Adam Zwoelf likes his job. He likes the power, but not in a gross, cartoonish way. No shades-wearing, no name-calling. He likes to carry the power in his easy gate, coiled like an Eastwood - almost charming, yeah, charming, like James Bond. Beautiful and dangerous.
Sitting outside Club 420. A poor fellow hobbles out, filthy with drink, drunk with filth. He walkishly falls over to the patrolcar, his OU Ducks hat stuck to the top of his hair like the last deck of a triple-scoop. "Waagooooo!"
Adam's out of his door, sprung up like a jack-in-the-box. Suddenly his beanpole physique has become intimidating.
"How you doing?"
"Jus goin home!"
"You going home? Okay, you go on home."
He waits ten extra seconds, following the sop with a serious stare no more threatening than a gun.
Back in the car, on the laptop, thumbing through arrest records,checking e-mail. One from Lt. Funfeau, heading to Shakers after the shift. Shakers. Adam loves stripclub names a heck of a lot more than he loves stripclubs. They're kind of prostitutes, especially nowadays. Grinding on you, groveling around for your money. It's just so fake.
A pest of kids giggles its way out of the darkness and runs up to the passenger window.
"You have - You got - Do you - stickers? - any stick - ers?"
"Sorry, I'm all out. Better luck next time."
The kids giggle off back into the black. One little girl, maybe twelve on the high side, looks back at Adam. Then, with that creepy fake flirtation, "Thank you sir!" Big smile, gaze held just too long. There's something really, really wrong with kids today. I swear it's worse.
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Hi stranger. It's kind of sad that you moved to my hometown and never told me. Of all the towns in the world... But I must at least commend your taste. Congratulations on your family. If you ever want to see me, or reconsider the possibility of being friends after all, I still drop in to that part of the country a couple times a year--not for Christmas this time around, as I have examinations in January (god, I know, I'm such a late-bloomer; I do everything slowly, especially graduate school). But I'd like to hear from you, if it wouldn't freak you out too much. I haven't looked at your blog in detail, and won't if you don't want me to, but certain phrases jump out at me; oh, the old Thomas. In a happier new life, I think and hope. The very best to you!--Esther
Strangely, I remember a dozen things or so. But the years and years I spent as a demigod trapped in my demimonde I don't really remember. I suppose that if a man lost his sight and then years later had it restored, he'd remember losing it, but the rest would run together and seem horrible but brief, like a spasm. This brevity would be a blessing. It would keep him from regretting all the things he didn't see.
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