Текст книги "Houston, 2030: With Proper Legwork"
Автор книги: Майк Мак-Кай
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Houston, 2030: With Proper Legwork.
Mike McKay
Text copyright © Mike McKay 2013-2014
Cover illustration copyright © Mike McKay 2014
Smashwords Edition License Notes
The right of Mike McKay to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Some scenes contain strong language, drug references, and violence. They may not be appropriate for younger readers.
Katherine Bowen, Records Clerk, Former Mermaid.
Sorting papers in the comfy Police office surely beats sorting garbage at the sun-scorched, stinky Landfill. But on Friday afternoon even the office work can drive you absolute nuts. My cell phone just threw another digit at the screen: ‘4:42’. Eighteen minutes of suffering to go.
I pull yet another old incident report from the pile and read through the header. Perhaps, Deputy Tan should take some handwriting classes. This wonderful Calligraphy Club, in the Chinamerican slums! Besides the Chinese writing, they teach English letters to immigrants. Can they also teach some English letters to the natives, why not?
OK, what do we have? Another night disturbance: neighbors complained. Wild youngsters had their wild party before going to the Army, nothing special. The address, jotted in Tan's terrible shorthand, is practically unreadable. I contemplate if this report can wait till Monday. Perhaps, I can call it a day and have a little walk? A puff of Grass will be nice too. Let's play the USS Enterprise a little. Scotty, damage assessment, if you would?
Damage assessment, aye-aye! My brave starship engineer scrutinizes his control panels and flips few switches. All systems nominal, Capt'n. The left foot reported no faults today. Although, for the last two hours… Our Boredom Shields have been running at one hundred and eight percent of the recommended maximum. I must inform you they are presently red-hot. This jury-rigging won't last for long, ma'am. Shut 'em off, Scotty. The last thing I want is an explosion. Aye, ma'am, shutting off. Thank you, Scotty. But keep 'em on stand-by. Likely, we have to repel yet another attack.
Suddenly, the Beat door opens. A Chinamerican, in his mid-twenties, totally out of breath. He puffs and coughs, holding on the door frame. Sweat is dripping from his face onto his camo T-shirt and cut-below-knee pants. His flip-flops are not on his feet but under his arm. He was running, top speed, and for considerable distance, at least a mile. No, that will be one mile and a half. Most Chinamericans live on the south side. His 'flops have traces of white chalk. Must be Patch-5, then. Only Patch-5 has this white stuff around. And what do we have in the left hand? Ouch, there is something which looks like… like a blood-soaked rag.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Yeah… Yeah, officer,” he replies, gasping for oxygen. Hot and sticky evening air does not help at all.
“What happened?” I don't lift my butt out of the chair. Getting out of my comfy office chair for visitors? For me, too much trouble.
“My father,” he steps into the Beat office, and now I see that within that blood-soaked rag there is a weapon: a long quarter-inch Phillips screw driver – converted into a deadly stiletto. A gut-driver, that's what the Houston gangs call those. I suppress the urge to reach into my bag and grab the knife. For few seconds, I wish I have a gun. Being in one room with a disturbed man holding a bloodied gut-driver is not very comfortable.
“Your father…”
“My father,” he recovers his breath a little and now he can talk, “My father – is dead, ma'am.”
Oops! Exactly what you want on Friday evening. Now you may open those Boredom Shields, Scotty. Do the proper maintenance. We won't need this equipment for long while.
“At your residence, sir?”
“Yes. In our shack.”
“Your address?”
He mumbles the address. Indeed, the south-east side, Patch-5, about one and a half mile away. I have guessed it right! My face shows no emotions (I hope), but within I am smiling. I love to guess it right.
“What's your name, sir?”
“Chen Dong Cheng. You may call me Victor Chen. If you prefer an American name.”
Sure he must be ‘Victor’. I understand a word or two in Mandarin. ‘Dong Cheng’ is for ‘Oriental Winner’. Or ‘Victorious East’, whichever suits you more.
“And your father's name, Mister Chen?”
“Chen Te-Sheng.”
I run my finger over a cheat-sheet. As many other inexperienced Police officers, I have the radio codes list taped to the desk surface. Ah, the heck with it. The codes are irrelevant. Besides, they keep telling us to drop this traditional code talk. Even the radio comms are encrypted, and I am using a cell phone.
“GRS-Three, proceed,” the phone replies. The operator's identification number simultaneously pops up at the little screen. Another oops!
“Good afternoon, Dispatch One-Niner. Bowen here, from the Beat office. I have a reported stubbing. Potential homicide.”
“Oh, that's you, Katy, my dear! Got it: reported stubbing, one fatality, suspected homicide,” the Dispatch operator motherly tones are almost embarrassing. I have talked to her only on the phone, have never seen her face, and don't even know her real name. I imagine Dispatch One-Niner to be an old African-American lady, your typical Granny from the old Looney Tunes, only with dark skin. Just the opposite, the granny has seen my face many times and knows that I am an Afro. Every time a Police-issued cell phone reaches Dispatch, the caller's photo automatically pops up at the operator's screen. In my case, this must be my personnel file photo, from the Navy. Perhaps, the Dispatch Granny is happy to look after her little Afro grand-niece, so cute and neat in that Navy Dress Uniform. What if she knows, I suddenly realize.
I tell the operator the names and the address, trying to be neither indifferent nor too welcoming. The right code suddenly jumps into my mind: AMA – Asian Male, Adult.
“OK, sweetie. The Chinamerican Patch-Five,” the One-Niner confirms, “I will 10-5 your Station, 10-18. Do you want me to text GRS-One and GRS-Two?”
I glance at my code table. 10-5 is for ‘relay to,’ 10-18 is for ‘urgent’.
“GRS-Two, please. Could you text Tan to ride straight to the address? I will 10-21 GRS-One myself.” Ten-twenty-one-GRS-One. Police poetry. When you don't need them, the damn codes pop up by themselves: 10-21 is for ‘phone call.’ Why don't we use the normal language? Just say: ‘I call Kim myself.’ The comms are secure, and even if not – we are talking nothing confidential. Hey, we are in the Twenty-First damn Century, and the year is 2030, and not 1950!
“Perfect. And pass my regards to your dear husband, sweetie. Oh, he is such a nice boy! 10-3.” The phone clicks off.
Sweetie! Nice boy! Four months ago, I had some hopes: apparently, the Koreans don't change surnames in marriage. But the phone operators knew of our wedding instantly. So difficult to keep your personal life away from the Dispatch! But still, do they know, or not? The standard personnel form surely has to say something about my Purple Heart…
The Chinaman has recovered his breath and returned the 'flops to his feet. Now the man looks deflated. His adrenaline rush is over.
“OK, sir. That thing in your hand?”
“I picked it from the floor. The rag too.”
“All right. Just put it on that coffee table, nice and easy, and step back.”
Perhaps, I should have asked him to do this before calling the Dispatch. How stupid of me. Well, anyway. He obeys sheepishly, placing the gut-driver on the glass table top. Then, he steps back, makes a move to wipe his hands with the bloodied rag, hesitates, and suddenly drops the rag onto the table as if it's a poisonous spider.
“Would you like some water?” I ask.
“Please.”
“Help yourself,” I point to the jug and glasses at the other desk, “this one is from the well and boiled. Safe.”
The jug beak rattles against the glass. The man empties the glass with a single gulp and then pours water again.
“Excellent. Now take a seat.”
“Thank you, ma'am.” He seats, barely touching the chair.
“Why did you run to the Beat, anyway? You should have called 911 instead.”
“We've got no phones. In our place the reception is crappy.”
Understatement, I think. Since the last hurricane, in the Chinamerican Patches Four and Five the reception has been not just ‘crappy’, but simply non-existent.
“You could knock on any door in the China-Patch Three and ask somebody to call Police for you,” while saying so, I look into my phone and touch my husband's number from the frequent calls list. Instead of the prescribed Sheriff star, the screen pops up a face of the Looney Tunes Wile E Coyote, with three little pink hearts circling above his head. Kim is very good at hacking the Police-issued phones.
“I don't know, ma'am. I just didn't think of it.”
He is right. Once you start running, your hormones kick in, and you can't think clearly. Back in March, I was a bit like this myself. Now, after my Cruise, I am way more philosophical.
“Hi, Road Runner,” the phone says in Kim's voice, “I am almost there. Seven minutes, max. Decided what to buy for a present?”
“The present has to wait, unfortunately. Tan is on his way to China-Patch Five. Happy bloody birthday, Deputy,” I reply.
“Ouch! What happened?”
“Stubbing. Possible homicide. Mister Victor Chen is with me at the Beat.”
“I'll be right there…” he sounds exceptionally worried. Well, he is always worried about his little wife. As if I can't defend myself.
Three minutes later the door rattles and my dear Deputy Kim storms in, ready to establish Order through Law and dispense Justice with Mercy[1]. Or without. Whichever is available today? He stops on his tracks observing the peaceful Beat settings. I am not under attack, after all.
“Wile E Coyote, reporting on-duty, ma'am,” he says, hopelessly trying to hide that he has been pedaling his bike like mad.
“OK, Mister Coyote. For starters, please collect the weapon,” I reach to the lower drawer and pass my husband two evidence bags. The Chinaman makes a double-take at Kim, probably imagining some American Indian heritage. Deputy Coyote. Surely, he has expected an Amerasian surname. Although, in the Houston slums one never knows: the ethnic boundaries are shuttered, and my happy marriage is just one example.
Kim points at the coffee table: “these?”
“Yep. Please be careful: it's a bio-hazard. Besides, there is still slim hope for prints.”
I don't really need to tell him that. He has been in the Police way longer than I. Kim carefully maneuvers the evidence in, and now the gut-driver and the rag are secured.
“Mister Chen, please tell us briefly what you saw,” I inquire meanwhile.
“Came home as usual. Friday is a short day. My father is on the bed. Blood… And this – on the floor,” he makes a weak motion towards the evidence bags in Kim's hand.”
“You said: as usual. What time was it?”
“Four-fifteen, approximately. I work at the 'tronics repair. The second Friday of the month – it's my turn. To take an early off. At half past three.” His phrases are short, but he speaks perfect English. If Kim pays attention, he can do the same posh British accent – the remnants of his few years in a private school.
Interesting, which particular China our Chinaman is from? By the sound of it, he is not from the Mainland, and probably not from Hong Kong. And not a Russian Chinese from Siberia either – those are typically taller and speak with strange R-s and H-es. Taiwanese roots? Right! He pronounces his surname as ‘Chen’. If he was from Hong Kong, he would say ‘Chan’. Although, he can be also a Malaysian or Singaporean Chinese. Well, but the Singaporeans say ‘Tan’ instead of ‘Chan’. No, it's not true either. The Singaporeans also have ‘Chen’, but it's a totally different hieroglyph. Inconclusive. Well-developed cheek bones… My dear Watson, that's a stereotype. Oh, but he says he is an electronics repairman. Let see. All the nails cut short. The Singaporean Chinese often leave long nail at the pinky. The skin on both index fingers is not burnt. Uses tweezers and a board holder? This suggests a Taiwamerican or Japamerican-run repair shop. They are so professional and neat – with a fancy special tool for everything. Looking at the man's 'flops, they are old, but not beaten-up. He has no bike. Dropping one at home to run for over a mile? Hard to imagine. So his shop is not very far from his home… A Malaysian Chinese, working in a Taiwanese shop? Not improbable, but unlikely.
“Are you Taiwamerican, Mister Chen?” I suddenly ask.
Darn! I have to learn not to pop my conclusions like this.
“Yes, we came from Taiwan. But – how did you know?”
Oops! I am right again! Behind the Taiwamerican's back, my husband nods and smiles. By now, he is well-accustomed to my ‘Sherlock Holmes deductions.’ Sometimes later, he will surely beg me to explain him the trick. But not now. I have learned quite well not to disclose the full logic chain in front of the strangers. Nobody likes if a girl can see right through you, especially if this girl is from Police.
“Oh, it was a lucky guess, Mister Chen. Based on your accent, nothing special. One friend of mine, he has the same. And he's from Taiwan. Or – from Hong Kong? Not sure.”
The man nods. Now he is sure the Police Afro girl has no idea about the Chinese. Phew!
“Should we take a written statement here or let the Station guys do it?” Kim asks.
“I think you'd better take Mister Chen to his shack and wait for the Station guys,” I reply, “it's a mile and a half walk. You will be there probably at the same time as the Emergency Response.”
“And you are not coming with us, Deputy?” the Taiwamerican looks at me. Do I want to go? Sure! But I firmly belong to the office-only category. What do I suppose to do? Pull out my machine gun? Dispense Lawful Order and Merciful Justice in speedy 7.62-millimeter servings?
“I am not a Deputy, Mister Chen: a mere Records Clerk, plus a Beat secretary of sorts.”
“Clerk? But… Your uniform?”
“This is the Navy uniform. Second-hand, if you are wondering.”
I reach with my right hand to the desk corner and push my office chair sideways. The tired chair wheels make squeaking noise on the floor tiles. The chair rolls into the narrow passage between the desks. Watch this, Mr. Taiwamerican! The man's lower jaw drops, but his eyes open three times their natural size. Excellent facelift, almost like in Japanese Manga. Sadly, the effect cannot be preserved for long, or I can make heaps of money as a plastic surgeon. With those who don't know, I achieve such effect almost every time. Since my Cruise, there is almost nothing below by buttocks, so the body ends flush with the seat surface. I smile to Mr Chen apologetically: and you thought I didn't stand up from my chair because I am so rude?
The man manages a rubber smile and a shy nod, accepting my silent apology. He looks straight at me, surely surprised, but not disgusted. Not a bad reaction. If only everybody react like this! The majority starts mumbling stupid comments and excuses. Poor thing. So bad. Sorry, I didn't realize I was talking to a cripple. Hey, I have no legs, but I am not a cripple! And sometimes – even worse. They look through you, as if you don't exist. Frankly, I prefer if people ask right away why I have no legs. But the quiet understanding nod is also great. The United States are at war, shit happens. The girl is a legless veteran, so what? Being legless is not a piece of cake, but not the freaking end-of-life, by any means.
“Let's go, Mister Chen,” Kim interrupts the silence. By the way, he is one of those few: brave enough to ask me about my missing legs right away. And after he received a direct answer, he accepted me for a whole person.
“Sure, Deputy,” Mr Chen says. Then turns to me: “Have a nice evening, Ma'am.”
I nod back and smile again. What a stupid idea – making show of myself. ‘Are you Taiwamerican, Mister Chen?’, followed by my chair-riding, eye-opening demonstration. He lost his Dad! Even if he himself killed the old man, still must show some mercy.
***
I return my chair to the proper position behind the desk (the wheels complain again) and try to read through Tan's report scribble. No, today I can't concentrate any longer. Besides, the clock shows 4:59, my day is over. I'd rather slither home. The old report returns to its native pile.
I switch off the Police-issued tablet and lock it in the desk drawer. The cell phone goes into my bag. I am ready to go. Squeezing the desktop with my left hand, I lean forward and extend my right arm towards the designated landing zone. In the hospital, they called this trick ‘chair to floor transfer for short above-knee amputees’. It's a controlled fall of sorts. This world is not designed for girls, who are halved to the butt and now stand only thirty-two inches tall (or rather thirty-two inches short?) But I am almost used to it. My abandoned office chair rolls to the wall, sadly squeaking with its wheels. Don't cry, buddy. I will be back on Monday. From under the desk I extract my trusty transportation kit: a pair of fingerless leather gloves, an oversized skateboard and two wooden blocks.
Next to the entrance door a cracked plastic label on the wall reads: ‘SAVE THE PLANET. Switch off air-condition, lights, and computer screens before leaving.’ Of course, there is nothing to switch off in the Beat office now, except for the tablet. There has been no AC and no computer screens for many years, and the only lights we have are solar-charged lanterns and emergency flash-lights. But our Sergeant likes this label for some reason and does not allow us to peel it off. This time, the useless label reminds me of something I have forgotten. Leaving my bag, gloves, and wooden blocks at the door, I push the skate with bare hands. The floor in our Beat is exemplary clean. One of the things I do here besides sorting papers and calling the Dispatch once in a while. I approach the coffee table, reach into the storage compartment under it and pull out my Wonder-weapons: a spray bottle and a rag. Thirty seconds later, the glass surface is shiny. Viruses and bacteria from the bloodied gut-driver are on the way to their Microbiological Heaven. Or their Microbiological Hell, depending on the bio-hazard level. I roll to the desk and wipe the water jug. Pull a plastic sink from under the desk and wash the used glass. All shipshape. Now the Beat will survive without me through the weekend.
Outside, the steaming-hot September day slowly turns itself into pleasantly-warm evening. I lock the Beat door and zip the key into the bag pocket. On the way back, my hand automatically reaches inside the main compartment for my very special tobacco box. The voyage will be long. Over one-mile long (back in March I would call it ‘one-mile short’). Well, after the Cruise, for one-mile long voyages I make careful preparations. First of all – load the mandatory ammo. Surface-to-air missile, code name To-Ma-Gochi. ‘Ma’ is for ‘marijuana’ and ‘To’ is for ‘tobacco’. Wonder-blend, three-to-one. Since 2023, it's completely legal in Texas. Even the Police officers may use one occasionally, but not while on-duty and only for medicinal purposes. About me, the Police brass can't say a word: phantom pain, sir! Once in a while, my absent left foot makes me jumping on the absent right.
Besides the tobacco box, my bag holds a lighter: the military macho type, handicraft version of Zippo. The nickel-plated body has an engraving: a naughty mermaid. The creature sits not on your usual sea rocks, but on the pile of ammo boxes. As any self-respecting mermaid, she does not care for a bikini top, but has her Navy cap and holds her favorite weapon. Exactly my choice in the goddamn Venezuela: the M240D machine gun with turret mount, nine hundred and fifty Freedom-and-Democracy servings per minute. Below the ammo boxes, the ship name is stenciled: ‘Piranha-122’. Our Piranha is gone. Out of seven naughty mermaids on-board, only three are alive. Including this one, who lost her tail, and now has to ride home on her skate, pushing the dirt with her wooden blocks.
Talking of which… I pull the fingerless gloves over my hands.
“Hey Kate! Targeting home? Want a ride?”
A cargo tricycle stops in front of the Beat. Two young men look like our neighbors from the Koreamerican Patch-3. To my shame, I have no idea about their names. But they know mine. Well, on the West side of the GRS, many people know the Police by our first names, and in my present legless state refusing the ride is simply impolite.
“Sure. If this half-girl is not too heavy for your trike.”
“Hey, you call yourself heavy? I can throw you in with two fingers!” One of the boys replies, readily getting off the cargo platform.
“Don't help, bro. I'll manage.”
They surely don't teach this in the military hospitals: ‘skateboard to cargo tricycle transfer for short above-knee amputees’. Slide from the skate to concrete. Throw the skate, the blocks and the bag to the cargo platform. Right hand on the platform railings, left hand on the front wheel. Sharp push with both arms. A little flip in the air. Bang! And I am inside! Not too bad: have not caught much dirt and even my To-Ma-Gochi is intact. Well, the dirt – the boys have plenty. On the platform, there are bent bicycle wheels, rusty frames, sprockets, chains and other such stuff. Returning from the Landfill, what else.
“Nice jump,” the second man says, pushing the pedals.
“Experience, bro. You must see how I deal with toilet seats. Are you coming from the 'Fill?” I throw my magic tobacco box to the first man. We all know the Slum Rule: if you share the ride, you must share the smoke.
“Sure thing.” The trike's top speed is around three miles per hour. On the concrete path, I can go way faster. But, why complain? Besides, the concrete path will be over at some point, and pushing the skate on dirt is not too easy.
“Good catch today?” I puff my ‘medicinal’ cigarette.
“Excellent. A freshly discovered bike grave! Nice parts, all pre-Meltdown. Those frames – see? Japanese steel. They are the best.”
The cell phone from my bag interrupts our relaxing mood with the Police call tone. As always: as soon as you settle with a lazy chat and a smoke, you get an urgent call! The phone screen shows the standard Sheriff's star icon and the caller ID: ‘GRS-2’.
I press the green button. “Hey Tan.”
“Kate? What's the freaking address, again?”
“What address?”
“The stubbing. I got an SMS from the Dispatch. Came to the address – there is nothing!”
“What do you mean: nothing?”
“Nothing means: nothing. Well, almost nothing. Several tiny spots on the floor, like dried blood, that's all.”
“But… The body?” I extinguish the half-finished cigarette.
“The body! There is no freaking body! Whatsoever.”
“Wait a sec, Tan. Did you read the SMS right?”
“Just repeat me the goddamn address.”
I repeat the address.
“Positively. I was at the right place.”
“And what place are you now?”
“In the Chinamerican-Three. I did a little loop, just to be sure. Then, got on my bike and went to give you a call. In the Patch-Five the phones don't work, as you may know.”
Oops! I have screwed up again. I imagine how the Homicide guys arrive to the address, just to have a good laughter. Kate Bowen! That legless Beat girl! Dead-bored with her papers, right? Well, here is free entertainment for you: call the real policemen to catch a ghost!
“Are you one hundred percent sure?” I ask. As if Tan suddenly laughs and says: oh, here it is! The body is behind the cupboard, I just didn't see it.
“One hundred and ten. Unless it's a wrong address.”
“What do I do? Call the Dispatch and cancel the Homicide Emergency Response?”
“Too bloody late, partner. They are on the way, for sure.”
“OK, fine. Sorry that I wasted your birthday. Will try Kim now.” I disconnect the call and turn to the trike driver, “Can you stop here, bro? It looks like I don't need a ride anymore.”
“Problems?” The first man throws me the tobacco box. At least, he has managed to roll himself a smoke.
“‘Problems’ is a bloody understatement. That's what I call the perfect Friday the thirteenth. Fire in the hole?” I click my macho lighter. “Thanks for the ride, boys.”
The men leave me at the road and depart on their trike. I dial Kim's phone. ‘You have dialed the Harris County Police number. Currently the phone is switched off or in the area with service temporary unavailable. For transfer to an operator, press one or hold the line. To leave a message, press two.’ Surely, Kim and Chen are already at the place in which the cell phone coverage is ‘temporary unavailable’. In the Houston slums, ‘temporary’ often means that nobody cares to fix it for months.
What if there has been no stubbing? An elaborate prank? But what for? Why would one pull a prank on the local Police? The Taiwamerican looked genuine enough: out of breath, scared, upset, shaken. Then, his adrenaline rush was over, and he looked deflated. To act like this, you got to be a movie star with few personal Oscars on the shelf. Well, we have no more Hollywood and no more Oscar, only the old movies from twenty-something years ago plus few remaining TV soap operas. But what about the gut-driver and the bloodied rag? By the way, what did they use in the real movies if they wanted to show blood? Tan insists it's pig blood, but I think it must be some food dye.
What do I do? Call the Dispatch and ask for the Operator One-Niner? I imagine how the Looney Tunes Granny, only with dark skin, says: ‘No worries, sweetie. I will make you a good excuse – right away. Everyone can make a little mistake, dear.’ Then she will disconnect my call, chuckle, and make some plausible coded diversion for the Station. Her little Afro grand-niece has screwed up and needs some help!
No, I will not ask to cancel. I must believe my eyes and my head. The gut-driver is real. The blood is real. The shaking hands are real. And if the old man is still alive, and somehow managed to get away or call for help, – hey, he still has his quarter-inch hole! If the quarter-inch hole is not an emergency, what is the emergency? Of course, for a stubbing without a dead body – the Homicide Unit is excessive. The standing orders are to call a case investigator from the Station. The investigating officer can ride a bike. Horses are not cars. Horses cannot go to every stupid little case. People can, but horses – cannot. I try to call Kim once more. ‘You have dialed the Harris County Police number. Currently the phone…’
But really. Why do I panic? So, I overreacted. The Homicide Unit had to harness a horse. Let's call it a practice run. The horse cart instead of the emergency response truck is a recent brilliant idea of our Station Chief. Diesel fuel is too expensive, he says. No more cars, except for some real emergency. As the result, the Station now has two nice horses, a source of endless jokes and horse shit. Unfortunately, very few Police officers know how to harness these fine animals to carts. Even if you served in the mounted police, they don't teach officers much about carts and wagons. OK, gentlemen, so shut up and practice. Myself, I can withstand a joke or two. My personal space engineer Scotty will jury-rig some Stale Joke Deflector or Who Gives a Damn Blaster.
They can't kick me out of the Police. I am not a Deputy, just a Records Clerk. My position is a low pay, low responsibility plug-that-hole-role. The Garret Road Slum vast area and dense population require at least three deputies, but the budget can only support two and a half officer's salaries. I came handy, so the Personnel conjured this: a half-time records clerk position for a Navy veteran girl, halved by the war. The fact that I am not a whole girl, but just a half, can be conveniently established by direct observation. Or you can check me with a measuring tape, if you prefer not to trust your eyes. The half-time multiplied by the half-person multiplied by the girl-factor equates less than one-fifth of the full deputy's salary. Think all the delightful budget savings!
Well, I am not necessary a black sheep (despite my skin color, no offense). At the Personnel, I was told: ‘This position is perfectly suitable for a disabled vet. You will do fine, no problems.’ No problems, aye-aye! All my life I have been doing exactly this: trying to do fine and have no problems under the most adverse circumstances. In my twenty-one years of age, I have achieved something many people can't do in a lifetime.
When I was ten, I decided to read all the books in our school library. They had quite a few – one hundred and forty-nine different titles. Half of the books were total crap, but I was lucky to discover the Sherlock Holmes stories – still my favorite after eleven years. Believe it or not, I read all the books! The library lady nearly went bananas. In Detroit, the ten-year-olds didn't read books. No, I wasn't a wonder-child. In the high school, my marks were all solid ‘C’. But strictly – no ‘D’! I struggled with my Math. I hated English Literature. Romeo and Juliet were OK, but for Prince Hamlet – this sadistic Shakespeare deserved a slow death through torture; what a shame they let him die on his own. The English teacher finally gave me my ‘C’ for ‘non-standard approach to classics’. I cheated my way around the History teacher. She had problems with her mental math and miscalculated the number of my test attempts. But, I have to repeat this proudly: I graduated from the high school! I was the only Afro at the grad ceremony, along with fifty (mostly white) boys. In Michigan, few Afro girls even bother to start the high school nowadays, and even white girls can be counted by fingers of one hand. And, you may call me a shameless liar, but it's true: through the entire school, I managed not to get pregnant (as all the other girls in my class did one-by-one, before leaving the school for good) and not to become a drug junkie (as my older brother did, with all the logical outcomes).
