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Most good stories are of a normal man doing extraordinary things or of a less than normal man doing normal things. My story is neither of these. I am a somewhat normal man with a normal story. Read it if you like and join me in my mediocrity.
“Jack!” My sister's shrill voice is less than beautiful. Her features are more than beautiful and betray the world into thinking that she is someone worth knowing and loving; I know better.
“Jack!” Her falsely tanned skin speeds around the corner of the hall into my office. Why did I ever agree to let her stay with me?
“Why don’t you ever answer me when I call for you?” I can think of a million reasons including the facts that she wouldn’t listen and that the apartment is small enough that she could find me in two seconds without yelling at me, but the main reason is that I just don’t care. Her painted eyes glare at my face and I can wait to hear what she is going to complain to me about this time.
She glares for a moment longer, making sure that she has my
attention. “Jack,” her voice has lowered
a half a decibel. “What did you do to my
dog?” She’s angry and the smirk that
crosses my mouth only heightens her suspicions.
“Jack, I’m going to ask one more time.”
I cut her off, mostly because it pisses her off. “Here,” I say handing her a brochure for a
kennel. She glances at it and pulls fake
tears while dramatically crumpling the brochure through her freshly manicured
fingers. I secretly hope that one of her
precious nails will break; it doesn’t.
“I hate you!” This is not the first time these words have
crossed her beautiful pouty lips in reference to me. She leaves the office in a fury knocking down
and crashing everything in her path.
This is a bad move on her part because she forgets that all these
decorations are hers, my apartment was bare before her latest breakup and thus her need
to move into my apartment. Her words and
actions never faze me, most people’s don’t.
To most people this makes me seem aloof, bitter and cynical; again, I
don’t care.
I return to my work at the computer. I’m a consultant for the police department. I get to judge people without having to actually know or meet them. I’m given testimonies and confessions for all kinds of cases and I analyze the facts putting things together. I suppose I am a sort of detective without ever having to leave my apartment and this suits me. At this point in my life things are going, well, about as well as anyone else’s. I just lost the only woman I ever loved to a tall, dark, handsome, and emotionally-available man. My dog has gone blind and pretty much deaf since then. And the next door neighbor still believes he knows the perfect girl for me—his beautiful and brainless half sister who is convinced that I am her Romeo. If I hear another line of ill-recited Shakespeare proceed from those cherry red lips I will swear off this life altogether and hope to be nothing more than a fly in the next. But I have a good job that I enjoy and it is my one comfort in life. It keeps me on my toes and solving. I am a problem solver, so my shrink tells me, and not a lover which is why it would never have worked with Arabella. On top of that there’s Lydia, who you’ve met.
Lydia is the youngest of the Davis crew and so feels entitled to anything and everything she could ever hope to possess, which shouldn’t be a shock to you at this point. Her little episode just now is the way she functions on a minute to minute basis. However, she is not the most dramatic of my sisters, of which I have five, total. The other four are all older than I am. I was the long-hoped-for son and Lydia was the “surprise.” The most dramatic is sister number three. Fortunately, she is married to husband number three and complains to my sisters and parents more than myself because I don’t react the way she desires. I haven’t talked to her in three years. I would give their names, but I usually refer to them by numbers, it’s easier that way. For example, my third sister’s third husband would simply be “3.3”.
As a boy growing up in an estrogen-filled suburban home, I remained quiet and secretive. I often played the prince in the latest play that they would put on; that is, after they fought over who would be the princess and who would be the witch. It usually turned out to be number one who was the princess, like this surprises anyone. If we weren’t in a fairy land, we were creating a music video. They wanted to form some sort of family band. I sucked at singing on purpose. I didn’t want to be in a band; I still don’t want to be in a band. As punishment I was forced behind the video camera. I hated it at first, mostly because I desired so strongly to be by myself. But I learned that it was easier to give in and abide the camera rather than argue. At least the attention was taken off of me then. It was behind that camera that I learned how to read people and their actions. I’m thankful for that if for nothing else.
In the midst of my videographing, I failed to fulfill my father’s wishes for an athlete. I hated sports of every kind; I still hate sports of every kind. Except maybe shuffle board. I look forward to growing old and living in a nursing home with other old people and doing whatever the hell I want without care. I’ll wear plaid shorts with a polka-dotted shirt and white socks with bright orange sandals. I would wear that stuff now, but it would draw too much attention at my age and if you haven’t picked it up already, I don’t like to be noticed.
Anyway, it was that observation of people that brought me to where I am today. I’m still not real sure how it happened. Everything just kind of came together and now I get to look at people without having them look at me and I’m content, if not slightly happy.
Brrrinnnnnggggg. I’m one of the few people who actually picks the ring for a ringtone on my phone. Midas, my dog, stirs a little at my feet. I make a point of never answering on the first ring, because no one is that important. Shit, my boss. He’s a short balding fellow with rosy cheeks and sunspots. We have a mutual hatred for each other. We tolerate each other because we understand the value of the other in the work that we do. He lets me do what I want and my work ethic and expertise makes him look good. Because of my work he has gotten numerous raises and a dozen accolades. I don’t care that he gets them and I don’t, as long as I can keep working at home and stay away from him as much as possible. The fact that he is calling means something bad for me. I make him wait one more ring. Midas gets annoyed, so I answer for his sake alone
“Yo.” I’m not normally so infomal but I know it’ll piss him off. I smile to myself because I can already envision the vein on his forehead turning red and growing every nanosecond.
“Milk Dud you, Jack! Where is my report on the O’Malley crime?” I should also point out that my boss has an extremely foul mouth and in an effort to avoid getting upset by this, I replace his choice words with candy and so entertain myself through every conversation with him.
“You know I sent that to you yesterday.” I remain cool, again, because it pisses him off. I don’t ever curse at him and it makes him quite furious. I count it as a victory every time he curses at me and I answer coolly, thanks to the candy. That’s one for me.
“What the Smarties? That wimpy piece of SweetTarts that said nothing about anything important. You’ve got to be kidding me you little Reeses.”
“You know, it has everything it needed to have and you have plenty to make him the bad guy. Now is there something you wanted beyond insulting perfectly fine work?” Two for me.
“Listen you little Snickers. I’m so close to firing your sorry Milky Way for Runts work.” He says this every time we talk on the phone; if he didn’t say it I would question whether or not I was actually talking to him and not some spy. “I’m sending a big case about a mass murder in Miami, somebody told some lie about you being the best in the business and I can’t imagine why in Mike and Ike they think that could be true because we know better. But they asked for you and only you. That information should be available in your inbox in the next minute. Don’t York this up, Davis or both our heads will roll.”
“I’ve got it.” Three for me.
“One more thing you’re going to Miami tomorrow. This one won’t work by staying home you sorry-Twix lazy excuse for something that looks like a Kit-Katting detective. You’re ticket information is attached. Now don’t give me any Butterfinger.” 3 Musketeers! That’s one for him. I hate traveling. Why in the world would I be asked to go to Miami? I live in Portland. I like Portland it’s cloudy most of the year. I can hide under layers of clothes. Plus it’s the middle of the summer and everyone knows Florida is dreadful in the middle of the summer and I have a severe aversion to sweating.
Fortunately, he hung up the phone before I could lose any more points to him and so I’ve won the battle of the phone call, but he has won the battle of the trip. Today he’s come out on top, Twizzlers.
The information I receive concerns a drug ring in Miami. To be honest most of the crap I usually deal with is more like murder. I’ve had a few cases where I’ve looked at meth production in Portland and how that’s affected things, but I’m fully aware that things in Miami are going to be drastically different than things here. In Portland the motto is “Keep Portland weird” and it’s not hard to see why and that the task is really very simple. Miami is all about the party and the beach and the wealth. This mindset is foreign to me. They might as well be sending me to the middle of Africa where they speak a completely different language and no one really expects me to be able to communicate. In Miami, I’m guessing they anticipate that I’ll be able to perform as well as I do here. I’m comfortable here and I get the people and the culture. I don’t get Miami. I’ve never cared about Miami. As far as I’m concerned Florida could sink into the ocean and disappear forever and I would be perfectly ok with that.
Anyway, there was a murder of a younger guy, about 28. It seems his family has been pretty involved in their own sort of little Hispanic mafia. I think we should just let them kill each other and maybe eventually they’ll all die off.
Gordon, really? This guy’s name is Gordon Gutierrez? I begin looking through the information concerning him and his arrest record, which is long and tedious. Most of the time he’s picked up on the possession of drugs, never enough to cover the intent to sell. What’s more interesting is that most of the time he was tested for the drugs and never tested positive for using them. There is one exception: he was 19 and was picked up with a 17 year old girl, apparently his girlfriend. This picture shows a strong young man who still has control of himself. The level of drugs in his system is low. He has strength in his body and his face, but his eyes show a softness which is not obvious in anything else I’ve seen of him so far. He loves the girl he was with and obviously did not plan on getting her into trouble with him.
Her name is Rebecca Hall. She is the daughter of a golf club owner in the richest part of metropolitan Miami. She looks angry and sad in her eyes. Something has caused her pain which is where Gordon must have come in and given her the remedy she was looking for, some drugs and most likely sex. I look into her some more and find that she committed suicide at twenty-one. Gordon attended the funeral. The black and white picture is blurred and grainy, but his stature has hunched around his shoulders. An even more clear indication of his love. (I would descend into an analysis of love, both good and bad, but I’m still too close to my own heartbreak to try, so I move on).
Gordon has been under surveillance for a long time, because he always seems to know how to avoid the wrong places and the wrong times. Plus he knows how to be around the stuff and avoid the temptation to actually use it. Any smart drug dealer knows that this is the key to be successful in the business. That way you don’t waste assets and you definitely avoid charges that you don’t need to carry. As I look through hundreds of candid photos, it seems that he doesn’t even smoke cigarettes. This is a man with a cool and calm exterior. He has control of himself at all times, the one time he was caught with the girl he must have lost control briefly to use but as soon as he was caught he gained control of himself again. I look at the first shot of him again. He looks as if he has taken a silent vow to never let this girl get into trouble again. He loves her and that is evident. Her love for him is not so evident.
I go back through some pictures to look for her. She’s never at any of the places where he gets arrested. There are less than a dozen photos of her and only when they are out eating or leaving his house. Every time the two of them are together, he has the same look of protection and love. He keeps her close and if she is more than five feet away his gaze is not away from her. Her look becomes softer towards him as the photos progress. His closeness and gaze are returned by her and she smiles the most enchanting smile. He only smile is a reaction to hers.
The pictures span the time from when they are arrested for two years and then there is a long break. The pictures of him among his posse are fewer and she is nowhere to be found. Then a year later there is a young boy, no more than a year old in the picture. He is obviously their baby together. Gordon has passion and fear in his eyes, with more control and resolve than he has ever had to this point. It’s the only picture of the boy until he is shot on his second birthday in front of Gordon. I see the crime photos. Those are the worst pictures you’ll ever see, the ones of a dead child, especially one that has been shot. It was concluded that it was done by the rivalry between a couple of drug families in the region which was at the height of a war at the time. Rebecca committed suicide the next day. Gordon never smiles again after this and isn’t put out of his misery until now. I’m almost relieved for him.
At first assumption, it appears as if he is a part of a house cleaning for the family business. A few others have turned up in the past month. Maybe somebody has been skimming from the top or releasing information. I guess this is where my job comes in. I wish I knew more about this girl. She could have probably told us more information than anybody else. But she probably would have been killed if she hadn't killed herself.
I can see his attraction to her. She is short and curvy. Not large, but not these sticks you see in all of the ads. I don’t know why those toothpicks are perceived as beautiful in the mainstream. Any guy who is being completely honest wants a girl with some meat to her. She needs to have boobs and a butt. That’s all I’m going to say about that part of this subject. Rebecca is curvy and has a short haircut that’s dyed black throughout her time with Gordon. Her real color is a light brown. Her face is round with small features. When she smiles it seems like her whole body smiles with it.
One picture in particular has caught my attention. They are walking down the road from a coffee house, at least that’s what the attached note says. Their arms are wrapped around each others’ waists. His fingers are gripped around her waist in a familiar way, like that is the place where his hand was always meant to be. Their strides are in sync with each other. He is at least a foot taller than her and built like a football player. His muscles still show through his loose-fitting shirt and jeans. Her free hand rests on his stomach. He apparently has just made her laugh, because she looks up at him with green eyes which are laughing and lost in the squint of that laughter. Her curves are slightly hugged by jeans and a tank top with big flowers printed on it. Her hair is down and sweeping around her face. He is smiling too, of course. His crow’s feet are not as deeply embedded as hers are, but he does have them. His free hand is in his pocket. Their faces are turned towards each other and this is the only photo where I can see that his guards have been released from their duties, at least for this instant. They are lost in each other and I am lost between them.
Just in case you’re wondering, he is never seen with another girl after this. A few hookers are present here and there but always in a group of people and he is never touching any of them, even if they are touching him. His eyes become vacant after her death and he turns into a business-driven soul. This may not be apparent to everyone who looks at this, but when you’ve analyzed as much as I have, it becomes easy to read eyes and body language. She was his soul and she is gone now. He is gone too. I don’t know what I believe about afterlife, if there is one or what it might look like if there is. I try not to give it much thought. I’ve always been the kind of guy who thinks about today and tomorrow will happen when it happens. Death will happen when it happens and I don’t necessarily need to know what it looks like; I won’t be able to affect it anyway.
“Jack!” It’s the shrill again. I get distracted from the computer long enough to notice that the sun has gone down and I should probably pack because my flight is leaving at six A.M. this coming morning.
“Jack!” There it is again. How do I shut this thing up? “What are you doing?” She asks this like I’m going to answer with something other than a sarcastic remark.
“Creating a logarithm to solve world hunger with puppies.”
“Jack, you will never ever make any sense to me. Anyway, you know what happened just now on my way back from the gym?” No and I don’t care. “Justin” (her latest meal ticket) “called me and he was begging me to come back to him.” My prayers have been answered? “And you know what I said?” Yes please, let it be yes! “I said hell no, penny pincher. I wouldn’t come back to you for all the diamonds in the world.” That’s right, she dumped him because he wouldn’t buy her the diamond bracelet she wanted for their two month anniversary, Skittles him. “and then I hung up on him. Oh don’t worry, he’ll call again.” I don’t worry, not about her.
She leaves in the same flighty way in which she came. Her phone rings as she walks down the hall and all I hear about is the size that the diamonds would have to be for her to even think about it. Poor Justin, I guess he deserves what he buys.
I need to wander next door to see if my neighbor, the one with the sister, will watch Midas while I’m gone. I certainly don’t trust Lydia, who will probably be back at her ex-boyfriend’s by sunrise complete with matching jewelry. Then to pack and to bed.
