The Boss

“I was born to be eaten, beaten, bartered and thrown away. But I fought back every step of the way,” he recalls in his book “My fight”. Please welcome Jared Milton!”

Jared walks onto the scene, looking like a million dollars. Ach! A million, that’s pocket money. The audience eats him up. He’s got a perfect smile and perfect hair. He’s kept the deformed nose – it gives him authenticity, and bad boy looks to die for. The nose was never his best feature, cartilage is not tough enough for a man like him. Give him tooth and nail, guts and grit. His thoughts revert to clichés whenever he’s nervous. It’s his first time on national tv. He’s well aware of the millions of eyes on him.

The host welcomes him and dives straight into the book “You didn’t write this book, Jared, right?” “No Josh, as a matter of fact, it was written by a ghostwriter, based on hundreds of hours of interviews. If you’d read it, you’d know I was illiterate.” He turns to the closest camera and addresses it “That’s right kids. I can’t read or write, yet I’m a millionaire. Says something about our school system, doesn’t it?” The statement is met with hoots and laughter, some heartfelt clapping as well as a certain unease. “Yes folks, if you make friends with the right people, there is money to be made.” The host interjects “By ‘right people’ you mean the derelicts you met when you fled your foster family?” “I surely don’t mean either my family or foster families, Josh.” He uses the host’s name deliberately, looking him straight in the eye as he does so. The camera records the quiet confrontation, pans to the audience when the host breaks eye contact.

“You had a difficult childhood, yet you came out on top. What do you credit your success to?” “My good looks, of course,” he says, holding his chin up to show a ravaged profile with jutting eyebrows, broken nose and dimpled chin. He smiles winningly, his cold eyes sitting prettily under a cap of salt and pepper longish hair. “The look of Caesar, you know? Aquiline nose?” He’s managed to reframe his looks to his advantage, the audience now superimposing their picture of a triumphant Caesar over his own. They murmur amongst themselves, smugly. “I told you so,” can be heard.

The host tries to steer Jared back. “I enjoyed the pictures, but was sorry to not see any of your youth.”

– “We were poor, yeah? The closest I ever came to a camera was during my cousin’s wedding. They didn’t want me as a page, so there’s me fake-strangling one my size. I wanted to steal his clothes to be in the procession. They stopped me.” Laughter and whistling from the audience. He’s invited his lieutenants in the crowd. They’re sitting in the front row, arms crossed, sullen looks. In the wings awaits his loyal bodyguard. The watchdog is facing the audience, scanning it for signs of trouble. He wasn’t allowed to bring his weapons backstage but he’s got his fists, and those are lethal.

– Spunky fellow, you were.

– I say you want something, you go for it.

– Ah, the American way! Still, there’s the matter of the Constitution…

– Told you I’m illiterate.

The audience erupts into laughter as he looks at them, dignified.

– Did you not, as a child, re-arrange Inuit sculptures Inuktitut (he says that painfully, as though crunching through glass) as though they were performing obscene acts?

– What is obscene is you making those kinds of accusations, he says in a tight voice.

Jared glances backstage, the camera follows his gaze. Close-up on the gorilla’s set jaw and angry eyes. The tension is palpable, that of an animal ready to pounce. People look nervously behind for a guard with a tranquilizer gun. They better be quick about it.

– I meant no offense. I was just referring to a scene in the book…

– Childhood was such a long time ago…

The host looks at his cue cards, makes a show of throwing them over his shoulder.

– What would you like to discuss?

Jared turns to face the first guest, a lovely brunette, all legs, a popular singer with a hit single and sketchy past. He looks her up and down, appreciatively.

– “I’m a legs man, myself.” He extends his hand, she extends hers. He gives it a lick and winks at her. “Dee-licious,” he adds.

– You must be a wolf, she flirts. This perfume is called ‘Little Red Riding Hood.’

Like a magician, he whips out a smile, all canines glistening, and lets out a surprising howl. The audience howls back, under the host’s mock-horrified look. The hounds are off leash, a musky scent fills the air. After that, the host loses even the tiniest grasp on the interview and is left hanging limply, damp sheet left to dry but soaked by a sudden downpour. He runs a manicured hand through his thinning hair as they cut to a commercial. The makeup people run out to fix his hair, another help picks up the discarded cards, the producer whispers words of encouragement. They resume, the host focusing on the third guest as the first two exchange lascivious looks. Before the next commercial, Josh’s hand is resting proprietorially on the singer’s silky knee. The gorilla allows himself a sly grin as he relaxes. From then on, there are no surprises, he’s read the script a hundred times. The boss rules. 

Rain

The rain is pouring down the full-face helmet like tears from heaven, which is where she’ll end up if she doesn’t find a refuge soon. She’s slowed down to better handle the motorcycle in the rain. It’s her first time with this bulky one, made for trips with its unyielding saddle bags. She’s lined them with garbage bags to waterproof them and put a warm hoodie on top. She’s thinking she may change into it. Bingo! Overpass. Two other riders are already there. She signals and stops in the dry, the deafening noise abating. She considers the other two. Males, of course. They don’t seem to be traveling together.

She kicks the stand, pulls the heft of the bike up and feels it going down with a satisfying snap. She’s done the manoeuvre umpteenth times, but she’s still nervous in front of others. She’s petite, so she’s clearly female. She takes off her helmet and clips it to the side to give herself something to do as the other two watch. The younger one is fretting around his bike, tussling his hair with one hand, the other holding his helmet. The other man is stationary, just watching. She approaches them, nods.

– Hi, I am Thierry, says the young man, extending a hand she shakes. It’s bloody inconvenient all this rain. I am still far from destination and I don’t like night riding. You?

“Hi, I’m Jolene,” she lies. “I’m meeting up with my husband (she looks at her watch) in an hour or so at the Wapu Inn. Don’t know if he’s stuck under an underpass too.” She lies easily for protection. There is no husband, though there is a Wapu Inn in about an hour’s time.

They turn to the third person. He’s wearing a bandana and is eyeing them with beady eyes. His muscular forearms are crossed on his torso. He’s classic bad ass in jeans, t-shirt and jean vest. He’s dry, which means he outran the rain. He’s more savvy than the two of them put together.

– How much longer do you think it will rain? she asks.

He shrugs and looks away at the sky. He’s made himself comfortable. He’s got the best spot, close to the wall. The cars slow down to pass them and gawk. Nobody dares stop. One biker looks vulnerable, two may be a couple, three are trouble. She shivers. She has no fat to speak of. She goes to a saddle to retrieve her hoodie and a toque. She doesn’t want to cool down. She checks everybody’s boots. Hers and the bandana guy’s are well worn. The boy’s are not yet broken into. The man and she exchange a look.

She can tell he’s followed her thoughts, but he makes no attempt to show if he’ll help protect the youth from himself or not. She decides he hasn’t made up his mind yet and leaves it at that. A fourth motorcyclist stops, coming from the other side of the road. They are separated by two lanes. He nods to acknowledge them but doesn’t dismount. He goes through the motions of turning off the engine, but he leaves the radio on. Music can be heard faintly from large speakers. Shortly after, another motorcyclist stops at the side of the newcomer. They exchange a few words and he goes and parks further. He’s Black, which is unusual. He nods at us, and we nod back. Again, I glance at the bandana man, who feigns not to see me. He’s staring at Thierry with a glint of merriment in his eyes, like Thierry is putting on a show for his amusement. The rain is letting up. Thierry has taken out bright yellow rain gear he’s changed into while the others have arrived. He’s getting ready to go, still agitated at the idea of being late.

– It’s different rules for bikes, she tries to explain to him. People around you have to understand you’re at the mercy of the weather. Better to arrive alive, yes?

– It’s my girlfriend, he blurts out. She says I’m always late picking her up.

– Stay safe, she offers in a worried voice.

He leaves, a bright yellow sun parting the curtain of rain. The gray soon engulfs him, and he’s gone. She’s grown relaxed in the bandana man’s quiet presence. The overpass shudders with the passage of trucks but otherwise it feels like a husk, except when the cars drive through, piercing their fragile cocoon. She’s comfortable waiting. She doesn’t feel the itch to take out a book. Well, maybe a little. The two bikers on the other side are sharing a smoke and laughing. She feels as though she’s on the outside looking in. She’s warmed up. She pulls off her gloves and lays them on the seat of her bike.

– Husband, eh?

He’s pointedly looking at her ringless fingers. He’s got a deep voice, rather pleasant. She shrugs and pulls up the corners of her mouth in a tight smile. He finally detaches from the wall and extends his left hand. She looks at the right one, so he obliges and puts it up for her to see. He’s missing the pinky. She shakes the left hand with her left. “Pete,” he says. “Jean,” she answers, off guard. The rain has picked up again, with gusts of wind. She’s thinking of Thierry. Pete says, as though following her thoughts, “He may just come back, you know.” She nods, mechanically. “You have any kids?” he asks, acknowledging her maternal stirrings towards Thierry.

She hears herself answer “Not yet,” to her surprise. She’s never considered raising a family so this is not a typical answer for her.  And why did she blurt out her real name to this man? She’s behaving erratically. “From the looks of it, I’d say we should be able to leave soon. See how the low clouds are moving fast? Above them, the sky has cleared. The sun will dry this stretch of road in no time.” He’s coherent and knowledgeable. She’s curious now. Her preconceptions had gotten the best of her. He’s not a typical Harley rider, though he’s got the half helmet, reminiscent of WWI war movies. It looks like a soldier’s helmet, on closer inspection. “Vet?” she asks. “My granddad’s,” he answers proudly. “Got him through a war. Should get me through this life.”

The men on the other side are starting their bikes. The sweet smell of gas fills the air. She hurries to her bike and takes the toque and hoodie off, puts on her high gloves and helmet. Pete is watching her appreciatively. He’s fastened his helmet and put on a leather jacket with fringes. It looks natural on him. They start their engines and slowly ease back on the slick road. He’s motioned to her to ride in front and they ride together for a while. He’s got her back.

 

 

 

Bright Yellow Sun

Her pudgy arm was raised and she was pointing at the high cupboard. In her fist, she held a red crayon. She let out an exclamation that could’ve been frustration or joy. At her feet was a piece of paper with a non-descript red scribble. He sighed and got up. He was hungry and grabbed the cookie jar from the cupboard. Eleanore let out a happy sound. “You want one?” he offered. Her face became red as she shook her head no. “Suit yourself,” he said, grabbing milk from the fridge. His little girl was a mystery to him. If only she could talk. The incoherent babble was a pain. She knew a handful of words and used “No” profusely. He was snacking standing up, a little irritated by her agitation. She was still gesturing with one fist, the other pounding the cabinets. He could tell a tantrum was close.

He downed the milk and swept the crumbs in his hand then into his mouth. Those were good crumbly cookies. The little blob was adamant that she wanted something. He crouched beside her, stared at the raised fist trying to see what she was pointing at. There was a box of crayons on the shelf by the cookie jar. What an idiot he’d been. “Crayon?” he asked hopefully. She rewarded him with a smile and an energetic nod. He took the red crayon from her tiny fist and put it back with the others before closing the cupboard door. He left the room, smugly satisfied with his fatherly powers of deduction.

Eleanore’s shoulders drooped as she slowly banged her head on the cabinets. Frustration oozed from her every pore. Her picture lay incomplete at her feet, missing a bright yellow sun.

The Reader

He read with a mathematician’s mind. “12 pages to go!” “On average, the chapters have 14 pages.” “The longer chapters are all about exposition. There is more action in the shorter ones.” I had recommended a book I had just finished reading, thinking he would like it. “Where are you at?” I asked. “I’m five pages into chapter 6.” “I mean, what’s happening? Where are you at in the story.”

He looks at me as though I’m slow, as though he’s already answered the question and rattles what’s happened in chapters 1 to 6. “I thought you’d read it?” he asks with a hint of suspicion. “I’m not doing your homework for you, am I? If there’s a book report at the end of it, you have to tell me now. I will read differently.” “No, nothing like that. I thought you’d enjoy the story. It made me think of you.” “Why?”

Now it’s my turn to turn diffident. The main character is clearly on the autism spectrum, but I don’t want to offend him. “He likes math” is all I can think of. That seems to satisfy him.

The Dare

The soft inky texture, an abysmal black, Elvis on velvet, kitsch and drama. No wonder I felt blue, a strange vertigo as my cheek caressed the soft fabric. What a dare! To lay in a coffin for a night. Pure terror, reflections on mortality – which would it be? My co-conspirators each trying on the vow of silence, sworn to sharing their experience the next morning. One mused about second-hand coffins, like pre-washed jeans, rendered supple and full of life by our youth, another confessing to wet dreams and happy thoughts he hoped would go with the defunct into the netherworld, a third taking solace in the comfortable abode, finally cured of his thirst for death, just another sleep, nothing more. And me. Me who had initiated the dare, spending the night awake, feeling the tenderness in the handiwork of the final resting place. We could choose to keep the lid open or closed and, but one, we all chose to close it, the better to experience a simulacrum of death after testing that indeed we could raise the lid from inside. My father ran the local funeral home and had just gotten an order of coffins in, for the war was raging and business was brisk. We were fourteen and fifteen, could not pass, could not enlist. Between us, we had few facial hair, nothing in the way of a five o’clock shadow, no dirt on our upper lips, just dreams of glory and of stars in girls’ eyes.

What a sight it would have been, had my father chanced upon us before dawn, soft snores emanating from the wooden boxes, dreams softening the air, unruly mops as the lids slowly lifted and we emerged from the chrysalis, a mocking smile on our lips, eyes full of mischief. It beat smoking and drinking this daring feat, Hades chatting up Morpheus. The room needed airing, the coffin pillows fluffing, before we slinked out, with nervous laughs and guilty stares. We swore never to tell. If I am telling now, it’s that the others are gone and that our foolishness was child’s play, with no disrespect intended. It merely cemented our friendship, solidified our beings. We were kids before the dare, but not quite the same after we emerged from it. Peter and I were the most affected. We had been troubled going in and the deed sealed the deal. If my father suspected anything, he didn’t let on. After that night, I treated the coffins with more respect, understanding them from the inside, so to speak. I felt reverence for the artisans who chose to create their best pieces for a short moment of glory, like wedding cakes to be marvelled at and consumed. It is in the nature of art that beauty outlasts its creation and lives on in the imagination.

During my short stay in the velvety comfort of the coffin, I’d had the company of a fly. I suppose flies are to be expected around corpses, but we were young and vital. I suspect my pungent smell resulted from an excess of young sap in the blood as I didn’t want to entertain the possibility of fear. Nevertheless, I was the only one who was so accompanied, and I felt it was my luck. Far from being incommoded by the insect, I was glad for the company. While the others snored, I felt the fly walking about me and saw it rubbing its legs as a soldier might have done to try and erase invisible bloodstains on his hands. Thus I spent the night, straining to hear the buzz, rejoicing and cursing the insect in one breath. I was hoping and dreading sleep and the buzzing fly was my perfect alibi. Velvet has remained my favourite covering, though it is a rare choice, people choosing virginial silk over the heavy velvet with its somber associations.

I took on my father’s business, flies and all. Truth be told, in the basement where we prepared the bodies, it wasn’t as cool as we would have liked so we had to work quickly. When working evenings on the makeup and such, we would open the back door to get a bit of a breeze. I collected in a jar the flies who ventured in and released them back in nature at closing time. I disliked killing any creature. When the time came, we had a nice funeral for my father. He had made no prior arrangements, a poorly shod shoemaker, so I set his body down in black velvet. His pale face was a nice contrast on the dark pillow and heightened his fine features. I dressed him with his white tuxedo. He had lost weight in his last months, and it fit him nicely. With the white tuxedo and sideburns, on black velvet, he could almost pass for his idol. I hoped the softness of the fabric gave him some pleasure. It was the coffin in which the fly and I had spent that night, years ago. Nobody had claimed it. It was unloved except secretly by me and my father who I am sure would have approved of my choice. He was thrifty and had lost money in that deal. I knew he had a soft spot for the coffin, having held on to it over the years. As for me, I had kept the brass fixtures polished and daily dusted its fine body. It was as familiar as an old steed and my hope was that it would bring my father safely to the other side, the love and care I had lavished on it permeating the wood and its occupant. Paying homage to my father one last time, I was alone with him to say my goodbyes. I gently unscrewed the top of the jar and laid it by his side. The gentle buzz would keep him company on his long journey.

The Dentist

The dentist waits for me with her instruments of torture. I try to look indifferent, glancing at her credentials on the wall. Her assistant ushers me in. I try to understand the mind of someone whose job it is to hurt people. As a child, how wonder if she tore wings off butterflies or legs off a spider. Perhaps her parents detected a streak of sadism in her and directed her into dentistry. I hear the whirring of the instruments and wonder what possessed me to come to this place of hurt.

I remember the first time. The adults conspired to make it a good experience. They had decided that whatever the outcome, no painful work would be done on my teeth. The idea was to familiarize myself with the office and see it as a benign location, or at least neutral. When we arrived, a little boy my age was trembling from fear. He suddenly dissolved into tears, saying between sobs “Don’t make me!” I quickly lost my composure, and started crying, filled with dread. A white coat took the boy away. I heard screaming, a real tantrum as the boy struggled against his tormentors.

I was there with my older brother, a quiet, unassuming boy with a vicious side. I knew I wasn’t getting any sympathy from him. The assistant came “Jacoby?” He looked at me. “There are two of us. This is my sister’s first time.” The assistant smiled, all teeth out. “Who wants to go first?” John nudged me. I looked up in fright at his placid eyes. He took pity on me. “Will you stay here quietly with a book if I go first? I won’t be too long.” I nodded furiously.  He got up as though to grab a cookie from the cookie jar, all smooth and self-assured. Cookies – instant cavities. I could feel my mouth watering. Will the thought of cookies bring on a cavity? I focused instead on proper brushing techniques. I was afraid there would be some kind of pop quizz.

The boy came back out, holding a lollipop. I made eye contact, he stuck out his tongue, eyes still red from the crying, snot on his sleeve. He seemed oddly content. I suppose they gave him electroshocks to erase his memory. I had a fine brain and did not want it ruined. I debated whether I should run away. If I went home, it was only a matter of time before they dragged me back, maybe in a straitjacket so I could not resist. I was swinging my skinny legs, wondering if I should pick up a magazine or something. There were children’s books, but I was no longer a baby.

My brother came out, a hand on his cheek, his eyes unfocused and dull. His bravado had left him. He collapsed on the chair beside me and said nothing. The knot in my stomach was too tight to unravel. Regret flooded me. I should have run while there was still time. The assistant was waiting for me, all fangs out in what passed for a smile. I put myself in God’s hands, and valiantly headed in her direction, ignoring her outstretched hand. I would not befriend the enemy, nor succumb to bribery. I would not crack under torture, nor divulge any names.

The dentist appeared. She was a petite woman with soft brown hair and a mask she had lowered to her throat, no doubt hiding some terrible deformity. The chair was way too big for me, all leather with a swiveling lamp mounted on it. I did not see any restraining belt though I was on the lookout for it. I took in the environment, sterile and threatening. They both wore tight-fitting gloves, the ones that leave no fingerprints. There was a spot of blood on the sink. My eyes could not let go of the blood. I am pretty sure I blanched. The assistant/bodyguard wiped down the sink and made the stain disappear. Leave no trace. I hardened my resolve.

The dentist told me her name was Sandy and asked for mine. I gave her a fake name, followed by fictitious rank and location. She looked at her chart and said, tentatively, “Isobel?” I nodded yes, defeated. Her assistant put something around my neck that held a paper towel under my chin. There were pictures on the wall of ugly mouths and beautiful mouths, diseased gums and healthy gums, the stuff of nightmares. She asked me if I brushed my teeth, clearly a trick question. The bodyguard loomed behind, towering over us both. I refused to answer. The dentist said she wanted to have a look at my teeth. “Open wide,” she said. I didn’t. She opened her mouth wide to show me, like I was some idiot. It was a neat trick. Monkey see, monkey do. Still, I resisted. The assistant opened wide. I was the only one in the room with her mouth closed. They still had their mouths open, gaping holes, moist and smelling of peppermint. I peered inside with interest at those large teeth. Mine were small and inoffensive. I tentatively loosened my jaw and opened my mouth. She showed me a shiny instrument with a mirror at the end and slowly introduced it in my mouth. At some point when I was not paying attention, they had both put their masks back on. The bodyguard had bushy eyebrows, I could pick her out in a lineup, if need be. My heart was beating hard. I started squirming.

Two hands clasped my shoulders. The bodyguard had moved behind the chair. The dentist was making reassuring noises while the oversized monster was holding me down. She had the strength of four gorillas and smelled the same. The dentist had taken out her instrument and my mouth closed on itself again. My teeth were safe. We were in this together. The dentist had a tray with a bunch of shiny instruments. She picked up a hook. “I will poke at your teeth to see if they are sound. I will just click them and see if they are solid. Now, open wide.” I nodded my understanding, but my jaw wouldn’t loosened. She tugged on her mask and opened her mouth. I complied.

It didn’t hurt. She gently tapped my pearly teeth, complimenting me on my great hygiene. The gorilla’s grip had loosened, and she now moved about the room, preparing other instruments, her back to me. The dentist said, “We’re almost done. Corine will brush your teeth with a rotary toothbrush. Which flavour do you want, lemon, strawberry or mint?” “Strawberry please,” I whispered. The ordeal was almost over. I had started relaxing when the whirring sound started. “Corine” was approaching with a crazed glint in her eyes. A muffled voice came from under the mask, “Open up!” I knew an order when I got one. I opened my mouth and the whirring toothbrush tickled my teeth. She went up and down and around. Saliva burst forth to taste the strawberry paste. She handed me a paper cup filled with cool water. “Rinse and spit.” I did but missed the mark. The chair was too wide, and some of the spit dribbled down the side, in a reddish liquid stain.

The gorilla took off my paper towel. It was peppered with pink toothpaste splatter. Underneath, my t-shirt was pristine. My tongue kept going over my teeth. They were smooth and polished, pleasant to the touch. Corine had me choose a toothbrush (green) and brought me back to the waiting area where John waited. He was reading a magazine distractedly. He paid and took my hand. When we were out, he asked, “How did it go?” “I bit her.” He looked at me with admiration. “Did you draw blood?” “Yep,” I said in no uncertain terms. His face was still swollen on one side, the result of a beating by the dentist no doubt. He put his hand in his pocket, looked at the coins. “Let’s go for ice cream.” We ate the cool sweetness in the silence of those who have been through hell and survived.

High Noon

Chet stopped the pickup truck in the middle of the road. The red one coming along surely was Bernie’s. Bernie idled alongside him. They lowered their windows and shook hands. They were shooting the breeze amicably when a car they didn’t know came along. It sat behind Chet. Neither Chet nor Bernie paid it any mind. The driver of the car turned off his engine and waited. They were amused. They leisurely ended the conversation and left, each pickup going its own way, resuming travel. Looking in their mirror, they saw the car hadn’t moved. Chet turned in the first dirt road he came to and sat there to observe. Bernie was doing a U-turn. He drove back and stopped his truck behind the stranger’s car. The stranger didn’t move. The proper thing to do when two vehicles visited was to wait politely for their drivers to finish their conversation. When one person stopped in the middle of the road? He didn’t know what the rule was. The stranger had been polite and shown no impatience. He hadn’t honked. Was he from those parts? Bernie didn’t recognize the car. It was one of those imported vehicles with sleek lines and tinted windows.

Curiosity had gotten him this far. He turned off the engine and walked over towards the driver’s side. The driver started the engine and inched forward as Bernie was walking towards the car. He called out “Hey, Mister!” but the car kept going, just a little faster than he did on foot. Frustrated, he retreated to his truck, started the engine and proceeded to follow. The car stopped again, unexpectedly, in the middle of the road. Bernie had seen the move coming. He passed the car and stopped in front of it. He got out of the truck, but the car passed him slowly in the empty lane. Chet was looking at the whole dance. At first, he had been laughing heartily but he was growing as frustrated as Bernie. He backed his truck to block both lanes in front. Bernie saw what he did and maneuvered the same way behind. The car was now sandwiched, both its front and rear escape routes blocked. It sat there, forlorn.

Neither Chet nor Bernie wanted to get out of the truck. It was a question of honour now. They had started this game of cat and mouse and were not about to give up. Bernie was already preparing the story he was going to tell the guys around the pool table. He couldn’t wait to see how it was going to end. Chet was the first to move. He saw the police flashing lights from afar. He had lost his license on a DUI charge and should not be on the road. But it wouldn’t be manly to back down. His indecision cost him. It was Constable Conway, who had it in for him. They stared at each other from afar. Conway’s radio was crackling under the hot summer sun. It was midday, when things get resolved. No doubt “piggy” Conway was on his way to lunch. Maybe his stomach would urge him on. Chet moved his truck aside to let the cruiser through. Conway rolled down his window. “Got your license back?” “I’m not driving. Just waiting for my cousin to come back and move the truck. Thought I’d listen to the radio.” Conway narrowed his eyes. He motioned to the car with his chin. “Dunno,” answered Chet. And then, “I hope my cousin’s coming back soon. My stomach’s growling like a dog seen his shadow.”

The fat man opined and rolled his window up. Beads formed on his forehead, a crown of thorns miraculously appearing during the exchange. He wiped his face and turned the air conditioning up a notch then drove over to the car. You could tell he was wary of the tinted windows. Conway spoke to the dispatcher over the radio then extracted himself from the police cruiser. Hands hooked on his belt, badge in evidence, he walked over to the car. The window did not slide down. He rapped on it and tried to peer through it but saw only his own reflection, his mirrored sunglasses repeating his likeness to infinity. Conway shifted his weight from one foot to the next. He cleared his throat and looked at Chet. Chet was watching using the oversized side mirror, non-committal. He avoided eye contact. The constable made a big show of taking down the license plate and proceeded back to his car. The mystery car purred alive and slowly started rolling. Conway hurried to the cruiser and put the flashers on, tailgating the offender. The two pickups followed in a slow procession, large soul-expanding western music blasting out of Chet’s truck. He loved western movies, and his heart was dialed into “High Noon.”

The car with the tinted windows cruised at low speed, the pursuit reminiscent of O.J.’s. They were too intent to realize the absurdity of the situation. At last, they made it to their destination. The lead car stopped in front of the emergency entrance of the hospital. Staff in white erupted from the large doors pushing a wheelchair. The car door opened slowly. An elderly Asian man faltered out. He waved weakly at Conway and was wheeled away. Conway, quick as a whip, followed them inside mumbling “We were escorting him.” The businessman was treated for heatstroke and Conway hailed as a hero. Mr Chen had been expected earlier but presumably got lost, turning at the wrong field, rows of corn mocking him until he got dizzy and lost. He did not know to turn on the air conditioning, his body clad in a black suit did not register the intense heat, did not know the sweet release of perspiration, the coolness of the wind.