BODY PARTS-Chapter 3

The Nerve of IT

I was boiling. You’d be boiling to if you’d gone through a wrongful arrest, intensive questioning, and physical abuse, including sleep deprivation. Possibly worst of all was the sadistic withdrawal of caffeine. One officer even held a cup of freshly brewed—not your usual police station coffee machine dribble—under my nose, and then drank it slowly, his eyes closed, exaggerating his appreciation of every sip.
I was now making up for the latter by working through a full pot in my new, favorite Diner. When I sat down and asked for a full pot they obliged, no questions asked, no attitude! The waiter, a big guy (from Ecuador I later found out) brought me a warmer for my table—a warmer! Did you ever…? This left me struggling with the contrary emotions of a momentary but full fledged faith in the humanity that surrounded me, and a fury at the injustice of it all.
The police had released me that morning after my hellish night with no more than a: “Sorry! There’s been a slight mix up!” They had the wrong address. The desk sergeant giggled as he handed me a form to address my complaints, and then winked as if to say: “Watch it! You don’t want to get us mad”. Not that I pretend to understand GCPD semaphore.
I put more sugar in my coffee and stared at the paperwork I’d been given, which was hard to read given my swollen eyelid.
I really liked this Diner. Despite my smashed up visage nobody shrank away or avoided proximity. I felt supported. A man rolled in with no legs and Big Guy lifted him up to the counter, gently put him on a stool, and a coffee was poured straight away. It occurred to me that I didn’t stand out at all. I was completely surrounded by freaks. No wonder I felt so at home.
I took out my monocle and tried once again to read the fine print (5 points I guessed). I didn’t want to let it go.
“All complaints may be addressed blah blah however your past, present and future will come under scrutiny before any resolution can be determined. Any history of mental illness or aggressive behavior may adversely affect your case.”
Then the next sentence dropped a point, was written in red and was nigh impossible to read. So I slammed the coffee pot on the table. It didn’t break.
The Ecuadorian came over wiping his hands on his apron, firmly grabbed me by my arm, looked me in the face, took out a knife from his apron with his other hand and stuck it in the table where it quivered ominously. I’d been wondering what had caused all those scars.
“They punched me in the eye!”
“No emotional outbursts here,” he whispered. “We all have our problems. Coffee’s on us”. Then he tossed me out of the Diner —gently.
So there I was on the street once more, an innocent abroad in the big, mean city. A little Cyclops girl walked by, kicking her white stick against the pavement, her sunglass glinting from the sharp morning sunlight.
“What happened to you?” I said.
“Same old same old. Optic nerve. Pollution.” She spoke in a monotone without stopping, and I watched as she continued to trip onward, bumping her way home. Just died, I thought. I stood there shaking my head, scratching under my hat, sweeping the hair off my forehead. Then I headed for the nearest butcher. I needed to look after myself.
“A big fat steak—for this,” and I pointed at my eye. The butcher wordlessly gave me the biggest and most expensive steak he had and charged me accordingly. Then I went to the nearby park to lie down in the warmish beams of that morning sun. All about the last snows were melting and the dripping off branches soothed my frazzled nerves as I closed my eye.
When I woke up I found I wasn’t alone. It must’ve been some kind of epidemic. It was definitely racial profiling and the police were making a ton of mistakes. What we needed was a lawsuit. I was in the company of three other big steaks; each held or placed precariously on the throbbing, swollen eyes of fellow assaultees.
I turned my mind to the authors I’d never really read. An image of John Updike hovered in the periphery as a snow ball slammed into my temple.
“Oh for Crissakes!” I flung the steak at the perpetrator, a four-year-old kid, and stomped out of the park, my eyebrow knit by dried blood to the gash on my lid. My eye was almost swollen shut and was beginning to bleed again. I must’ve looked bad. Everyone had stopped to stare. Then I realized I was being followed by the other—wrongful arrests. We presented quite the Parade, staggering forward as if recently risen from the dead. En masse we set off in the direction of the police station bearing our righteous indignation like a flag. What we would do with it once we confronted the desk sergeant was anyone’s guess.
With gratitude I later reflected on what then occurred. I was prevented from entering Precinct 63 by the strong, long arm of a tendril, a higher law as far as I was concerned and one I could easily respect. In its other arms it held the other three.
“You don’t want to go in there—not a pretty sight.”
Briefly I wondered if he meant in general—the institution green, the no fresh paint in years—it was one of the grimmer police station interiors I’d encountered, but I knew better.
“They’re hashing out some legal technicalities.” I looked for a smirk, or a hint of irony, but saw none. This was how my patch on the earth would be paved from now on: the benign simpaticos, the strong soft hearts, and the brook no nonsense, practical bottom-feeders of the planet, would clean up the cracks in the sidewalk. Patiently but thoroughly they’d sort out the weeds. I looked at the crunched up, now bluing eyes of my new found friends, and by common consent but without a word being exchanged we crossed the street to the Diner. We probably entered like a gang but we just wanted coffee. The Ecuadorian waiter obliged us with three full pots.