I love the State of the Union Address. It always gets my patriotism going and my desires to see America rise to the challenges before us. I thought President Obama presented an honest and pragmatic view of The U.S. and it was refreshing. It gets me excited to hear a President discuss the roll of common sense in government.

Common sense is something I’ve noted before as being quite lacking in American politics. That and the whole rebuilding our infrastructure thing I’ve been talking about for three years. But common sense, which seems so uncommon now, is as the President noted our best path for mutual success. (Mutual meaning between the parties and the wealthy and the poor)

I have to say I didn’t quite appreciate the Republican response, Gov. Daniels asserted the President was being divisive and encouraging a “class war”. I was displeased with that statement, if anything the State of the Union was the President’s plea for Congress to work together to create opportunities for Americans that want to work hard and achieve. He didn’t ask for hand outs for the poor, but the tools to help the poor and the middle class reach the heights and opportunities their grandparents had.  Gov. Daniels said that it was not about have-nots and the haves, but the haves and the don’t-have-yets. That was possibly the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. There are have-nots in this country without the means to achieve and are being left behind.

I think the American people need to put the games of politics aside and stop talking about birth certificates and who is trying to take their guns, and focus on housing and the welfare of us all. If the poor are healthy and safe, imagine how better the middle class is, then imagine how much better the successful are. The tree of liberty needs strong roots and not a heavy top. It’ll topple if there are only liberties for the upper branches and none for those supporting it. A powerful trunk and root system will keep liberty’s tree soaring skyward for as long as history will allow.

The State of the Union almost always makes me wish I could do more, like I should jump out of this insurance gig and start working for some energy company actively trying to make the world and America a better place. I often don’t feel like I do my part to help. I vote and spout off on a soap box every so often, but that’s the extent of my actual activism. Usually after the State of the Union I start looking at Green Jobs and positions within government service. I’d like to do more, but being middle class does have its limitations. I’ve got bills and rent and groceries to buy. I’ve got insurance and car payments and birthdays to plan for. My budget is stretched pretty thin as it is and I couldn’t chuck it all and start working for the Forestry service. I’m too old to start again.

I guess I’ll just have to run for President. I’m of legal age so, yeah, I guess it’s time. Need to find me that First Lady too. 

Screwdriver

I’ve seen a few movies in my day and it occurred to me that I should keep a screwdriver in my bathroom. How do these two things go together? Excellent question. The reason is, in a lot of movies I’ve seen there is always some scene with the hero getting handcuffed to something in their bathroom. Be it the shower curtain rod or the leg of an old sink; there’s always something to get hand cuffed to. So wouldn’t it be wise to keep a screwdriver in the bathroom?

I’m not saying I’m some sort of, “plays by his own rules”, maverick street cop, out to clean up the scum with fiery and blazing justice. I, of course, imagine that I could be. Like all men, I’ve seen myself with the Mel Gibson hair a la Lethal Weapon, running barefoot down some rainy street carrying an assault weapon screaming after the bad guys because they just kidnapped the president’s daughter but she’s really my daughter because the First Lady and I had a thing before she met the now President but she couldn’t handle my in your face justice and had to leave to follow her career in Washington and take my little girl with her.

Sure, who hasn’t imagined that scenario? So that’s why I think I’ll keep a screwdriver in the bathroom. I’d hate to be at the mercy of Columbian and German drug kingpins as they rifle through my meager shack looking for those computer disks I allegedly had that could take down their whole criminal organization. There were never any disks. It was all just a ruse, and thanks to the screwdriver in the bathroom I was able to unscrew the shower curtain rod and get my bazooka and rain hell on those that wish to harm me or my grizzled partner.

Although the whole thing would be blown apart if they handcuffed my hands together around the shower curtain rod instead of just handcuffing me to it; then I couldn’t reach the screwdriver and the safety of the world would be completely compromised. But I’m sure that new sexy female cop will crash in through the wall in my old pick-up truck and save the day. Until she gets knocked out by a strong breeze and then needs to be rescued by me and a robotic dog named, S.N.A.P.S.

I only hope I remember to pack my fire-proof suit in the trunk of my partner’s car because I’m sure sneaking into the bad guy’s lair will be filled with Japanese American terrorists with flame throwing assault weapons.   I’m sure there will be some need for a long fight to the death in which I’ll be seriously injured but still come out on top. I might even show mercy as the ninja slips on the edge of the building and I grab his sleeve at the last second because I’m not a vicious killer. But the ninja struggles and tries to throw an explosive dart at me and when he does I lose my grip on his sleeve and he falls to his death into vat of super combustible acid.

But yeah, keep a screwdriver in the bathroom.

Thirst

The page was dry

waiting to be

quenched

with liquid

words.

The fountain

of thought

had little

to offer.

And nothing could

sate the throaty

desert

burning

for relief.

It took too long

to make it,

it took too long

to fake it.

So the page dies

the letters won’t

stick.

The fingers won’t

work.

The page is

the Sahara

and the words

are nomads.

Choosing not to camp

here today,

on this barren

landscape. 

Isn’t it a struggle?

This morning I could not get up. My mind had to literally drag my body from my bed like I was a corpse. As if the two were separate beings, one, wide awake Mind pulling and heaving the cold dead Michael’s body from the bed as if Mind was trying to hide it in a panic from the cops coming up the stairs.

“C’mon, c’mon, get up man. Get up”, begged Mind.

“Shnumun up miserrisrableable somnabetch”, groaned Michael’s corpse.

“You have to get going. You have to get to work”, pleaded Mind.

“Wornk iv for panseysmfrigber”, muttered Michael’s corpse.

“Fine. You’re on your own. I’m going and I’m not coming back”, threatened Mind.

“Goo”, said Michael’s pillow muffled head.

So Mind sits in the living room and waits for the usual corpse panic to set in, which it inevitably does. The corpse is electrified to life at some late hour, practically crapping itself with fear.

“Damn it! Why didn’t Mind try and wake me up”, thinks the re-animated corpse of Michael.

It’s always Mind’s fault. He’s just not determined enough to get Old Corpsey out of bed.

Mind will just stand there in the bathroom doorway, mouth open, shocked that he was once again thrown under the bus. But after so many years, probably 20 years, of the same old thing Mind has just given up arguing. It’s always the same.  Alarms go off and Mind tries to pull corpse Michael to the surface of his drowning dreams, only to fail at the last second and allows the lifeless body drift deeper into the dreamy blackness.

So the re-animated corpse of Michael rushes about the apartment, trying to get out the door in time to make his train so he won’t be as late as he has been in the past. Mind will eventually rejoin the body, usually about the time Michael reaches the train and will then let guilt and shame join the party.

By then Michael is already planning on getting up when he first hears those morning alarms, but Mind knows it’s all a lie and stays quiet because sometimes the truth doesn’t have to say anything at all.