APOLOGY TO A DRUG DEALER
by
Aaron Acitella
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PUBLISHED BY:
APOLOGY TO A DRUG DEALER
Copyright © 2011 by Aaron Acitella
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APOLOGY TO A DRUG DEALER
The worst thing anyone ever said to patrolman Tony Brock was good job. Those words came from his partner, George Butterfield as they stood over the ditch. The body, slumped on its side in a v-shape, had its arms outstretched as if reaching for something. This was Tony’s work. A small hole in the right side of the head and a larger exit wound on the other. Good job means you did something well. A task completed with skill or merit. But to Tony, this wasn’t a job worthy of praise.
He got him out of the car. No one’s gonna miss this prick.
He forced him to his knees. Fucking piece of shit.
And he executed him. So long, asshole.
Oh, one more thing. He planted the gun. Sorry for you luck. Justice is sometimes swift.
That’s what he remembers doing anyway. He didn’t dream or imagine it. He did it. He really did it. Fuck. The smell of cordite was fresh in his nostrils, and he knew his service revolver, which now had a round missing, would soon be confiscated along with his badge. The shot rang out in his head when his mind replayed the scene, trying to decide if it had been real or if his stupor had manufactured memories. He’d had a lot to drink, even for him.
“It’s a clean shoot. What’re you so fuckin freaked about?” his partner said.
“It was a traffic stop.”
“So?”
“A traffic stop turns into… this? I fucking shot him George. Christ I barely remember doing it.”
George dismissed it. “I don’t care, clean shoot. You got nothing to worry about. I’m not worried, why should you be?”
“You didn’t shoot him.”
“I would’ve though.” Butterfield shined his flashlight on the victim. “That banger drew on you. Punk-ass gangbangin… gangbanger.”
George had been working on his street jargon ever since he’d put in for an undercover detail. But the words didn’t sound right coming from him and never would. He didn’t have the ear for it. He over enunciated. And his face was too clean, his eyes to bright.
“You didn’t even see it.” Tony said.
George raised a plump digit. “One second, one lousy second I turn my head Tony. Or I woulda saw it. But no worries man, I’m behind ya. We’ll get the story straight.”
Tony lit a cigarette and walked away.
His Lieutenant arrived shortly and stood at the top of the ditch as the coroner’s van approached. He gingerly shuffled down the muddy incline and surveyed Tony’s victim, the big blue and white stripped knit cap, the zip lock bag full of vials, and a nearby pistol.
“Tell Brock to stay put, his rep’s on his way.” The lieutenant called from the ditch. He could plainly see a crime had been committed.
Although his job as a police officer was Tony’s primary line of work, he moonlighted as a card carrying, fully functioning, liver stomping, alcoholic. And the bottle of bourbon he drank that night, half of it, before the shooting—along with a six-pack; and the other half at home when he was finally alone, was the last one he’d ever have. He swore that would be true. But it wasn’t.
And that was the last night he’d spend as an officer sworn to uphold. What eventually did him in, with the force at least, was his BAC, and not his bullshit story with too many pieces missing. It wasn’t even close to a clean shoot.
And the only thing that saved him from a long hard prison sentence, was the man he executed - Meadowlark Chapman. His 11 priors, along with some conflicting accounts of witnesses that were a half a block away and across the street, convinced a jury of his peers (his peers, not Chapman’s) that he should serve no time.
And Chapman? he in fact had no peers when it came to cruelty, sadism, and psychotic behavior. Somewhat of a treasure to behold he was. Everything from simple assault, to petty theft, to possession of methamphetamine with intent to distribute. But his crowning achievement had come at 19, he’d used the axle of a mini-bike to beat 13 year old senseless; to this day the boy couldn't walk or see out of his left eye, and for what, for making out with Chapman’s 15 year old girlfriend.
It was that last bit that helped Tony the most in defense.
Sure, there were newspaper stories, and some small protests. But Fulton was just too small of a town to get the ball rolling. As hard as the national media tried, the story of the crime died a premature death and was soon replaced by some other case of police “misconduct” elsewhere.
So Tony was fortunate in that regard, he was permitted to leave the force and move on with his life, most of it spent with a bottle and a glass in front of him. What’re you so freaked about? Gangbangin… gangbanger drew on you.
In the twelve months that passed, he had trouble sleeping. He finally bought a sleep machine. The kind that made ocean sounds supposed to help you wind down and finally find restful sleep, where dreams would visit.
One night, the one-year anniversary of the crime to be exact, he dreamt of a beach, and the ocean, and the waves. The endless, methodical, soft bursts of white noise. Maybe it was the machine.
Tony stood on the beach. And he saw children, boys and girls, all standing shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the waves. This is a dream, right? I’m dreaming… yes.
He was standing behind the children when he saw one boy drop to the sand. First to his knees, then face down. The edge of a wave skimmed up the beach and took hold of the boy, it rotated him in the sand. His limbs limp and submissive. Then another wave took a tighter hold of him and dragged him down closer to the sea. Until a third wave crashed and the sand could hold him no more. And the water pulled him under the surf.
Then another boy dropped, and a wave took him. And another wave, and another. He disappeared as well.
He could see the children washing into the sea one by one. But he couldn’t break through the line. Each time a boy fell, a new boy came from the sand dunes behind them. The new boy would fill the empty spot before he could reach it.
He looked back at the dunes, and he could see a lifeguard stand. A funny, giant chair with a big blue and white striped umbrella that shrouded a man from the blazing sun. The man in the chair was Meadowlark Chapman. He had a whistle in his mouth, and sunscreen on his nose. And he had a big blue and white striped knit hat with a tiny brim. He was older than Tony remembered, wrinkled, and graying at his temples.
When Tony looked closer, the whistle became a pipe, a giant long pipe. A crack pipe. Tony felt a weak sickness in his chest as he labored each breath, perhaps it was the thick air laden with salt and moisture that clogged his lungs. He decided to approach the chair. He wanted to do it quickly, but his feet were heavy and slow in the sand.
When he finally made it to the chair, he saw Chapman was sitting with his legs crossed, stirring a pot. The giant pipe at his side was so big it reached down to the sand. Tony scaled the pipe and stood on the arm of the big chair. He looked down at Chapman as the sunscreen on his nose turned to powder and dropped into the pot.
“It tickens grayveez and sauces.” Chapman said in heavy accent that Tony recognized but couldn’t quite place.
The ocean was loud Tony thought… dreamt rather. He struggled to understand Chapman’s words over the roar of surf and wind. It thickens gravys and sauces, what the fuck does that mean?
Tony watched him stir the pot.
“Dees, lads.. dey troubled.” Chapman said, waving the spoon out at the line of children on the beach.
“Uh, huh.” Tony said. “And you’re the one that’s troubling
them.”
“Mmm, tink so eh??”
“I know so.”
“You here for de trip?”
“I’m here to put an end to all this.. an end to you.”
“Dat right?” Chapman stirred the pot more.
Tony’s lips pursed as he squinted in each direction down the beach. Through salty sweat and tears and the blur of the marine layer he could see more lifeguard chairs. He looked up at the blazing sun. God it’s hot.
As the fog began to lift. For miles down the beach, as far as his eyes could take him, he saw more children. Lined up at the shoreline, eroding into the sea. And behind the children, every so often, one of the lifeguard chairs with an identical blue and white umbrella.
He saw a jetty stretching out into the ocean, with his son standing at the end - but I don’t have son. His name was Cole. His legs straddled two giant black rocks as he looked down at the frothing surf.
“I’m looking for a starfish Daddy!” he called out in a distant voice, tiny and scarcely audible.
“Cole, no. Be careful!” Tony shouted back. I don’t have a son named Cole. I don’t have a son. A giant boat with a big blue and white sail approached the jetty.
Tony looked back down to see he now held the big beach umbrella in his hands. He closed the umbrella, and lifted it over his head. He looked down again at Chapman.
“Found one!” Tony heard a call from the jetty. He looked back up and saw Cole delicately hold a starfish to his heart.
“New sheriff in town!” he heard Cole yell. “See Daddy, I’m a policeman like you!” I don’t have a damn son yet!
Then Cole shaped his hands into pistols and spun and drew on the ship. Through the gusts, Tony thought he heard Cole making pow pow pow sounds, and laughing.
He saw the white of the waves breaking in long thin lines up and down the beach and the deep azure sections of ocean between.
“I said, you here for de trip?” Chapman tapped Tony’s leg with the spoon.
Chapman looked up at the umbrella Tony held, but it was now a rifle.
“Ooohh, I see now. I’m wit ya now.” Chapman said looking up at the gun.
“I’m sorry for what happened. What I did to you.” Tony said. “I was sick… I still am sick.”
“Maybe you waz unda the influence of somethin eh?”
Tony tried to respond, but the words burrowed into the back of his throat refusing to be coaxed forward.
“Anyways..” Chapman continued as he looked out at the sea. “lotta people sick. But ya’s amongst de livin, idn’t ya?” He flashed a wide grin, bearing brilliant white teeth.
“Feel no sorrow for me ma frien. Back den? in da ditch? You do what ya gotta do.”
Tony considered that while tears and wind and sweat clouded his view of the children and the life guard chairs up and down the beach.
“But der is one ting ya gotta do for me. Or, do for yourself maybe.”
Tony was waking. He struggled to see the dream’s end. He didn’t know why but needed to know what this pied piper of sorrow had to say.
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“Do de math ma frien.” Chapman said. “Ya jus gotta do de math.”
Tony peered into the chamber of the rifle, and saw there was only a single round. He held the gun at his waist and took shallow breaths of thick, humid beach air. He looked back down the beach, and could see a solitary figure in each chair. Sitting cross legged, stirring their own pot and minding their own row of children.
Chapman took off the blue and white hat he was wearing, and Tony lowered the gun toward him. He pointed the gun at his head, But there was already a hole. The hole was so big he could see through it. He put the barrel of the rifle through the hole and watched it come out the other side.
And it frustrated him, but he understood.
Then Tony woke. He was drenched in sweat. And the children, and the beach, and Chapman faded from reality. But the rifle. He was still clutching the rifle.
He took one last look at the children in his mind, and he wept for a long long time.
And after a while, Tony was thankful for his dreams, which helped him reconcile that which he could not on his own, in his waking life. he raised the rifle barrel to his mouth and squeezed, and heard the infinitely brief roar of the last moment of his life as the spirit of Meadowlark Chapman basked in the gloaming of another fine day’s work.
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