The police station on Wood Street smells of urine, sweat and fried food. I soon attach the first two odors to a puffy old man who stands motionless near the entrance. He wears his pants belted high, their waistband hugging the underside of his man-bosom.
When I pull myself up to the counter, I spot the remaining smelly culprit: Four officers are unwrapping foil packages to reveal their crispy beige dinners. They joke around with each other before acknowledging my existence. A sergeant—the officers actually call him Sarge, which amazes me—lumbers up to the counter. His right eye has blood in it.
I give him my ID and explain the situation as he takes notes. "Anyone holding a grudge against you?" he asks. "Boyfriend, ex-boyfriend or somethin'?"
"No," I say quietly. The old man still hasn't moved. Sarge takes my ID over to a computer from the triassic period and starts to enter numbers. I pass the time by stretching. A couple of patrol cops walk into the station. One is about my age, and he gives me a funny look. Maybe he's been talking with the Polish guy, I think, and he's going to arrest me for suspected prostitution. Then cop who looks like Hulk Hogan says, "Whoa, look at those guns!" and points at my arms. "That's my dad," he continues, thumbing in the direction of the old man. "He waits here for me sometimes." At first I think he's joking in a junior-high way, but then he says, "How you doin', Pop?" to the old statue of a man and I figure he might be telling the truth.
Sarge finishes his computer work and hands me some paperwork. He gives me his business card and tells me to call me if I have any further information or if I'd like to have coffee sometime. When I leave the station, I squeeze my thumb until a bright, tiny dot of blood surfaces under the sun.
When I pull myself up to the counter, I spot the remaining smelly culprit: Four officers are unwrapping foil packages to reveal their crispy beige dinners. They joke around with each other before acknowledging my existence. A sergeant—the officers actually call him Sarge, which amazes me—lumbers up to the counter. His right eye has blood in it.
I give him my ID and explain the situation as he takes notes. "Anyone holding a grudge against you?" he asks. "Boyfriend, ex-boyfriend or somethin'?"
"No," I say quietly. The old man still hasn't moved. Sarge takes my ID over to a computer from the triassic period and starts to enter numbers. I pass the time by stretching. A couple of patrol cops walk into the station. One is about my age, and he gives me a funny look. Maybe he's been talking with the Polish guy, I think, and he's going to arrest me for suspected prostitution. Then cop who looks like Hulk Hogan says, "Whoa, look at those guns!" and points at my arms. "That's my dad," he continues, thumbing in the direction of the old man. "He waits here for me sometimes." At first I think he's joking in a junior-high way, but then he says, "How you doin', Pop?" to the old statue of a man and I figure he might be telling the truth.
Sarge finishes his computer work and hands me some paperwork. He gives me his business card and tells me to call me if I have any further information or if I'd like to have coffee sometime. When I leave the station, I squeeze my thumb until a bright, tiny dot of blood surfaces under the sun.
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