I’m standing in front of apartment 245 in sweatpants and a plaid jacket – a whole ass ‘fit with the socks and the Crocs. I dropped by the deli ‘cause when the 1AM munchies hit, my go-to’s always the PB&J. And when I say I go all Rain Man on that shit, I mean it. Shit’s gotta be By. The. Book. We don’t sub ingredients in this family, I don’t do it, Dex don’t do it, ‘cause that ain’t how I raised him. Not that there’s room for substitution in a PB&J sandwich, anyway. You take out the PB or the J and it ain’t PB&J no more, now, is it.
…Where was I again?
Right. So I’m standing in front of apartment 245, my free hand jamming various keys into the keyhole. I even give my car keys a try, ‘cause you never know.
After a dozen failed attempts, I let my hands slap my thighs in frustration, plastic bag rustling. I throw my head back with a sigh: Come oooon, man.

Well, shit. Looks like I’mma need to let myself in.

I walk across the corridor to apartment 254, ‘cause I still keep my old pick and tension wrench in there. Hey – you never know when you gon’ be in dire need of a tension wrench. A tension wrench situation could present itself anytime. Like when you’re so blazed you gotta lockpick your way into your own apartment.
I take my Crocs off at the door, treading lightly across the floorboards, careful not to wake Dex in the other room. I fetch the pick and the wrench from the kitchen, then tiptoe back to my Crocs, then close the door and make my way back over to my apartment.
I set the plastic bag by the doormat and crunch over, squinting inside the keyhole. It’s not like I can see which pins to push by doing so, but it doesn’t hurt to try. I insert the wrench to make way for the pin, then push it inside, feeling the outline.
And pushing it inside. And feeling the outline. And pushing it inside…

So, picking all seven pins inside the lock normally takes me – used to take me – ten minutes, give or take.
Now... I got zero clue how long I been standing out here. Coulda been a minute, an hour, a whole ass millenia. Beats me. I keep forgetting the pins I already solved, meaning I need to start over as soon as I make an inkling of progress.
Then, out of nowhere, I hear that good old click, and for a hot second there, I think I cracked the fucking Da Vinci Code.

My sense of accomplishment flies out the window when I straighten up, though. Not gonna lie, my neighbor-cop, cop-neighbor might be the last thing I expected to find inside this treasure chest.
“Duuuude…,” I squint at my man Cam, blinking at sloth speed. “Why you in my apartment, bro…?”
I mean, I’m all for reunions and shit, like, my guy’s welcome at my place anytime, but like, he shoulda at least, like, knocked. I woulda let him in if I… If…
…Wooooah. Hol’ up.
If this is my apartment… Then where d… Then why the fuck…
Mouth ajar and speechless, my hand – the one holding the pick – motions in the direction I came from, trynna aid my brain in processing this shit. Then I turn back to him, eyes widening in realization.
A slow, deadpan “Shiiiiiit…” is all I can assemble at first. I run my palm across my forehead, a thousand-mile stare fixed at the doormat.
Holy shit I’m tripping balls. I ain’t even baked at this point, I’m caramelized.
“Sawrry, bro... Wrong door, I guess,” I drawl lazily, scratching the back of my head, unsure. “We still good though, right? Like, you ain’t finna arrest me or some shit.”
I look down at my plastic bag on the ground and I think “Well, I hope he likes PB&J”. ‘Cause that’s how folks work, right? Either they do or I been spending too much time alone with Dex. We’re kind of the same guy: give us a snack and we all good again, no hard feels.
“I come in peace, though. I brought, uh…” I bend over and lift my plastic bag, spreading two fingers to hold it open as I dig inside, presenting each item for full disclosure. “Peanut butter… Concord Jelly… Uh, toast… Two cans Bud Light… And that’s that. No black tar or nothin’, I just got hungry is all. N... Not because I’m high, though.”
I blink at him with bloodshot eyes, thinking, “Fuck yeah. He’ll never suspect.”

I splash another handful of water onto my face and hover over the sink for a little bit, enjoying the rush of coolness, the way a few drops feel heavy, before reaching over to the box on the wall and tearing off a few sheets of paper towels. I haven’t had panic attacks in… God knows how long. Technically, I did not have one now, either; I felt the warning signs, the rising pressure in my chest and the trickle of cold sweat on my neck, the way my vision starts to get focused and removed myself from the situation. The restaurant my date chose was a small one, I’m sure they described it as ‘homely’ and ‘family-owned’. Which is fine – up until it starts to overfill with people, and the aircon stops working. It probably wouldn’t have happened if my anxiety levels weren’t through the roof already. The girl I had this date with was a friend of my friend’s fiancée. They have been trying to set us up for a while, saying how I would get on with her and we would be so good together, and we could go on all these double dates…
At this point I’m not even sure I wanted to meet up with her for my own sake. So yeah, I knew it had to go well – disappointment was not an option.
Que: me rushing to the bathroom in a bigger hurry than after you’ve had gas station sushi.
I’ve obviously made a fool of myself, but I mean… They had to tell her that would happen, right? That’s the one thing I would tell anyone about myself: I’m horrible under personal pressure. All those advertisements about jobs that make you go above and beyond, face challenges and require extreme pressure tolerance?
Yeah, well, that ain’t me.
If they talked half as much about me to her as they did about her to me, she should have been anticipating that. So I should have no problem waltzing back out, offer an apologetic smile and continue on. It’s hard, but I do that – she’s nice. Her name’s Aaliyah, she’s 27, she works PR for a female and black-owned beauty company and wants to have a dog names Buddy. She also was very pretty, had a cute smile and laughed at a baseball joke I made so it seemed like it was going well. She also made quick work of my initial awkwardness, so it seemed like it was going well.
That’s why I was very surprised when after the night was over and I asked if she wanted to meet up sometime again, she turned me down
“It’s not your fault,” she says, putting a hand on my forearm with an apologetic smile. “You seem really, really nice. I had a good time, really.”
“Yeah, I… Sure, I get it,” I nod along. It feels like a fist to the stomach but sure, I get it. I get it all the time. “Can I just… Ask, what changed your mind…? For future reference, you know.”
“Well, while you went out I checked your astrochart?” My what the hell now. She pulls her mouth to the side in a compassionate grimace. “And you’re, like… A Libra? And I have been REALLY burned by Libras in the past, and I just don’t think I’m ready for that kind of burden, you know? I just feel like it’s better if we call it quits now. But you’re really are a nice guy!”
Too bad I’m a LiBrA.
So when I get home and finally throw my keys to the bowl next to the door, full with pizza money coins, it’s an understatement that I’m not in the best mood.
Maybe I should just give up. That’s an option, right? Someone has to die alone, after all. Especially if you dared to be born under the wrong constellation it seemed.
Other times after a bad day, I would hit up the gym that’s run by the PD, it’s only a couple blocks down, it’s run-down and shitty but open 24/7, and right next to a deli that has great falafel. Now, I just feel… Drained. I’ve had my fair share of break ups and rejections, some were justified – sometimes there’s simply no spark –, some were just… Well, a dumpster fire to begin with. Some really hurt. But this? I feel like that’s the moment where sad should turn into comical. Instead, I feel empty.
So here I am, 28, sitting in my shitty apartment with the water damage still staining one corner of the living room, sipping a bottle of beer at the kitchen table with only one light on. And then I hear that noise coming from the front door. I’ve watched enough thrillers growing up to have a healthy fear inside of me, and responded to enough burglaries to make my childhood fears have solid foundation. My apartments in the past have been broken into a few times; after a while, it just becomes this thing that happens and you either get used to it or get out.
It has never happened when I was at home though.
When the constant movement on the doorknob goes on for a few moments, I move towards the bedroom; I keep my personal firearm, a small caliber Beretta in a locked safe there. On another thought though, I change my mind and silently close the door. Burglars aren’t one for confrontation. Maybe I should just yell out.
And then I start to make sense of the mumbling on the other side and for a brief moment I wish I would have taken up that recruiter guy on the contract extension at Fort Carson, down in Colorado. With any luck, I’d have gotten some minor injury resulting in a medical discharge and I could be doing security or something – anything that wouldn’t have led me here tonight.
I sit back to the table with a heavy sigh and get my beer back up. It’s almost amusing, watching the struggle on the other side of the door. Not worse than anything on TV right now, that’s for sure. So after all, when Rick almost falls into my apartment with that faraway look.
“Good night to you, too, Rick”, I raise my glass at him before taking another sip. I’ll let him figure it out. It’s not like I should be cautious with him. He’s another type, one I often feel sorry for almost as much as I’m angry at him. He has choices, he has options, he just… Keeps going for the wrong one. It’s almost as if he’s doing that on purpose.
Aaaaand there it is. It makes me smile, though my face is turned towards the half-shadowed living room.
“Not if you close the door…? I don’t want a draft here.” It’s also just less intrusive but we may be past that threshold anyway. Giving him a quick check, he looks… Fine. He’s obviously high as fuck, but at this point that’s just his baseline, isn’t it? And he’s usually miserable unless his on at least a little bit of something.
“Yeeeah, we fine,” I bob my head down with a heavy sigh. Even if I was on duty, I wouldn’t do shit about him. If he arrested everyone we have a right to, we’d be doing nothing else but run around Bushwick with junkies and homeless crazy people like a weird Uber. He doesn’t need to know that though. “I’m suuuure it was an honest mistake.”
That went on for minutes.
I have no idea what he’s on about with his bag but I let him ramble on while I get up with my now empty bottle, put it in the recycling bin under the sink and then go behind him to close the door; not before taking a quick look at the lock – it seems fine.
“Yeah, I can see that”, I cock my eyebrow at him as I stare at his blown pupils and slowly focusing gaze. At least one of us is having a good night, right? “Getting high ain’t a crime anymore though. Remember?”
I do. He told me, the day the law passed. Pretty sure he was crying but that might have been a reaction to some freshly legalized, under 3 ounces worth of marijuana.
“ Sit your ass down and eat your sandwich,” I nod towards the table and go on to click on the kitchen light too. I could usher him out of the apartment but at this state he might just go and try to break into another apartment. See if they have any sugar they could spare or something.
I walk up to the fridge and get another beer out, twisting the cap off with the opener on the counter. “You… Didn’t take Dex with you to the market, right?” Wouldn’t be the first time he forgets about him, but I don’t judge. My mom left me one too many times at Walmart when I was a kid.

Can’t believe Cam’s the one out here reminding me that smoking is A-okay now. My ass growing older by the hour, man. One day, I’mma check in the mirror and see a shriveled piece of garlic.
This time last year, you could get a year behind bars for three ounces, but I guess it’s all good now, ‘cause some dude up there said so. Whatever, man. I ain’t one to doubt the machine no more. Me good boy now. Copper says jump off Brooklyn Bridge, I say ‘Geronimo’. Didn’t spend a year of my life pissing in cups with a dude staring up my asshole, only to end up at Rikers doing the same thing.
(…Right. They closing Rikers, too.)
“Riiight,” I yawn into my armpit, my bag fissling as I lift it. “Right, ‘s like, legal now… Up to three O-Z, so I’m… I’m good.”
Buffering, I squint to myself, a single cell firing in the distant recesses of this dark orb I call a brain. Maybe I should shut up, like, right now.
I barely even register him closing the door behind me as I amble inside, taking a while to identify the kitchen that’s right in front of me. When Cam tells me to sit my ass down, I reply through a half-lidded grin, “Aight, hip-hopfficer…,” and I chuckle in a completely non-stoned way, plopping my stuff on the counter.
A friend back from Kenzo, this dude called Twon, used to call cops ”hip-hopfficers” whenever they tried to slang their way into his tent. Deadass, some cops will roll up on your block and go, “What’s the shizzle, buckaroo?”, and expect you to eat it all up. Plainclothes do it, too, but you see ‘em snitches coming from a mile away. Twon once punched one of ‘em for trynna cop a feel of his girl while she was cracked outta her mind. Jury didn’t believe him – I did.

Then again, I never once believed Matt beat Nikki to death, and apparently, he did.
Shit still haunts me to this day.

Cam’s the exception that proves the rule, though. Lou says ACAB, but he a real one, I know it. I mean, he did arrest my ass, like, seventeen times, but hey. Kinda had it coming. I wonder if his body cam has audio of all the times my ribs hit the hood of his car, ‘cause we could, like, put that on loop in iMovie or some shit. We could add a bass line, a bit of reverb... That beat would go ooooff, bro.
“Dex?” My brain takes a moment to compute, dot-dot-dot. I unpack my bag in the meantime, a jar of peanut butter clanking against the counter. “Naaah. He at home chillin’.”
Dex just chill like that. He gets these random bursts of energy once every other day. Runs out of steam after twenty minutes’ playtime, then goes back to being an old man. My old man. He ain’t the pit the shelter worker warned me about, but I’m not complaining. This one dog-walker I crossed at Prospect Park told me I was lucky with him, and I agree. ‘Far as I’m concerned, pits are shih tzus.
I rip the cellophane open on my cheap ass sliced bread and I get to work, no questions asked. It brings back memories, the way Cam joins me at the counter to supervise my conduct while I spread grape jelly over a slice of bread.
“What’s your PB to J ratio?” I ask in a mumble without even looking up at him, casually slapping two more slices on the plate. “Mine’s one to one, but I respect other people’s tastes and preferences, y’know.”
Hunger propels me to whip up two sandwiches in no time, carefully minding Cam’s ratio. I then lift the plate towards him like it’s only natural that I’d prepare one for him, too. I don’t even consider the possibility that he may not accept the offering, ‘cause who on God’s Earth turns down a perfectly good PB&J sandwich? Nobody in their right mind, if you ask me.
I turn my back to the counter, leaning against it.
“Cheers,” I lift my sandwich slightly in his direction before making half of it disappear in a single bite.
For a while, I continue munching in silence, slow and peaceful like a cow or some shit.
“Why you up so late, though?” I ask with my mouth full, craning my neck over the plate in my hand. “Drinkin’ alone and shit… I mean, can’t say I ain’t been there...”
I blink at my plate, jaw unhinged as my tongue tries for something stuck in my wisdom teeth. Doc said I should get ‘em removed. I said, cool. I'mma get right on that when I got a grand to spare.
“I mean, technically not alone, ‘cause I’m also here... I guess that counts,” I figure sluggishly, thoughts racing at three miles per hour. At about the same speed, I turn my head to look at him, still chewing. “But... The question still stands, I think.”

I can’t really say why I put up with Rick’s shit but I do. Maybe it’s some form of masochism I’m not familiar with or all those sermons about ‘he who is generous to the needy honors Him’ have embedded themselves into my psyche. Or maybe I just feel sorry for him. He does remind me of a guy I met back in the Army; he was a marine, so obviously was on something all the time. He mostly did fentanyl, he had some sort of arrangement with one of the guys at medical, and our armory just happened to be next to it so I saw him a lot. He always tried to strike up convo and he always went on about how sad he was that he  didn’t get to shoot that day, either. It was almost childishly innocent, the way he pouted about it. He was a  proper psycho but one that made you sad, I guess. A product of our society, just like Rick.
I mean, at least he tried, right? He did Drug Court, and he did it successfully. That’s gotta amount to something.
“Yeah, man, you good.” Despite all odds, he is. I could send him away now, back to Dax, but for some reason I don’t feel like it. Usually I’ve got no problems with silence but now that it’s not silent anymore, I don’t really want to get back to that.
It could be worse. He could be a gangbanger. At least he’s only high.
“Good, that’s… Good.” I almost find the corners of my mouth curling up. I’ve had my fair share of marijuana some years ago, but it wasn’t really for me. And I definitely never got too high to forget where I live. I did find myself pretending to be a strawberry one time, though, so maybe I’m not better after all. “I would offer that you can invite him over but… Let’s not rouse him from his slumber.”
Also, that dog is a force of nature, however cute he may be, and my landlord could find flaws even in Michelle Obama – although he has always been quick to add ‘not that I’m racist, I voted democrat’ – so that risk is for another day.
It’s weird, watching Rick make freaking PB&J sandwiches in my kitchen at this hour like it’s the most normal thing ever. That’s another part I never expected my life to become nearing thirty. “What?” My brain comes up blank like it got fried by the situation. He asked something. His voice indicated that. “Dunno, it’s… Whatever.”
I only realize that he was asking how I like my sandwiches when he hands me one. I haven’t eaten them since those god-awful MRE’s ruined them for me (and it was still better than anything that was supposedly chicken related). I’m not even hungry but still take a bite. One someone offers you food they made, you don’t say no. That’s just not polite and who knows when my mom bursts out of the closet to scold me for that, right?
“I just got home.” My eyes flicker over to the trashcan where I know three bottles hide. “Two beers ago.”
Am I really about to have girl talk with my neighbor that just broke in and I have taken him to the station more times than Mickey Mantle did home runs in World Series?
“I had a date.”
Bet your ass I am.
“…It did not go well.” As per indicated by our current situation. I put the sandwich back on the counter and go for the beer. “Turns out that I’m a nice guy, but not nice enough to counter my biggest failing of being a lib-raaah…” I talk slower than usual but not because I’m worried he might not follow. It’s just… Dunno. Maybe my coordination is starting to get compromised or it’s just too stupid to say out aloud. I mean, it is. Still can’t believe someone actually said that to my face. “I mean, that’s new. I’ve had all kinds of rejections but that’s… That’s new. Aaaand… It sucks. Almost as much as ‘you’re nice, but I don’t date under 6 feet’.” My face scrunches up at that in disgust. I just don’t get it. I mean, sure, there’s guys around, beating their chests about how they only date blondes or if you’re under a certain weight, hell, one of the female officers told me she once dated a guy that had a strict rule about how his partner should get her nails done, down to the exact length and shape. But you know they are douches, right? That’s the thing. You KNOW they are shallow and stupid as all hell.
But these are… These were supposed to be girls who aren’t like that. Everything goes right then we meet and just like whoosh they’re not interested. I just don’t get it. “I matched with a girl a few months back. She was really nice, in her thirties, from France, she wanted to be a… A freaking professional cat petter when she was a kid. She told me. And then we met up and we’ve been friends ever since. Man, I hate Tinder.”
And I stress that by downing half my beer. “It’s a shitty year for me. What about you? Any better?”

He tells me he had a date and I slowly turn to him, nodding in approval. “Fire.”
Then he tells me it didn’t actually go well and I turn back to my sandwich, moping, “Not fire.”
When he tells me the reason he was rejected, I look up at him like he’s speaking Mandarin. It takes me so long to wrap my head around the concept that he’s already, like, five sentences ahead of me when I react.
“Yo, whut?” I frown in confusion, one eye squinting, mouth open. “Man, that girl trippin’. I’m a Libra, too, and we hella good partners. Joey told me.” I gesture towards him with my sandwich before stuffing the rest of it in my face. He already knows who Joey is – she used to be my emergency contact before she, uh, cut me off. We’ve made up since then, though. “But we kinda wishy-washy, and we can’t see past bullshit ‘til it’s too late.”
Or as Joey's horoscope thingie put it, "indecisive" and "gullible". Don’t know if the shoe fits Cam, but it sure as shit fits me. No getting around it, I'm a wishy-washy half-asser... With a rap sheet. Who used to be a hobo. Most girls find me kinda hard to relate to, and the feeling's mutual. This one girl I had over name-dropped Lizzo to me, and I’m like, who that. She’s like whaaa, you’ve never heard of Lizzo, she was Entertainer of the Year 2019. And in my head I’m just like, girl, I was Intravenous User of the Year 2019 – Lizzy who now? Hell, I might’a had a leg ulcer called Lizzy. After a while, you start naming ‘em.
(I named one in Cam’s honor, too, but he don’t gotta know that. R.I.P., Cam the Ulcer.)
Whatever, ‘s cool. Someone’s gotta lower the bar for other guys. Community service, I’m good at that, got one year of experience. But for a dude like Cam to be having a hard time? If he ain’t scoring then I stand no chance.
“I mean, you out here channeling Prince Charming or some shit,” I point out, gesturing at him, looking baked as fuck. “...No homo. You got a stable job, too. No rap sheet.” I shrug, shaking my head. What more could women want? “I ‘on’t know what girls be on these days, man.”

Cam asks how about me and my gaze turns to the ceiling, trying hard to think.
“I had a girl over a few weeks ago, I guess…” I figure languidly, buzzcut going scree scree as I scratch my head. “Yo... The shit I said just to get her to stay a little longer, though... Still keeps me up at night, man.”
“So… Do you like yellow?”
“Wanna see pictures of my dog?”
“Okay, uh, wait, just before you go… Wanna check out my sweater collection?”
She did not wanna check out my sweater collection, but hey. Her loss, I guess. Got some fire pieces in there. Yesterday, I showed Lou my latest find and she went, “Wow, that’s… Wow. I mean, it’s, issa look, for sure. It’s giving, like… Charlie Brown.”
I mean…
Fuck yeah? Sounds flossy if you ask me. My man Charlie got mad drip for an egg with legs. I’mma add him to my role models next to that kid from Big Daddy. Remember when Adam Sandler let him choose his outfit and he came out wearing boxers over his pants, complete with a cape and cowboy boots three sizes too large? That’s gotta be my final form one day.
Big Daddy used to be ‘Our Movie’ with Dad, Number One Adam Sandler Stan. He always told me I was just like that kid. Little did he know I’d turn out more like the homeless guy played by Steve Buscemi who crashes his shopping cart into a lamp post. Then again, Macaroni Culkin turned out that way, too, and he still lives in the collective consciousness as this blonde little kid we watch every Christmas. Life happens, I guess.
And so I find myself preparing a third sandwich.
“I ‘onnow. I mean, I got my charges dropped this year,” I figure, slapping some extra peanut butter on there. “It’s just… It’s been a time, bro. I never expected to get this far, so now it’s like, ‘What now?’. Y’feel?”
I look over at him, not sure what degree of “Same, dude” to expect, since Cam ain’t exactly my people. Then again, I know he’s seen all the wild shit I’ve seen, only from the other side. If I was more like him, I’d prolly want nothing to do with my type. I’d want a cozy office job where I’d never need to get my hands dirty, ever. Cam, though, he went and actively signed up to deal with people like me – or whatever I used to be –, and I do respect the shit outta that. Takes a special kinda person, I think. Someone who ain’t afraid to face the worst.
“Would’a been easier if I just knew what I wanted to do with my life, though. And just... Went and did it.” I shrug lazily, looking up at him. “Like you, prolly. You look like that type’a dude.”

Looking at Rick, you probably wouldn’t think he has a lot going up there. Mainly because he’s basically always high and that’s not exactly a smart look on most people. But he’s not stupid, I know that. He might have some weird reactions sometimes, you know, like, that one time when I couldn’t find my phone so I asked if he could ring me up, but he didn’t have my number for some reason and he suggested maybe I can get my number from my phone – so he can help me find my phone… To be fair, I’m pretty sure he was also high that time so it was my mistake.
Anyway, he might not look like he has much understanding, but I know he does. He just sees things in a different way. Sure as hell different from my perspective so you know, sometimes it helps.
Not fire does not help. Neither does the zodiac lesson.
“Well then, maybe I should date Joey”, I snort out, almost aloof. Then I rewind what I just said and sneak a look at him from the corner of my eye. “Just joking.”
Not like I expect him to start pounding down on me because I said something about his baby sister, but you know, it’s a matter of respect, both towards him and her – mainly her, though, ‘cause I haven’t even met the girl and here I am throwing her name around. Luckily my religion is ALL about asking for forgiveness and atoning for your sins, so I’ll just throw this onto the pile, I guess.
The beer almost comes out of my nostrils though as he goes on about his no homo shit and I instinctively snort. I have to get up again and get a kitchen towel to wipe the table before it starts to get sticky. “I guess we have different… Aspirations?” I give him the stinky eye but really I want to give it to myself. We both know what I mean and I know it’s kinda mean, that’s why I’m not about to say it out loud. I mean, for most people, not having a criminal record and having any kind of shitty job is the bare minimum but I do understand that my past opportunities have been vastly different from his, so it’s not exactly a fair comparison. “It’s just… Well… I guess I’m lookin’ for girls that have… a BIT more expectations than me not having a record, you know?”
I mean, having Rick as a… Well I have no fucking idea what he was to me really, but just having him around was fine. Sometimes he made me mad, sometimes I couldn’t understand how we can be the same species, but most of the times it was fine – but I also do not live with him, and his life choices don’t really affect me. What I’m trying to say is if he was a girl trying to hook up with me, I’d avoid him like the plague.
But then there’s Tea, who’s arguably just as likely to be ‘bad news’ – at least that’s what you hear in church –, so I don’t really know. Maybe I’m just a hypocrite like that.
“I get it, man”, I nod along. I mean, been there, done that. Except it’s usually me talking that makes them leave so maybe I should just become mute or something. But I do get what he means. “Sometimes it’s the stupidest shit you miss, right? I mean… Sure, sex is great and so is a relationship that, you know, goes somewhere, but… Everything else… Like, not being alone when you come home… That’s nice.” Or just having someone ask about your day, to feel like someone in this city packed full of strangers cares about you because they think you’re worth caring about. That’s nice, too. “Is that why you got a dog?” I ask, squinting. “How’s that working out for you?”
They sure are happy when you come home. They’re also just happy with whatever you give them. Maybe I should just get a dog and teach it to listen.
“Sure.” Theoretically, I get it. Not that I’ve ever been on the verge of being incarcerated or that I know what it’s like to be in the position he had to endure for a year but… “If I had my shit sorted” I sigh, pushing the sandwich from one side of the plate to the other, like I was explaining a strategy, “, I wouldn’t be eating peanut butter-jelly sandwiches with you on a  Friday night. No offense.”
It feels weird, that he sees it like that. I kind of feel that despite appearances, he has a better grasp on… Life, generally. Like, he has street smarts, or something. I kind of just go wherever they tell me to and do whatever they ask me to, but a lot of the times when we’re patrolling I feel like there’s ongoing jokes that everyone’s aware of except for me. You pick up on a few things – at the beginning I would never have thought I’d find myself calling someone ‘whiskey tango trailerpark trash son of a bow-legged whore’ but then… You join the Army.
“I guess… I was kind of the same after I got discharged. I mean, I almost signed up for another four years, you know? That’s how clueless I was. I just happened to have an old Sergeant who retired two years before and was now a sheriff in… I don’t even know, Nebraska or something. And it seemed like a good career.” I wasn’t one of those guys who went on a full patriotic rant about how great America is and how he would vote Democrat if they wouldn’t keep taking money away from ‘the actual causes that matter’ or something. I’m also not one of those who thinks it was the worst four years of their life. It wasn’t great, sometimes it actually sucked and I was sure there was no worse places to be than waiting four hours on the road to Nineveh, full gear, no-go on digging in so you either cooked your ass in the Humvees or tried to get your pro level farmer tan outside. I mean, I was an 89 Bravo, a glorified Walmart manager. Only in my Walmart, you had all types of ammos, missiles, explosives, rocket launchers… So, like a Walmart in Texas, probably.
Looking back on all that, it seems less unbearable than how it felt at the time but maybe it’s just nostalgia, because I very clearly recall no one talking about anything else all day ,outside of active shooting situations, than how stupid you have to be to join up and all the things you’d do to the recruiters that got you here in the first place. Not that it was their fault; if you had any idea what you wanted to do with your life, you wouldn’t even approach them.
“I mean, I didn’t do all that bad at school, I just wasn’t exceptionally good at anything, either. I didn’t really care about any subjects, so when it came to choosing colleges I kind of blanked out. It’s probably for the better. My mom wanted me to become an accountant.” He can tell by my face what I think of that. “I don’t really like… sitting on my ass and doing nothing. I mean… Like, I hate paperwork. Hate it. In fact, that was the thing I most disliked about the army, the fucking reports and inventories, and that’s the same thing I hate now. Just so you know, that’s the only reason I don’t throw your ass in lockup more.” I add with a grin. “Who knows, maybe you should try and be a cop. It’s a hell of an origin story.”