Day 7: Reasons by Elizabeth Lowry

 

Colby enlisted, which is a crazy to me, but he says he can make more money in the military and get more action quicker and that’s okay, it’s his life.

The Academy isn’t easy, but it’s no worse than Basic. It’s all based on breaking you down then building you back up again, or at least that’s the plan. Some guys break easy and are gone in half a minute. Others break like they want you to and swallow everything they’re given and become good little recruits. Then there are a few who act like they’ve been broken, but really have such a strong core they just absorb the abuse and learn the regulations and come out as people who know when to follow the rules and when not.

Me, I got called Jew Boy so often growing up and so often in the Army that by the time I got to the Academy you might as well have called me Sue Boy. (I always liked that song.)

They called him Pretty Boy and Pretty Mouth and what did he do with that mouth and homo and Nazi Boy and whatever they thought would break him down and show him to be weak and a pussy and a sissy boy.

They wouldn’t have said all that if they’d seen his wife. They don’t come much more stunning than that.

Or more bitchy.

He just took whatever anyone doled out. Core of steel. He was going to be a police officer and no one was going to stop him.

You could feel proud of a partner like that.

And then there were the showers.

I guess guys are just programmed to compare.

Who’s taller. Who’s stronger. Who’s faster. Who’s bigger.

He’s bigger.

A lot bigger.

It was funny at first. Everyone is the showers gawking and staring and trying to hide their own shortcomings.

I didn’t care.

I was thicker anyway.

Anyway, that’s what set off Stempler. Or at least I think it was. Stempler just couldn’t leave it alone, he had to make a big deal about the monstrosity among us. Every time. And when we weren’t in the showers he had to make a big deal about how could he fit in his uniform and did his wife need surgery to fuck him and what a blonde barracuda he was and did he use that thing to ram it up asses or did he take it up the ass himself.

It was tiring. After a while I was ready to break a few teeth in that shit-spewing mouth of his.

Not him.

He just ignored it or nodded and walked away or even laughed.

Which made Stempler even madder.

Toward the end it got easier. Heading toward the end of anything makes it easier.

Or sadder, sometimes. Some things you don’t want to end.

Everyone just started to ignore Stempler. Which wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to a A Number One Tough Guy who every one paid attention to and did whatever he told them to.

So toward the end It happened in the showers. Just me, Stempler and him, using up the hot water that was left.

Stempler couldn’t get a rise out of him with his anaconda remarks, so he tried me.

Jew Boy. Roundhead. Captain Helmet.

He had so many slang terms I started laughing.

Camel’s back straw, or whatever. Laughing was the wrong response.

Stempler starts toward me with the water flying.

He takes a step toward Stempler and gives him one quick shot to the kidney.

Stempler goes down.

He nods his head like “let’s get out of here” and we take off for the locker room and get dressed and go have a beer.

No one, and by that I mean Stempler, said anything after that and that’s

A reason.

It was an old wino that tipped us off.

He saw the perp lift a girl out of his car trunk and carry her into this building. And he went back into the bar he’d just come out of and actually made the call to the police. We count on citizens to report criminal behavior and suspicious actions like that. More citizens should drop a dime on dodgy conduct. Most of them won’t, though. They don’t care. They don’t want to get involved.

Or they’re scared. Lots of scared people out there.

So out goes an All Cars.

My car is the third to get there. There’s a sergeant there who’s telling us to stay put and wait until we know what the situation is and all that crap. I say “crap” because I’ve been told I say “shit” too much. “Shit” this and “shit” that. It’s a word. It works. Save the “shit” words for when you really want to make yourself heard, he says. People won’t expect it, and they’ll stop and listen.

I say shit to that.

But maybe I do say it too much.

Anyway the sarge says stay and I look at him standing behind the sergeant and I can tell he’s thinking “what are we waiting for” so I kind of edge over to where he’s standing and we both look at each other and then we edge over to the corner of the building and take off to the back.

Back door’s open because the back door is always open in buildings like these. Someone’s always jimmied the door so they can get in whenever they want. He says all whispery “what is that smell” and I look at him like “what do you mean what is that smell it’s the dumpster that has a month’s worth of garbage and dead cats and puke and other shit in it.”

So we enter the building and start looking for the shit who thinks he can carry a girl into a building and do whatever the shit he wants with her. Building seems empty, at least no one’s coming out of the apartments and demanding to know what’s going on and there’s no little kids in dirty diapers with snotty noses wandering the halls.

“Listen,” he says. So I listen. We’re stalking the halls and climbing the stairs as quietly as we can and listening and then we hear it: Throaty moaning sounds like someone has a sock in their mouth and is not happy it’s there.

We ease out way around the door the moans seem to be coming from. We took our guns out before we even entered the building. We know how to use weapons. Lots of experience on both our sides, although he targeted animals and I… well, I didn’t.

Or maybe I did. I don’t know.

So he’s on one side of the door and I’m on the other. He’s got his gun pointed at the ceiling and mine is down toward the floor.

He looks at me and I nod.

“Police!” he yells. “Come out with your hands up!”

I always thought that was stupid to yell. Okay, you have to give warning and all that, but no one comes out with their hands up unless they are a first-time felon and don’t know any better.

We don’t hear anything from the apartment, and we both know time is not on our side, so he nods and I put myself in front of the door and give it a massive smash with the bottom of my foot and the door just crashes in and rebounds and he is inside pointing his gun and I am right beside him pointing my gun and there’s the girl on the yellowest mattress I’ve ever seen and the pervert perp standing over her with a knife and he yells “Drop It!” and the perp just kinds of stares at us and does exactly the wrong thing and takes a step toward us with the knife in his hand pointed at us and we both take a shot and the guy just crumbles.

And he moves toward the body and kicks away the knife and feels for a neck pulse and nods “he’s dead” and holsters his weapon.

And I keep my gun out a little longer and move around the body to make sure. We’re not supposed to pronounce, but we know when someone’s dead or not.

And he is on the mattress and stroking the girl’s hair and trying to untie her ankles.

I crouch and help him with her ankles. She’s just shaking, not making any noise at all.

“Get the others,” he says softly, working at her wrist ropes.

I nod.

As I’m leaving the room he’s pulled the girl to his chest and removing her gag and stroking her hair and telling her it’s all over and she’s going to be okay and his voice is so soft and so gentle and so tender and he’s wrapped her in his arms and protecting her and rocking her and that’s

A reason.

A grey chaise lounge.

Firm back and seat that had a little give to it.

I put a 500 thread count sheet over it.

The back could be totally straight, but I tilted it just a little bit so I could lean back but still be upright and stable.

It was just narrow enough I could open my legs and and my knees would just hit the edges while my feet still touch the floor.

I needed to be stable and balanced.

Because he was going to sit between my legs, lean his back against my chest, and let me pleasure him.

We were both naked, of course. He’s lost some weight. I’d put on a little. Neither of us getting enough work-related exercise for a while now. PT would help him. Him getting better would help me.

He sat and inched back into me, his butt cheeks sandwiching my cock.

He wasn’t ready for full on, ass-pounding, body flipping, chest-thumping, cock ramming sex. But we could still make a few shakes and shivers without causing any damage.

His head rested on my shoulder, soft curls against my chin and cheek. Warm back fitted against my smooth chest. His hands grabbed my forearms.

I put my left arm under his left arm pit and around his chest. Held him tightly against me, bracing him, making sure he didn’t go anywhere I didn’t want him to.

My right hand reached down and captured his cock. It was hot and swelling and alive as I gently squeezed it. Held it in my hand and slid from the base to the head, again and again. I could feel it throb in my palm, stirring, expanding, lengthening… a proxy for life and love and commitment and leaving old ways behind.

I used my thumb to rub and trace, my fingers to squeeze and pull, until all he could do was moan and gasp and grunt.

I held him tighter in my arm, my hand rubbing up and down his chest, ignoring the scars.

His cheeks would squeeze together and he would bear down and put pressure and weight on my demanding cock. It was if he was trying to create no space between us, press himself into me, push himself inside me.

I pumped harder on his cock, a slide, a squeeze, a rub, a tug.

He bore down on my cock, breathing heavily and groaning as I pleasured his.

He came first, warm and wet in my hand. His body shivering, lungs gasping, squeezing my forearms where he’d bruised them before.

I came moments later, lifting my hips into his ass cheeks, holding him down on my cock. My breathing was quick and shallow, my body skimmed by heat and cold and prickles of adrenalin.

We both relaxed, then, him sinking into me, me sinking into the chaise. Murmured words of affection and devotion and love. And that’s

A reason.

I take my wallet from my back pocket, open it, and pull out a well-worn, well-folded, 8-1/2” by 11” piece of paper.

“Nine,” I read. “He’s had nine concussions.”

The doctor looks at me, then at him.

“Nine?” repeats the doctor.

“Nine,” I nod confidently.

“What else is on that piece of paper?” the nurse asks.

I look at him, and he nods imperceptibly. Imperceptible except to me, of course.

I look back at the paper.

“Two broken legs. Or one leg broken two times.” I squint at my writing.

“Shot in the chest. Once. Stabbed in the arm. Once.

“Non-consensually drugged. Beat up. Both multiple times.

“Botulism. Plague.”

“Plague?” the doctor and nurse say in unison.

“Pneumonic,” he answers.

There was a full minute of silence. “How many hand injuries?” the doctor finally asks.

“Three. Or four, counting this one.”

The nurse, who was holding his hand in hers, looks down at this fourth injury. “And when you tried to catch this, you over-rotated, fell backwards, and hit your head on the floor.”

“Pretty much,” he says.

“But no loss of consciousness?”

“No,” we both answer. I frown at him.

“I can answer for myself,” he says.

I shrug. I carefully fold up the paper, insert it back in my wallet, and slide it back in my pocket.

“No stars, no headache, no nausea, no double vision, no funny smells…?”

“Except for him,” I answer.

He gives me that look.

“Any muscle pain, you landed on a part of your body and it hurts, something feels wrong, anything like that?”

“My hand hurts,” he says.

The nurse squeezes his hurt hand hard. She doesn’t think he’s funny. She’d read us the riot act when she’d figured out it was a Jart poking through his hand and we’d been throwing it at each other inside the house.

The doctor nods contemplatively, then makes a decision. “We’re just going to pull it out.”

“Told you,” he says. “I could have done that.”

“No you couldn’t.” I look away from him.

“I could have. A bottle of alcohol, some gauze, my strong left arm….”

“Well,” the doctor moves around and takes his hand from the nurse, “that’s pretty much what we’re going to do here. Nurse? Alcohol! Gauze! Stat!” He’s trying to be funny. He’s not. “And then we’ll do a tetanus shot.”

The nurse sterilizes his hand, then takes hold of his wrist. The doctor holds his hand, grabs the offending implement, and pulls.

I look at him and he looks at me and I gasp and the metal object comes out and it hurts him as much as it hurts me and that’s

A reason.

I like it on the beach on a weekday morning when no tourists are there and there are just a few regulars and you can be alone or as alone as you can be on Venice Beach.

I am alone.

I have thought about this moment. Wondered when it would come, if it would come, maybe it would be reversed, maybe it would come at the same time… but truly believing it would never actually come.

Human beings are good at ignoring the inevitable.

The women had never quite worked out. The relationship would peter out, or just never get started. It was fun while it lasted. It’s not you, it’s me. I can’t be the wife of a cop. It’s him or me.

Or one of them would die and there were only what could have beens.

We were in our early ‘40s when we realized things were actually pretty good and maybe we didn’t need anyone but each other to be content and happy. We’d fooled around before then, but after that incident we felt more of a commitment.

So we committed.

He found a house that had spent a good part of its life being rented out to students and it had six bedrooms (believe it or not, and four bathrooms), and a pool! and the landlord was ready to sell and get out of the rental business.

He bought it.

You’re thinking, how did he do that when the market was just beginning to get crazy and real estate was heading for the sky? Well, remember that house “we” bought? The house that just sat there and I forgot about, the house just costing “us” property taxes which he paid religiously. Well, one day a big company decided they wanted to put up a parking garage right there. And because he couldn’t quite make up his mind the company thought he was negotiating and kept upping their offer.

That’s how he afforded the house.

All those bedrooms, he could have a craft room and I could have an indoor-garden and a music room and we could have a guest room and a pool! for exercise and other fun and we kept the lawn manicured and our cars washed (or he washed the cars while I mowed) and had backyard barbecues and got to know the neighbors and became The Two Cops Who Lived Down The Lane.

And he became a Captain and I became an ADA and our friends were our family and my Family was Us. A lifetime of saving lives and living love and if you’d told me this is where I’d be in my old age I would have looked at you like you were The Thing With Two Heads. (He loved that movie. The worse the movie the more he loved it. And the more I loved him.)

People sometimes looked at us funny and called us names and made threats but the more they threatened the stronger we became, because we were one unit because he was Magnet and I was Steel. Or the other way around when we needed. Didn’t matter.

There were arguments and bickering and hurt feelings and out and out fights, but somehow we always came back to each other. Actually, it wasn’t somehow, it was purposeful and directed and just too damn lonely to be without him. We were fated. Destined. Meant to be.

Actually, no.

We chose.

We used to joke about who would go first. Me, of course.

I lost the bet.

He might have been shot more, but I had the internal ailments that had weakened my immune system. And you can’t always see the age thing that comes at you. At him. All you can do is hope when it happens you can live with it.

I don’t want to, but I am. Living with it. Lots of memories. Lots of family support. Lots of tears.

Lots of great sex.

That makes me smile even while the tears come. The sex wasn’t love, but it expressed our love for and with each other. You would not believe the furniture we broke expressing our love. The pool! chairs. The kitchen table. And let’s not even bring up the experiment with the water bed.

I like walking on the beach. It gives me time to remember and reminisce and give in to those salty tears he liked to kiss away.

And if I believe really hard, I believe he’s waiting for me.

And that’s

A reason.

Lawn darts (also known as Javelin darts, Jarts, lawn jarts, or yard darts) is a lawn game for two players or teams. A lawn dart set usually includes four large darts and two targets. The game play and objective are similar to those of both horseshoes and darts. The darts are typically 12 inches in length with a weighted metal or plastic tip on one end and three plastic fins on a rod at the other end. The darts are intended to be tossed underhand toward a horizontal ground target, where the weighted end hits first and sticks into the ground. The target is typically a plastic ring, and landing anywhere within the ring scores a point.

Starting in the late twentieth century, the safety of metal-tipped lawn darts was called into question in several countries. After thousands of injuries and at least three children’s deaths were attributed to lawn darts, the sharp-pointed darts were banned for sale in the United States and Canada. They are still legal in the European Union.