from Nightshift

There’s nothing like having your most decent prospect of the night flip you over a stool so that you land directly on the back of your head. I was 11 the last time that happened. I had been trying to slide backwards down the rail to my Grandma’s stairs when my weight shifted. I did a complete head over heels, fell about five feet, landed on my back and slammed my skull into the 100 year-old wood underneath me.

X-Rays said that not a lick of damage was done. 20 years later the reason is far less my fault. But it hurts the same. I actually think it hurts more this time.
I hear gunshots just as the headache begins to take hold.

People start screaming. By the time the picture stops shaking, a million pairs of feet are pattering past me. A huge bulky body trips over the fallen stool and crash-lands on top of me. I’m crawling out from under him when he gets up on his own. His silhouette joins all the others in the flow of people swimming upstream towards the front exit.

I slither into the corner at the end of the bar and get myself upright. The crowd is too thick to see all the way over to Infinity’s booth. But I can see the biggest two security guards stomping the shit out of somebody. Were I not so loyal I’d be heading up the stairs with everybody else. But I am so I make my way against the grain to cover the distance between me and my boy.

I’m big enough to deflect most of the oncoming traffic but there are a few strings of homegirls I have to gently toss away. Once I’m far enough through the flash flood I see that the bouncers are going to work on that white boy with the beard from earlier. Infinity is curled into the booth with his knees to his chest. I’m not sure but it looks like he’s crying.

Within ten seconds the crowd is all gone. It’s just me, Infinity, the bouncers and the white boy with the bloody mouth and nose who’s clutching his ribs like they’re trying to run away from him. The muscle doesn’t pay me any mind so I go and see about the rapper.

“Fin? You alright man?” I asked. He’s looking straight ahead. His legs are trembling. I don’t want to admit that I might smell urine in the air but I’d be lying if I didn’t.
“I think I’m hit,” he mumbles. Four of the mirrored tiles behind him are splintered to nothing and there’s no blood anywhere near him. The white boy didn’t even get close.
“Nah, he missed,” I say, tugging at his arm. But Infinity won’t budge. You would think that clips were being emptied all around him. I give up after my third pull. But by then it’s too late.
“Dude, we gotta get outta here,” I say. “Somebody might have called the—”
About fifteen cops come spilling down the stairs and through the emergency exit to our right. Guns comes out.

My hands go up faster than the nerd in class. As they clap the silver on all three of us while the bouncers keeps trying to explain that I had nothing to do with it, I keep trying to figure out who my one phone call is going to be to. The NYPD is as predictable as the last election. To their credit there’s no actual brutality. I am ushered along at a reasonable pace. The cuffs aren’t cutting off my circulation.

The officers are speaking in that New York dialect I only hear on TV or on the news. As I’m from out-of-town I don’t particularly give a fuck. It’s just strange to me.
And they all have moustaches. Is there some rule about being a white cop that you have to grow a moustache, kind of like it was for porn stars in the 70s? Do you get to shave it after your do your 20 and get a full pension? Or it is a way to separate themselves from the “clean-shaven scumbags” they work 24/7 to keep off the streets. I may be sober but I’m still a sarcastic bastard.

What I’m hoping, for Infinity’s sake, is that Infinity's not holding. But as he just copped that isn’t likely. They were still frisking him as they took me out toward the squad car. The area around the barricade if now flooded with press. Print is already on the scene. If they don’t wheel Infinity out soon the TV trucks will be on the set.

The flashes put purple spots in front of everything, turning clear faces into colorful monsters. Why are they taking pictures of me anyway? People are going to have jokes at the job on Monday, if I don’t get fired that is.

They duck my head into the first of five cars and shut the door behind me. It smells like Armor All. The crowd goes wild when they bring Infinity out and put him in the car behind me. It’s funny that when he was out of cuffs the very same clubgoers didn’t have a thing to say about him either way. It’s all about the cameras and what they get on tape, that and the numbers. It’s probably why I took the opening in research.

For one, it was where I’d started in the first place. More importantly it meant that I didn’t have to go out anymore. If I didn’t go out I didn’t have to drink just to walk to among them. If I didn’t drink I could steer clear of the dumb shit. But if that was completely true I wouldn’t be in the back of this car right now.

Two of the officers pile onto the front seat. They report in through their radio and the computer setup on the dash. Then the one on the left, the latin-looking with the sweat stains on the back of his shirt, shifts us into drive. And we’re off.
I spend the first three minutes of the ride putting together a list of charges they might be able to get me on and I keep coming up with zero.

If anything I’m a witness for the victim. But maybe they don’t know that. As there have been rumors for years about specialized units in major cities that actually target celebrities, it wouldn’t surprise me if they grabbed just because I was entourage. As long as Infinity isn’t holding he’s good. I keep telling myself that over and over.

The last time I had cuffs on was in East Harlem. But they were the furry kind. Vilka was a wild chick: Half-Dominican and Half-Black, in that order. For three months she’s clamp my wrists behind my head through the bedpost and then have me call my mother with my earpiece. The minute I opened my mouth so did she. It was sick, and it was twisted. But when I let loose (while faking a coughing fit) her face wore this sense of achievement that’s still etched in my brain.

I’m thinking of her because she became a cop. I saw her once on 125th, back when I used to live up that way. She had a diamond on her hand and a gun on her hip. It was almost like I was a living reminder of a time she’d tried to erase from her memory. I never want to be like that. I never want to have regrets. But I do.

It’s usually at the very worst times that I let them get to me. I switch from thoughts of Vilka to the girl back at the bar. I like the way her eyes squint when she smiles. Something tells me that I’ll get another shot. Next time I’ll be sure not to miss.