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Susan Harris was in the midst of a very fine opium haze. Colors brightened and dulled slowly as the candles softly flickered in the room, a warm yellow glow soaking into her eyes. She had a vague recollection that she was in her friend’s apartment. Her fingertips told her that she was on a couch, and the ceiling told her that she was lying down. She thought about trying to think about where she really was, but decided against it in favor of just enjoying the moment. It was a very calm and unique moment, one which she usually didn’t look to attain. Now she remembered. She was in Rod’s apartment, and he gave her something because she was getting a bit out of hand. It’s been a week since she’d slept, and he insisted that she chill out before she killed herself.She turned her head to see if the TV was on. It was but the images flashing out of it made no sense whatsoever. She closed her eyes and felt the warm glow flicker inside her, and she started to dream.Things were very jittery. Compared to consciousness she was in a place that was very bumpy and kinetic. She felt like dancing. She stood up and the world darkened. A strange man walked in through the door and asked her if she wanted to dance. “How did you know?” she asked him, alive for the first time ever. “A cat told me” he replied and took her into his arms. It was a strong embrace, and against his solid form she felt herself shivering. They danced slow and proficient, which she enjoyed because in a vague recollection of reality, her two left feet were very apparent. A jazz trio was in the corner now, and she noticed herself being watched by a line of people behind a velvet rope. Her strange man dipped her and she looked up to find his face in shadow. “Who are you?” she asked but he did not reply. Instead he let go of her and she started falling, falling through the floor and beyond.Consciousness, and the pain that it brought with it, returned.He drove through the city, listening to the different rhythms of yelling, honking, screeching, and idling. Street men playing on empty paint cans or busted up two-string guitars, eyeing him slowly as they played, their buddies not wiping the windshield because they made him as plainclothes pork. Hours pass and work somehow gets done. He finds himself talking to a snitch in the fungal men’s room of some dive bar known for its dark alley in the rear. He finds himself chasing leads on some homicide, some numbered body, some broken vessel just like the one before it and sure to be like the one after. He was in neutral, his thoughts lost in a haze of nostalgia and guilt. He ended up at some diner, watching the cream swirl in his coffee and ignoring everyone around him. The lights dimmed for a moment, giving him a bad case of the sweats. He jerked his head quickly, sweeping the place, looking hard at each customer: An old lady with a knit hat, an overweight mother and son, two men in business suits spiking their own sodas with personalized hip flasks, a mex dishwasher with a pack of smokes rolled in his sleeve like he wishes it was fifty years ago and the fifty bucks at the end of every week would go a lot farther.All civilians.He turned back to his coffee, feeling the past come on with combustion.God she loved jazz, especially the cool swanky stuff. The dark, smoky, end-of-night stuff that riled you up then layed you down to sleep. She always carried a discman with some essential mix of personally-selected tracks around with her. She loved to listen while she chilled at Rod’s and watched all of his weird anime videos. She always put a really up-tempo tune in there somewhere though, because you never know when you just need to go crazy and hop around and release the tension through every limb and every joint and every muscle. In this particular case, she spasmed a bit too violently and flung the discman open, “Susan’s Awesome Mix Tape #6” flying off and skidding around the hardwood, still spinning. The disc finally hit a closed door and fell over. Sarah could hear the heavy breathing and headboard slamming associated with Rod’s particular brand of rough sex through the door. Between playing Mad Chemist and Sir Psycho Sexy sessions in the boudoir, Susan wondered when he actually had time to eat. She’d given up on the thought of him sleeping long ago. Somehow he’d managed to balance a few vital elements perfectly and sustain on supplements and sex. She wondered if he’d ever come down.Speaking of… her tantrum had spent the last of her energy and she barely got back to the couch before everything died on her. She laid there and watched whatever was on TV until morning.He finally let the case close. He knew that Sarah did not jump on her own, but could find no evidence to prove it. Other than a few scratches on her person, probably caused by everyday activity such as stubbed toes or knocks to the funny bone, her file was devastatingly clear. Crimes happened and time moved on. He hated himself for it, but had to let it go: Suicide.His next case brought with it the death of his partner. A clerk took one in the chest on his way for the sawed-off under the counter. The killer left his gun, which had his fingerprints on them, which led to an address. Something or someone tipped the thug off though, and as Gary knocked on the front door he took a shotgun blast through the cheap wood. Fragments of buckshot and wood lodged themselves in 87 different places covering his face, neck, and upper torso. He died en route.After that it was a slow decline into emptiness and apathy, followed by loss of color and energy. Things simply became routine. The city started talking to him like it does now, telling him its dirty secrets. He listened out of pain and guilt and boredom, following up on inexplicable foresights that led to arrest and an infinitesimally safer city.He thought about Susan. He thought about Gary. He thought about the City, and what he’s doing there.Next
©2002 Brian Miller
