Rollins Hates Cops
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I swore I would never drink like that again. My head pounded, and my mouth felt like the whole Viet Cong army had camped in it overnight. I managed to get out of bed after three previously futile attempts. I looked around at my sorry living conditions. An efficiency apartment, the owner had billed it. The space was one large room with a couple of partitions tossed together on either side. One partition hid a kitchen and postage stamp dining area, the other a dressing room, and bath. The center portion served as both living and bedrooms. A neat trick managed by a folding sofa bed. It would have been a back killer had it not been for the eight-inch thick air mattress atop it. The air mattress and a couple of plastic tables where the only things that belonged to me.
I stared into my bloodshot eyes, in the permanently fogged mirror. Mornings like that, I thanked god for the fog. I stripped off my few remaining clothes to step into the shower. I spent a long time under the water. The water made only a small difference but every little bit helped, the orange juice and aspirin did a little more. Coffee, followed by a day old donut seemed to raise me to about fifty percent of normal. Hell, normal wasn’t all that much.
I looked about the one large room. I had called it home for the previous two months. It was still filled with cardboard boxes. Most had never been opened. I planned to open them before I tossed them in the dumpster. It would at least be nice to know what I was tossing out. I promised myself that I would do just that the next day.
That day was a day of rest. The next I had meetings with lawyers all morning. Maybe in the afternoon I could get to the boxes. I really needed to make more space in my little room. After my coffee and donut, I dressed for the day. Since it wasn’t a work day, I dressed in army fatigue pants and a navy blue cotton thermal shirt. I covered the thermal with a white dress shirt. A walking contradiction, that was me, mostly fiction.
The knock startled me. I didn’t know anyone in the building. ‘It must be a neighbor,’ I thought. Knocking on my door was a waste of time, unless they wanted to borrow a cup of cold air. That was about the only thing in my refrigerator. Nonetheless I opened the door. I should have looked through the spy hole first. Then again, why? The building was filled with eighty-year old widows. I had a hell of a time convincing the owner to rent me the apartment. At the time, I was only thirty.
‘Hi,’ the attractive young woman said, ‘My name is Jennifer, I just moved in two doors down.’ She waited for me to respond. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Not only was I hung over, I was shocked to see a woman without a walker.
‘Could I borrow your phone? Mine hasn’t been connected yet.’ she said. When I still didn’t respond instantly she went on, ‘It is a local call.’
I opened the door wider. ‘Sure you can use the phone. You just surprised me.’ I said it stupidly.
‘Thanks,’ she said it as she passed. ‘I have to call my parents. They are expecting me for lunch.’
I left her alone with the phone while I returned to the kitchen for more coffee. I didn’t want her to think I was eavesdropping, even though I heard every word she said. I listened to her talking, presumably to her mom for a few minutes. When she hung up, I walked back into the room.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee. It is about the only thing I have to offer.’ I said it partly to make up for my rudeness and partly because I wanted her to stay.
‘No thanks, I have to run. I appreciate the use of your phone though.’ She said that as she turned to the door.
‘Anytime,’ I replied. After she had gone, my mind processed her for storage. Jennifer was probably twenty-five or so, about five eight or nine, tall for a woman. She was thin with almost the shape of a pencil. Still, it had been a long time between women for me. I put her onto the temporary A list.
Other than that interruption, and a couple of trips out for hamburgers, I spent the day watching football on my portable color TV. It was my one and only luxury. That night I slept the sleep reserved for people with the last dregs of a hangover. I slept hard, so hard that I never even heard the sirens. Living in an older apartment building in those days, meant living downtown. In my case, it meant living in the same block as the police and fire stations. I had taken the place for the extra security.
The owner boasted that there had never been a break-in at his building. What he didn’t tell me was that the sirens blasted almost continuously some nights. On a full moon weekend, it was almost impossible to sleep. Thank God, I had only lived through one of them at that point.
Unfortunately the previous weekend had been it. A full moon which lasted until New Year’s day, which was on Tuesday. Until I died from exhaustion, I had listened to sirens for four straight days.
I awoke the next day, just in time for a quick shower before rushing off to the lawyer’s office. My lawyer, when I needed one, was John Gilmore. That day I met with Edward Simpkins, who was my wife’s lawyer. Why she thought she needed a lawyer was beyond me. Simpkins kept me waiting in the reception room for twenty minutes. I recognized it as a ploy. One intended to humble me.
I stood, walked to the receptionist, then said, ‘I am sorry but I have to leave. Please have Mr. Simpkins call me for another appointment.’ I turned before she could answer.
I was almost out the door when she hastily said, ‘Mr. Simpkins can see you now.’
I was tempted to just keep on going. I probably would have, if I thought I could have avoided returning the next week. Instead I turned to face the receptionist. ‘You sure? If Simpkins is all that busy, I can come back another day.’
‘No, he is ready for you. Just walk this way please.’
There was no way that I was ever going to be able to walk the way she did. She moved with the grace of a young woman who wanted to flaunt her almost perfect body. I trudged along behind. She led me into a conference room. It was a small conference room with a table for six. My wife Maggie and a tall thin man were seated at the table. The man stood when I entered. He didn’t extend his hand, so I didn’t either.
‘Mr. Rollins?’ he asked.
‘That would be me,’ I said it with as much sarcasm as I could manage.
‘Yes, well Mr. Rollins you know why we are here?’ he asked.
‘I think so, but why don’t you tell me anyway.’
He ignored the heavy sarcasm. I don’t know whether it was to avoid an argument, or just so that he could show off for Maggie.
‘Well yes, we are here to sign the final divorce degree. Oh yes, we are also here to make the final division of the property.’
‘Let’s not forget the property,’ I said. I was being as nasty as I could.
‘Ronnie, why don’t you try to at least be civil.’ Maggie said.
‘Why should I? I have nothing to gain by civility. What is done is done. You can’t possibly get more now. So, just in case you missed my meaning, you and the fancy boy here can just kiss my hillbilly ass.’ As always Maggie had pushed me over the edge.
‘I don’t think there is any need for that kind of language,’ Simpkins said.
‘Let me explain again, I am not here to win any popularity contest. If you want me to leave because of my language, just say so. I will be happy to get out right now. The air in here is filled with cheap perfume.’
‘If it’s cheap, it isn’t mine,’ Maggie said with a cool smile. I knew she was right. There was nothing cheap about Maggie.
‘Mr. Rollins, why don’t you just read the papers and sign them,’ Simpkins suggested. He was trying to play tough for Maggie. Men were always trying to impress Maggie.
I accepted the papers. I read the first couple of pages quickly. It was all in a foreign language, legal double talk. Page three was the only one I cared about. It contained th
e division of assets. Maggie got the new car, I got the ten-year old Toyota land cruiser. Maggie got the house, I got the bank accounts, not even close to a fair trade. Maggie got the furniture, I got the boxes stacked in my apartment. The few credit card debts we had, were split between us. Most of the debt had been Maggie’s anyway. Maggie got the mine, I got the shaft. Even with all that, I got the better deal. I got the hell away from Maggie.
I hadn’t always felt that way. I had loved her when we first married. At that time she hadn’t been a drunk or an adulteress. Those things took a couple of years to happen. Don’t let anyone tell you that a woman strays because she isn’t getting it at home. That is bullshit.
Maggie didn’t want to get it at home. She wanted to get it from her boss. You guessed it, the honorable Eddie Simpkins. He probably already had my garage office converted to his home office. I thought for a minute about not signing the papers. That thought only lasted a minute. Getting the two of them off my ass was worth every penny.
I didn’t return home until after lunch. Lunch most days was no more than a hot dog at a local diner. That day was no exception. I celebrated by having a coke instead of iced tea. Lucille the black waitress said, ‘What in the world has gotten into you lately Mr. Rollins? You been actin’ mighty mean.’
‘I’m sorry, did I forget to leave you a tip again?’ I asked jokingly.
‘You knows damned well you wouldn’t get out without leaving’ me something. I mean you ain’t been laughing and joking with Miss Nomie. That ain’t like you.’ she said.
‘I’m sorry, I signed my divorce today. It kinda pissed me off a little. You know?’
‘I ain’t never been married, but I knows what you mean. Nobody wants to feel like a failure’ she said.
‘I guess that’s it. It’s a pretty sorry man that can’t please one little whore.’ I said it with a smile.
‘That’s better. Now you go back and speak to Miss Nomie. She be mighty hurt you leave without speakin’ to her again.’
I walked through the kitchen door and found Miss Nomie with a long thin wooden paddle in her hand. ‘What in the world you going to do with that Miss Nomie?’ I asked.
‘I’m gonna shove it up your sorry ass, if you ignore me one more time. Where you been keeping yourself?’ The very large, very black woman asked it with a smile almost as large as her face.
‘Here and there, you know how it is with us popular guys.’ I said.
‘Bullshit, if you was a popular guy, you wouldn’t eat half you meals in my café alone. You are a Liar but you are a good customer.’
‘I thought that was the same thing,’ I said.
‘I guess it is at that,’ she replied.
‘I just stopped in to say hi. I got to be getting’ back to the office.’
‘What office. I heard that no good wife of yours got it in the divorce.’
‘She did, but I still got to work. I’ve been working’ out of my apartment.’
‘Well you go on back to work then. You disturbin’ my cookin’ anyway.’
I didn’t reply I turned to leave. I made it out the door without running into anyone I knew. All the regulars at the Sanitary Café spoke to each other. They also knew everything about every other regular. A nosier bunch could only be found at the retirement home down the street. The Sanitary was the only truly integrated place on earth. Half the customers were black and half were white. At the Sanitary, if you were white you better have thick skin. I have very thick skin.
The atmosphere might be lousy, but the food was wonderful. It was mostly heavy with animal fat, but damn it tasted good. You exchanged a good meal for five years of your life.
Nomie always said, ‘Honey, that five years comes off the back end.’
When I finally made it back to the apartment, I found the message light on my new answering machine blinking. I punched the button and heard, ‘Ron, this is Norma. Am I ever going to get that piece on the Benson Festival. I needed it yesterday. By the way, are you available to cover a Dog show for me this weekend.’
‘Damn,’ I thought. ‘Thousand word articles for magazines were a hell of a way for a serious writer to make a living.’ I was a serious writer, even if my two novels had been rejected by about every publisher in the western world. Meanwhile, I did pretty well writing humor pieces for magazines like the Southerner. They didn’t pay all that well, but I cranked out pieces for a lot more than just the one magazine.
Novels on the other hand took months to write. They so far had been a total waste of my time. I wrote the occasional mystery short story for true detective and the like. They paid better, but still barely enough to make them worthwhile. I sat down with my new fangled word processor. I inserted the disk marked Benson. I wrote a couple of quick paragraphs then printed it out. The printer was slow and noisy, but it did better than I could have done. When the pages were completed, I unfolded them, tore them apart then packaged them to ship to the Southerner. I then called Norma with a clear conscience.
‘Norma, Ron, I just finished your piece on Benson’s Mule Festival. I am headed to the post office as soon as we hang up. Where is the dog show? How much do you want? and most important, what are you paying?’ I asked it without a break.
‘Damn good to talk to you too.’ Norma said it in a cracking voice. ‘The show is in Greensboro. It runs through Sunday. I don’t really care who wins. I want a piece on the camper lifestyle. You know, traveling with a couple of dogs in a tin can, that kind of thing. Give me a couple of thousand words. I’ll give you five hundred for it.’ she said.
‘Hell you gave me three hundred for the Benson thing, it was only one thousand.’
‘Sure, but this one is in your back yard. Besides you can do two thousand as easy as one.’ There was dead air for a couple of seconds. ‘By the way, how do you like that new computer?’ she asked.
‘What this glorified typewriter? I can’t believe you talked me into spending five hundred bucks on this piece of cap.’
‘Well at least it can spell.’
‘No much,’ I countered.
I just got one exactly like it. If you want, you can mail me the disk.’
‘Like hell, it is bad enough I have to mail you a copy. If that thing got lost in the mail, it would be the only copy. I would have to start from square one.’
‘I know, these things have a long way to go,’ Norma said.
‘You sure got that right. The only good thing about them, is that you can make corrections without striking over the word. The print out at least doesn’t have a lot of X’d out words.’
‘You just wait, one day every office in the country will have one,’ Norma said.
‘Sure and a chicken in every pot.’ I replied sarcastically.
‘Okay smart ass, you going to do the dog show for me.?’ she asked.
‘Why not, I need the money.’
‘I want it by a week from Friday, no excuses,’ Norma said.
‘Hey, my writing may be cap., but it is always on time.’ I replied. I was hurt.
‘I know love, I just have to say that to all our writers.’
‘You said it, so now let’s forget it.’ I said it but not nearly as angrily as I wanted.
‘How about you come to Atlanta this next week?.’
‘Norma, I am not about to let you pay me off in ass. I want real money.’ I said it with a laugh.
‘Ron, you know I can’t balance the budget, if you keep insisting on cash.’ she returned my laugh. ‘Damn, I got to run, my husband just walked in.’ She said it while breaking the connection. I had no idea at that time whether she was married or not.
I actually kept my word, I drove straight to the post office ten blocks away. After my short trip, I was walking down the hall toward my apartment when a door opened. ‘Remember me,’ the thin redhead said as she stepped into the hall.
‘Sure, Jennifer, right?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I need another favor.’ She stated that with
a coy smile.
‘Sure come on in, the phone is where you left it.’ I said it as we walked toward my apartment.
‘Not the phone this time, I need to leave a package with you.’
‘Why,’ I asked. I had long ago stopped agreeing to favors, before I knew the extent of the services required.
‘I have to take off for a couple of days. Business, anyway a friend of mine is going to be coming for the package. I am going to leave a note on my door. That is if you agree to keep it for me.’
‘When is your friend coming? I have to go to Greensboro tomorrow.’
‘Don’t worry Pat will be here tonight. If she isn’t, don’t worry she will catch up with you sometime.’ I hadn’t agreed so she stood waiting.
‘One more question, What exactly is the package. I mean I am not delivering dope, or live animals am I?’
Jennifer giggled, ‘No, nothing like that. It is just a book, I promised to loan her. You can look, if you want.’ she said offering me a paper bag. I opened the bag and found inside a hard cover romance novel. It was exactly what she said it would be.
‘Sure, I’ll take care of it for you,’ I finally agreed.
‘You certainly are a suspicious man,’ Jennifer said.
‘That’s what my ex said, when I caught her sleeping with her boss.’
‘I guess that would make you suspicious. Don’t worry, I’m not sleeping with my boss.’ She said it with that coy smile of hers.
‘I guess that’s a good thing.’ I took the book to my apartment. Once inside I began working on the last two pages of a short story I was working on for a detective magazine. I had already rewritten the ending twice. I still couldn’t get it to end cleanly.
I didn’t realize how long I had been working on the story, until I glanced out the window. The sun was going down. I looked at my watch to make sure the sun was on schedule. Sure enough it was five thirty five.
I pronounced the story complete at six. It was printing, while I heated a TV dinner in the oven. I knew that one day those things would change. They hadn’t changed much since their invention in the fifties. As a matter of fact, the one in the oven might have been around that long.
While I waited, I sipped on a glass of iced tea. Yes, I drank iced tea even in the winter. Also it was always summer in my apartment. The heat was controlled by a little old lady on the first floor. She kept her apartment warm as toast. The upstairs apartments got that same amount of heat, plus some from the downstairs apartments as well. It was probably eighty degrees in my apartment at any given time. I never complained, I like a hot room. Besides the heat was included in the rent.
I heard the timid knock on the door above the whine of the printer. I looked out, since I wasn’t sure exactly what to expect from Jennifer’s pick up person. I saw the pale distorted face of a woman standing in front of my door. I quickly opened it for her.
‘Yes?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know if this is the right place or not, but there is a note on my friends door. I am supposed to pick up a package?’ There was a larger degree of uncertainty in her voice, than the note should have caused.
‘And your name is?’ I asked.
‘Adrian, my friend’s note said she would leave a package with you for me to pick up.’
I had been writing too many mystery stories, I told myself. Still I couldn’t get over her nervous manner. ‘I’m afraid not. Sorry, but I don’t have any package for you Adrian.’
‘I don’t understand?’ she made the statement a question.
‘Who was supposed to leave the package for you?’ I asked.
‘My friend, she lives two doors down. Her note said she had left it with the man in two J. That is your apartment number?’
‘It sure is, but I don’t have a package for you.’ I tried to sound like I had no idea what she was talking about. ‘What is your friend’s name?’ I asked.
‘If you don’t have the package, then I must be mistaken.’ She said it as she turned to hurry from the hall. I was more puzzled by that, than by her giving me the wrong name. Damn that Jennifer, what he hell had she given me?
I closed the door, then threw the extra bolt, which I had never done before. It was probably my imagination working overtime, but I wanted a closer look at that book, before I delivered it to anyone. I opened the bag, then thumbed through the book. The book was empty except of course for the words. I checked the blank pages in the front and rear, hoping for some kind of message or something. I was at the point of deciding that Jennifer just gave me the wrong name for her friend, when I found it. Inside the hollow of the spine someone, presumably Jennifer, had placed a piece of paper.
Aspen
- 09.03.2020
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