THUGLIT Issue Two by Justin Porter, Buster Willoughby, Katherine Tomlinson, Mike MacLean, Patrick J. Lambe, Mark E. Fitch, Nik Korpon, Jen Conley Page B
Authors: Justin Porter, Buster Willoughby, Katherine Tomlinson, Mike MacLean, Patrick J. Lambe, Mark E. Fitch, Nik Korpon, Jen Conley
Ads: Link
tourniquet.”
“I thought you said the Mayor was responsible for the budget shortfall,” I said.
“He is. That’s him. I heard some corn-fed idiots elected an eighteen-year old Mayor in the Midwest someplace, but Wonder Boy’s the youngest in New Jersey . I think he just turned twenty- four.”
We stopped before a beat-up police cruiser. Rust touched places on the hood. The tire grooves were worn nearly smooth. Red-colored duct tape covered a hole in the light on the top of the car.
“She don’t look like much, but she can haul ass,” Scanlon said, the screech from the driver’s side door almost drowning out his words as he opened it and plopped down behind the steering wheel.
There were a few other black and whites scattered around Scanlon’s chariot, each of them in similar condition. The car started up after a couple turns of the key, and Scanlon began the tour of my new beat.
I hadn’t been to Keansport since my parents brought me to the local amusement park on the Raritan Bay when I was a kid. The only thing I remember about the trip was the carcasses of dead horseshoe crabs vying for beach space with abandoned tires and washed- up hospital waste. I’d hoped that my recollections of the town that’d sworn me in as a police officer were exaggerations of a child's overactive imagination. Reality was more pitiful viewed through the eyes of an adult.
After decades of decline, most of the towns ringing the Raritan Bay were supposed to be in an economic upswing. Fast ferry services across the bay providing thi rty- minute commutes to downtown Manhattan brou ght in ambitious young business people with a thirst for renovation on their weekends.
The economic spurt had somehow missed the town of Keansport. The average house was a shotgun shack originally built in the fifties for summer tourists. Sometime during the late sixties or early seventies entire families decided to move in full time. Most of the fires dealt with by the volunteer fire company were caused by space heaters attended by drunks. The locals couldn’t afford permanent heating solutions.
Scanlon pulled up in front of a small general store in the downtown area. A couple of men, loitering on bar stools outside a bar across from the place, quickly hid their beer bottles behind them.
I started toward them, but Scanlon grabbed me gently by the shoulder. “I’m not in the mood to bust balls. I want to get you something.” He led me into the store.
Scanlon smiled at the girl manning the counter. She looked like she was about sixteen, dressed in an oversized hockey jersey that wasn’t oversized enough to conceal her pregnancy. “ Can I get two packs of Marlboro s, hon?”
She grabbed three packs from the overhead rack, putting an opened one back before she set the two full packs down in front of Scanlon. I guess the opened one was for selling loosies, one at a time for a quarter a pop.
“You’ve got to be careful about the ruts on the sidewalks in this town,” Scanlon said on the way to our patrol car.
“Ruts?” I asked glancing at the sidewalk.
“Ruts worn in by girls too young to drive cars pushing around baby carriages.” Scanlon handed me a pack of cigarettes. “Here you go rookie.”
I ignored them, said, “I don’t smoke.”
“Drunks are probably the biggest problem you’re likely to run into on this beat. The only thing that can calm them down most times is more liquor. We can’t give them that, but a cigarette usually serves as a pacifier in a pinch. Besides, you’ll probably start if you don’t pick up any worse habits after a couple of years out on the street.”
He jammed the pack in my khaki-colored shirt pocket.
*****
Turns out Scanlon was wrong about one thing. I wound up having to deal with a lot worse things than pacifying a drunk. He was right about me taking up smoking though.
I shake one out of the pack, put it in my mouth and reach into my pocket for a lighter with the hand unoccupied by
“I thought you said the Mayor was responsible for the budget shortfall,” I said.
“He is. That’s him. I heard some corn-fed idiots elected an eighteen-year old Mayor in the Midwest someplace, but Wonder Boy’s the youngest in New Jersey . I think he just turned twenty- four.”
We stopped before a beat-up police cruiser. Rust touched places on the hood. The tire grooves were worn nearly smooth. Red-colored duct tape covered a hole in the light on the top of the car.
“She don’t look like much, but she can haul ass,” Scanlon said, the screech from the driver’s side door almost drowning out his words as he opened it and plopped down behind the steering wheel.
There were a few other black and whites scattered around Scanlon’s chariot, each of them in similar condition. The car started up after a couple turns of the key, and Scanlon began the tour of my new beat.
I hadn’t been to Keansport since my parents brought me to the local amusement park on the Raritan Bay when I was a kid. The only thing I remember about the trip was the carcasses of dead horseshoe crabs vying for beach space with abandoned tires and washed- up hospital waste. I’d hoped that my recollections of the town that’d sworn me in as a police officer were exaggerations of a child's overactive imagination. Reality was more pitiful viewed through the eyes of an adult.
After decades of decline, most of the towns ringing the Raritan Bay were supposed to be in an economic upswing. Fast ferry services across the bay providing thi rty- minute commutes to downtown Manhattan brou ght in ambitious young business people with a thirst for renovation on their weekends.
The economic spurt had somehow missed the town of Keansport. The average house was a shotgun shack originally built in the fifties for summer tourists. Sometime during the late sixties or early seventies entire families decided to move in full time. Most of the fires dealt with by the volunteer fire company were caused by space heaters attended by drunks. The locals couldn’t afford permanent heating solutions.
Scanlon pulled up in front of a small general store in the downtown area. A couple of men, loitering on bar stools outside a bar across from the place, quickly hid their beer bottles behind them.
I started toward them, but Scanlon grabbed me gently by the shoulder. “I’m not in the mood to bust balls. I want to get you something.” He led me into the store.
Scanlon smiled at the girl manning the counter. She looked like she was about sixteen, dressed in an oversized hockey jersey that wasn’t oversized enough to conceal her pregnancy. “ Can I get two packs of Marlboro s, hon?”
She grabbed three packs from the overhead rack, putting an opened one back before she set the two full packs down in front of Scanlon. I guess the opened one was for selling loosies, one at a time for a quarter a pop.
“You’ve got to be careful about the ruts on the sidewalks in this town,” Scanlon said on the way to our patrol car.
“Ruts?” I asked glancing at the sidewalk.
“Ruts worn in by girls too young to drive cars pushing around baby carriages.” Scanlon handed me a pack of cigarettes. “Here you go rookie.”
I ignored them, said, “I don’t smoke.”
“Drunks are probably the biggest problem you’re likely to run into on this beat. The only thing that can calm them down most times is more liquor. We can’t give them that, but a cigarette usually serves as a pacifier in a pinch. Besides, you’ll probably start if you don’t pick up any worse habits after a couple of years out on the street.”
He jammed the pack in my khaki-colored shirt pocket.
*****
Turns out Scanlon was wrong about one thing. I wound up having to deal with a lot worse things than pacifying a drunk. He was right about me taking up smoking though.
I shake one out of the pack, put it in my mouth and reach into my pocket for a lighter with the hand unoccupied by
Similar Books
