.....by Fran Alt
Driving away from the police station, you notice lights beginning to glimmer in the homes you pass. It's almost dawn. People are just getting up for work and you're going home. You're scared, shaky, and tired. The car, in automatic pilot, turns onto the Long Island Expressway, while your mind begins questioning the why of it. He shot at you. You almost got killed. Why? Your stray thoughts, shoot in different directions, like bullets in the night.
Lost in a panorama of the night's events you miss your turn. Damn the expressway, it will take forever to get back to the exit. Hell, you tell yourself, just keep driving. You're too keyed up to sleep, especially after that cop shot at shot you.
The scene plays in your mind like an old TV movie. The guy comes into the bar dressed in a suit right out of GQ. He's glassy eyed and mumbling while he fidgets with the barstool. It lands on the floor and he swoops it back up. Finally he manages to sit. "Black-on-the-rocks," he mutters. You figure he's a drunk or doped up yuppie. You tell him you can't serve him and that maybe he should go home and get some sleep.
He stares at you. Those eyes, it's like he's in another universe. He starts talking bizarre stuff, and then he leans over and says he'll leave if he gets a kiss. You pull back and ease toward the other end of the bar. Maureen, who works with you, is shooting pool with Lou. Lou hangs out at the bar and has a major crush on Maureen.
"I'm scared," you whisper, "I've got really bad vibes about this guy."
Maureen is one tough barmaid. She manages the place and she thinks she's some kind of superwoman.
She hands you her stick. "Try my shot," She says, checking out the guy in the suit. "I'll keep an eye on the bar."
You glance at the pool table and Lou tells you that you have the high ones. There's an eerie silence as you draw back on the cue stick. From the corner of your eye, you see the guy walking toward you. He's holding his left hand down and away from his body. There's a glint of steel and you are hoping it's not what you think it is. You're telling yourself this can't be real, when Maureen's voice bounces through the room. "Lookout, he's got a gun!"
His hand comes up, and your heart tries to jump out of your chest. His crazed-eyes are staring into space, yet the gun's barrel is pointed directly at you.
You're watching his hand and you think you can see his trigger finger tense up. Suddenly Lou leaps forward. He grabs the guy's wrist, and forces it upward. The gun goes off and a bullet whizzes over your head, lifting your hair like static electricity.
In abject terror, you watch Lou wrestle the guy to the ground. Maureen is trapped behind the bar and shouts for you to call the police. Frozen with fear, you stare at the two men. Shots go off. Zoom. You're magically in the phone booth, dialing 911.
Lou manages to get the gun and has the guy lying face down on the barroom floor. It seems like forever before the police arrive. The guy lays there motionless, not responding to the cops' questions. He's not hurt; he's just not talking. They search his pockets and one of them flips a small leather looking wallet open. There's something shiny clipped inside it and the cop holding it says, "Oh my God, get the sergeant."
There's whispering and lots of commotion and then they make the three of us wait outside. It's freezing cold and we are quiet and shivering as we stare at the full moon.
Later two cops come out to ask us questions. One of them tells us the gunman is an off duty New York City detective, and that they had to call in some brass. While we're talking, the other officers bring the guy out and put him in a patrol car. The car pulls away. One of the cops left behind, says we should lockup and follow them to headquarters.
The lights are dim and the room feels cold. The three of us are told to have a seat, and then the cops disappear. Talking and laughter seeps through the doorway and occasionally, one of us peeks out to see what's going on. With his feet propped on a desk, the shooter is blowing cigarettes rings, drinking Pepsi and laughing with the Nassau County detectives. We could have been killed, and this guy acts like he is king of the station house. These cops are treating the shooter like some kind of deity, while the three of us sit in a dank back room wondering why we're being treated like - the bad guys.
A speck of early morning sun dances off the car's windshield and in your mind you can still hear the sergeant laughing and saying, "Barmaid's probably lying'. They're all alike them broads. No good, none of 'em."
What the hell does he know? What's the use, everyone seems to think that way. You work seven nights a week, until three in the morning. Your days are spent cleaning, cooking and taking care of five kids. You clear more than twelve bills a week, and, with child support, you're doing damn well. In fact you're really proud of yourself. Heck, you're doing better than most people. You drive a new car, live in Great Neck, and even have live-in help. Self-respecting. Ha! It's a good thing you feel that way, because no one else seems to.
Exit coming up, you'd better take it. Almost daylight. You steer onto the off-ramp, take the overpass and then head toward home. You're back on the expressway again and the sergeant's words get you thinking about the rumors you've heard. Wow, what a reputation! Sounds like you've got one hell of a sex life. Go ahead - cry. You're so frustrated you wish the rumors were true. Can't cry can you? No feelings. No emotions. No tears. You do a man's work and make a man's salary. You're tough. You're hard - you wish.
It's still a little dark as you pull in the driveway. Eerie shadows, cast by dim lights in the parking lot cause a minor panic attack. You've been afraid of the dark ever since you were a kid. Sweat pours from your head; fear grips your psyche. Is someone lurking in the alley? After what you went through last night, you'd think nothing could scare you.
Oh well, you can't just sit in the safety of the locked car until broad daylight. Your eyes search the lot one last time. It looks safe, so you reach for the door latch and open it. Running through the alley, you get that weird feeling, the chill of a dark monster grabbing at the back of your neck. Chasing you. Making you run faster and faster.
Finally, keys in hand, you reach the apartment door. Breathing hard, you fumble with the lock. In an eternity of seconds you're inside. Leaning back on the already closed door you try to catch your breath, when suddenly a voice comes from the foyer. "Is that you Mommy?"
You walk over and hug a tired-eyed little guy. Holding him close and tussling his soft brown hair you tell yourself, "Now, I know 'why'."
You give the little guy an extra squeeze, change into your jeans and start cooking breakfast.
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