Son of a Bitch

Son of a Bitch

There is no telling how many Bourbons I’ve had so far. Nine? Maybe twelve?

After so long, I lose track, like when the surgeon tells the patient to count backward from ten before they go under anesthesia.

For me, every drinking binge is like a game, trying to see how high I can count before I can no longer process information.

Maybe thirteen? Oh, I don’t know.

For the average male of my height and weight, consuming ten shots of hard liquor over three hours gives them a blood alcohol level of zero-point-one-nine. That’s high enough to classify them as ‘moderately impaired.’ Nausea, disorientation, dizziness, loss of motor function, blurred vision, impaired judgment, and disorientation. I’m pretty sure I said that last one already, but you get the idea.

Again, this is the average.

I, Wally Redmond, am not the average.

I am a professional.

With that in mind, maybe this is my eighteenth or twentieth.

At the end of the night, my bar tab will tell.

Mounted in the corner of the bar is a television, and I’ve been too involved with this new crime show to keep track of my liquor intake. With all the commotion and loud music, I’ve had to read the dialogue in closed-captioning. That’s a hard thing to do when the words are blurred.

Since it began, I haven’t been able to pay much attention to anything else. It’s not a live police show, not like the ones where some camera guy follows officers around the crime-ridden streets. This one is made-up and has actors playing the characters; with a plot I assume was thought up by a bunch of television writers collaborated in a room somewhere. They must be professionals too, because this show has me hooked.

The star of the show, Vanessa Vandell, is hot on the trail of some criminal mastermind wreaking havoc on the city. Her captain paired her with a new partner, some newbie detective, and so far, the two of them don’t get along. It’s hard to say, at this point, whether or not they’ll catch the bad guys or be consumed with their own drama.

How can a guy not get along with Vanessa Vandell? She’s a busty blonde who gets my mouth salivating when she’s on the screen. And wouldn’t you know it? Just before the show’s outcome is revealed, the show cuts to a commercial for instant credit approval through the A.G. Loan Company. Then it’s a brief look ahead at the weather from the friendly forecaster, Sierra Preston.

She’s a new face to me, having recently moved to primetime. A tight blue dress wraps her petite body. As she points to spots on the map, she says things are about to get nasty. I know she’s referring to atmospheric conditions, but I like to think she’s forecasting a little dinky-tickling.

That was not a real word until I made it up just now.

When I’m this hammered and trying to speak, new words slip out all the time. Some of them are close to the intended verbiage. Other times, I will rattle off new vocabulary inventions without giving any thought to what they mean.

One second I’m reading the caption and the next, I’m staring at the weather girl’s lady-bubbles. What I would give to be that microphone she has clipped inside her shirt. I pay no attention to the weather. If it will rain or shine, I don’t know.

The weather spot changes to another commercial, snapping me back from a daze to the drink I’m still holding in front of my drooling open mouth. I doubt anyone’s paying attention to me, a guy sitting alone at the end of the bar, gawking at the television like I’ve been lobotomized.

My messy bedhead brown hair goes uncombed, but matted down with my palms. As a middle-aged skinny man, I blend well in the background. If you’d ask me, I’d say I’m pretty bland. No loud fashion statements to be made here. No pizzazz. I’m just a guy in brown corduroy pants and white cotton T-shirt and plain brown shoes. I wouldn’t notice me either. But in case anyone is watching, I take a sip of bourbon to play it off.

Two police officers, and not the ones from the TV show, enter through the side door and stop to scan the room. Because they’re in uniform, I know it’s not empty seats they’re looking for. Cops are trained observers. As camouflaged as I am as just another drunk at a bar, if it’s me they’re here for, I’ll try to avoid them from recognizing me and turn back to the TV.

I focus on the commercial for some skin care products and hope the show comes on again soon. The bartender asks if I want another shot of bourbon. Trying to not attract attention, I hide the side of my face with my hand and nudge the empty glass across the countertop.

The bartender fills my drink and sets it down, but before he scoots it back to me, the shadows of two figures darken his arm. His eyes go wide at them and he freezes. A strong hand curls underneath my elbow and a softer one squeezes the other. The two officers pull me from the stool, carrying me with my legs still bent like I’m sitting on air.

“What’s this jazz?” I ask.

Outside in the parking lot, the stale odor of deep-fried foods and cigarette smoke lingers in my nose. Probably because the scents have been absorbing in my clothes. Someone should tell the cops it’s nice their lights can be seen from a mile away, but they’re blinding to people standing within a few feet of them. The big bright cherries and berries, reds and blues, blast my glazed retinas.

My feet touch the ground and the officers let go my arms, except for one. His thick sausage fingers rest on my shoulder. It’s a good thing though. In this state of intoxication, I need the support to stay standing.

Just as I thought, it’s Officer Sisco, in his dark blue uniform. His matted dark hair, like plastic, is combed and parted to one side. Each flash of light casts a different shadow on his face.

Red and blue, red and blue, red and blue.

He smells of musk, or some kind of aftershave. Like pickles and booze. Oh, wait…that’s me.

The other cop steps in front of me, standing a few inches taller than my five-foot nine-ishness.

That wasn’t a word until I invented it just now.

Everything about this policewoman is attractive, except she’s taller than I am. I’ve always preferred the shorter ones, the spinners. I’m a sucker for her blue eyes, but I’ve always preferred brown. I like a little meat on the bones, but she’s toned and trimmed.

Mostly, I prefer blondes, but when it comes to shoulder-length dark brown hair pulled back into a small ponytail, and boobs I could fit in the palm of my hand, and a tight butt to grab, and… I forget what I was I talking about.

One thing stands out, and in most cases, it’s a deal breaker for me—the wedding band on her left hand. These days, what is marriage anyway, other than a legal agreement to support someone else? Are human beings meant to be with and reproduce with only one person?

Most people I know who rushed into engagement are now divorced. Marriage is an old tradition thought up many by dead generations. Ignorant people who made ignorant rules. So why does everyone strive so hard to become miserable?

Raspberries—My tongue flaps between my lips.

But there’s something about this young woman. She’s pretty. Sisco tells me her name is Officer Williams, his new trainee, and she’ll be conducting a field sobriety test.

Squinting passed the bright lights and wobbling, I ask, “Where’s Avery?”

The rookie wants to know who I’m talking about.

“What are you?” I ask, “A newbie?”

“Sisco just told you that,” she says.

I tell her my favorite badass policewoman, Avery, always does my field sobriety tests, and if I’m going down for something, I want her to be the one to take me there.

No sense in moving my head to look around. The parking lot spins for me, but for a short moment. The spinning stops and it’s me facing off with this rookie once again.

“Or not,” I add.

There’s something about this rookie. She’s a tough cookie. A cookie rookie. She’s hot too, I think. It could be my low inhibitions. After all, I’d fornicate with a hole in a wall right now if it paid attention to me. The new woman holds her index finger in front of my face and my eyes cross to it.

“Follow my finger,” she says.

“Where to?” I ask, catching myself from stumbling backward.

I’m sure my eyes are bloodshot. I’m certain my breath reeks of liquor. I’m positive this hot cop knows I’m drunk. But most of all, I’m confident I don’t care. I know what she’s looking for. She’s looking for horizontal gaze nystagmus. It’s not the first horizontal thing I would ask for when it comes to this girl. She’s watching for imperceptible twitches in my balls… my eyeballs, that is.

It’s a telltale sign one is inebriated. Another sign is loss of focus. I’ve completely forgotten I was supposed to be following her finger. Instead, my eyes target her chest.

“Up here,” she says.

Shaking my head clear of distraction, I focus again.

“Up there,” I say. “Sorry, I was trying to badge your name read.”

Trying, even though the name stenciled above the pocket of her vest was something I’ve already taken a mental note of.

E. Williams.

Officer Sisco calls her Liz.

E must stand for Elizabeth, but I’m guessing.

For God’s sake, if there’s anything I remember tomorrow morning, please let it be that.

“I need you to recite the alphabet backward,” she says.

Chuckling, I take a step back and almost lose balance again, but I’m quick to regain control.

“I can spell the alphabet,” I reply, “for as long as you want me to.”

My tongue flicks from between my lips.

Officer Elizabeth Williams’ eyes roll.

“First in all capital letters,” I add. “Then lowercase. Then I’ll count to ten, paying special attention to the zeros.”

I wink and give her a thumbs-up.

“Turn around,” she says. “Place your hands behind your back.”

So I comply, thinking it’s a fun game she wants to play.

“Turn around?” I ask, hiccupping. “You’re taking me in? I was in the middle of watching that new show. I was about to find out if Vanessa Vandell and her new partner are going to catch the criminal mastermind.”

Liz says she’s a fan of the same show. She says it’s her newfound favorite. She apologizes, but she has a job to do. She holds my interlocked fingers while she struggles to pull her cuffs from her duty belt. Her hands are soft and warm. And not only that, she and I have something in common.

Sometimes I think that can be more important than physical attributes, but still, there’s a bulge growing in the front of my pants. Hopefully, the reds and blues won’t cast its shadow. My Little Wally doesn’t need the attention right now.

Officer Sisco clips a plastic tube to the top of a black handheld box, and the front of my pants go flat again.

“When’s the last time that thing was calibrated?” I ask.

Pushing a few beeps and buttons, Sisco says, “Don’t be a smart ass.”

Sisco Man, The Disco Man, holds the box to my face and tells me to wrap my lips over the tip of the tube.

“Take a deep breath,” he says. “Now blow.”

I’m not sure how much lung capacity it takes for the Breathalyzer to register, but it might be a bit more than what I’ve inhaled.

“Keep blowing. Keep blowing,” he says. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

The rest of my breath escapes with laughter.

“Jesus Christ, Sisco. I’m not your wife.”

Fortunately, to avoid another go-around, the little box beeps as I crack up. Sisco’s eyes examine the tiny, lit screen and then me.

“Point two zero,” he says.

Snickering, I tell him that’s not enough. My hand breaks free from Liz’s grip and I point to the bar, telling Sisco to let me go back inside and I’ll take another shot to get my numbers up. Liz grabs my wrist and bends my arm, dropping her cuffs to the ground.

“Point two zero-ziz is for amateurs,” I reply, sort-of.

Most people with a blood alcohol of that measure would have trouble functioning. Not me though, I stand tall. A bit wobbly, but I’m still vertical. But with the sight of E. Williams bending over to pick up her handcuffs, I’m thinking horizontal would be a preferred position.

My words slur to anyone who hears them, but to me, they sound fine.

“I can’t believe you’re taking me in. I mean, like this. There are other ways I can think of. Did you know I man-scape? My southern region is smooth, like a baby’s tushy.”

I’m expecting Liz’s cold steel to click around my wrists.

“Little Wally doesn’t like to be scruffy,” I add.

But the handcuffs never come from the hot rookie. They come from Sisco instead.

“I’ll take it from here,” he says.

With his hand on my shoulder, he pulls me to walk with him.

“Damn it, man…” I say. “Fizzy-whizzles.”

That’s not a real word, but a word I just now made up.

His other hand pats my head as he pushes to duck me into the back of his car.

“I’m not spelling the alphabet for you,” I say, surveying the parking lot, and hiccupping again. “Wait a minute. Cops don’t arrest people like this in big cities. Where’s the paddy-whackin’?”

The door slams in my face. Liz is nowhere to be seen, but that’s because she’s on the other side of the car, getting into the front passenger seat. Sisco, The Disco, gets behind the wheel and Liz tells him she’s sorry for fumbling during an arrest.

“It’s fine,” he says, throwing the drive stick from park. “You need to work on your technique.”

From back here, in the rear, from behind his ear, I watch him steer the weary-woo…

“Yes, Officer Williams,” I say. “Technique is important, but don’t let this old hound intimidate you. Sisco was a rookie once too, ya know?”

Liz smiles at me over her shoulder as we drive toward the late night streets.

“I’d like to have his job,” I say. “Training hot rookies like you… I’d fill them out like an application.”

Sisco’s eyes roll in the rear view mirror. If it weren’t so dark, I’d say his trainee blushes a bit.

“Wally,” he says. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

Sisco The Disco Cop knows me. He’s known me a long time, like five or so years, I think. I don’t know because it’s just another number I can’t keep track of. It’s hard to keep a calendar when every day has pretty much been the same. However long it’s been, we became acquainted when he was going through his training as a rookie. Each time I’m out someplace, he waits until I’m drunk, interrupts my fun times and takes me into custody.

Sisco has some respect for me, however. I introduced him to his wife a few years back. Discount super stores have everything from toilet brushes to new clothes, to groceries, to new girlfriends, apparently.

One night, I decided to walk to the store to get me some more bourbon and almost fell on top of this cute little blonde-haired spinner in the aisle. But before I could think up some clever pickup line to use, there came Sisco from the bakery section, with his cuffs in hand, ready to take me in.

Even a year later, after they had been dating awhile, when he had me in the back of his squad car, he was asking my advice on the best way to propose to her. I told him about my thoughts on marriage, but he never listened. The two of them tied-the-knot and the blonde beauty became Mississes…Sisco. He even invited me to the wedding. You should see his dance moves. That’s why I call him, The Disco.

I belch and hiccup again.

“Why do I do this to myself?”

My life is better when I’m smashed. I can say what I feel. I can do what I want. I might regret everything the next day, but it doesn’t matter. It’s nothing another few more alcoholic beverages can’t take care of. And sometimes, drinking has its benefits.

For the rest of the ride, Sisco says nothing except to ask what radio station I want to listen to. I’m not picky when it comes to music. Anything that makes me want to shake my booty or bob my head is worth a listen. But not one thing comes through the speakers to grab my soul. Not until we get close to our destination.

This song from the Detroit Spinners makes me bounce my knees. Liz bobs her head, watching the building get closer through her window. It looks like music might be something else we have in common. But a male voice comes from the police band and distracts me from the jam.

“F-351 from dispatch,” he says.

My tongue pushes out as far as it takes to make me gag.

“Is that O’Toole? The ditz-patcher?”

“F-351, what’s your location?” the radio asks.

That’s Avery’s unit.

“We’re out here knocking each other’s boots, Butt Face!”

Sisco turns off the scanner. He digs his finger in his ear like he’s cleaning out a ringing sound.

“He can’t hear you unless I push the button,” says Sisco.

Raspberries—My tongue flaps between my lips again.

Arriving at the police station, the sound of the car’s engine echoes through the empty bay. Once we stop, so does the sound of the car doors opening. So does the bang of the back door slamming shut, as soon as Sisco helps me from the seat. Liz parts ways to the ladies room and together, Sisco and I walk through a brick hallway, passing yards of concrete, to a metal door at the end.

Before we go in, Sisco unlocks my handcuffs.

“Was this necessary?” I ask.

“You know it’s for your protection,” he replies.

Shaking my head makes me dizzy and I fall back against the wall.

“Tell your rookie,” I say, “I don’t use protection.”

With his fist clinching the front of my shirt, Sisco pulls me upright.

“My patrol car doesn’t have a cage inside. You know how you get when Dispatcher O’Toole is working. I have to keep you from getting ahold of the radio.”

Raspberries—My tongue flips between my lips.

“Now,” he adds, “Would you get yourself together? You’ve got a job to do.”