One Crazy Morning

One Crazy Morning

The craziness began when I woke up and quit my job.

I had no idea what I was dreaming because as soon as my eyes popped open the dream dissolved like melting images in a Dali painting. Without thinking, I grabbed my cellphone from my nightstand and speed dialed my supervisor to tell him I was quitting my job. 

Tom is also a friend and he offered me his honest reaction. "Go to hell, Robert. It's 4:30 in the damn morning."

I thanked him for the time of day. "The reason I'm quitting," I said, "is because of a dream I just had that I forgot the moment I woke up."

"What are you talking about?" Tom's voice grew louder. "Go back to sleep before I remember this conversation." I heard him tell his wife I was drunk. 

"I haven't remembered a dream in years, Tom. Do you know what that means?"

"It doesn't mean anything," he said.  

"That's the point. I used to have dreams. Sometimes they scared me. Sometimes I woke up laughing. Or thinking. But I remembered them."

"So?" Tom was shouting now.   

"If dreams represent a person's inner life, I have no inner life."

"You've been drinking, haven't you?" He lowered his voice. "You best sober up fast, pal. We meet with Leonard at eight. We should both be able to celebrate after that."

"I'm not drunk. Besides, I just quit, so I don't care about Leonard or our meeting."

Tom growled an obscenity and hung up.

I threw my cellphone across the room, scaring myself. Violent outbursts weren't like me. Emily, my ex-girlfriend, said if emotions run from 0 to 100, mine stay between 49 and 51. The phone sounded like it shattered when it hit the wall, but without my glasses I couldn't see for sure. What surprised me was that I didn't care.

I felt liberated, alive and hungry.

I showered and less than an hour later, I was at Bates Truck Stop on I-85, devouring a T-bone steak, eggs and potatoes. I always wanted to order the steak and eggs special at a greasy diner, but never dared. The last time I had a steak, I paid thirty dollars. This one cost $12.99, and it came with two sunny-side up eggs and hash browns. I ordered the steak rare. The red blood mixed with the yellow egg to form a goo that wasn't quite pink or orange, more like the color of the desert sky at sunset.  

When you order a thirty-dollar steak, there's no ketchup at the table. Here I had the choice of ketchup, mustard, three kinds of steak sauce, and a green chili sauce. I decided to add a drop of each, and sop it up with a piece of greasy toast. 

Nothing I ever ate tasted better.

I expected my acid reflux to start burning any minute, so I automatically reached for my Zantac. But I felt fine. Better than fine. I felt downright exuberant. When the waitress asked if there was anything else I wanted, I almost ordered another steak. Instead, I said, "No thanks, sweetheart." I think that was the first time in my life I had ever uttered aloud the word, "sweetheart."

I picked up the steak bone and yanked at the last bit of meat with my front teeth. Blood and grease and egg and ketchup dripped down my lips.

It was still only a little before six. I considered going home to clean up for the meeting with Leonard, after calling to apologize to Tom. No sense in throwing away a perfectly good job just because I had a dream I couldn't remember. But I felt so damn good, I wasn't sure what to do.

I paid my bill, and just as I stepped out of the restaurant a woman asked me if I wanted a date. I just stared, not quite sure I heard her right. She looked about my age, maybe a little younger, and had a toothy smile that appeared oddly off center. Her make-up was Barnum and Bailey thick, and she tottered on heels. She wore shorts and a tight top, cut low enough to hint at firm breasts. My first thought was that this was some kind of Halloween prank.  

She looked good, despite the get-up. Cute would be a more apt description. Judging from this woman's body, she obviously kept in shape. I stopped thinking like a financial planner who calculated his every move.  

Always articulate, and ready with a quick retort, I said something like, "Huh?"

She repeated herself, smiled, and turned towards the truck parking lot. "Where's your rig?"

She thought I was a trucker. I puffed out my chest a little. Finally, I said, "Over here," pointing to the front lot and towards my sensible gray Volvo.

The next thing I knew, I was asking if she wanted to go for a ride.

"Are you sure you want--?"

"Yes," I said quickly, afraid I'd change my mind.

My knees wobbled and I almost fell down. She took my arm. What the hell was I doing? This wasn't me. I was the good boy who worked hard in college and impressed the boss at work. Now I was opening the passenger door of my car to let in a hooker.  

"How much?" I asked, still the financial genius. 

"Depends what you want." She listed her prices so matter-of-fact , I thought for a moment she might sideline at a tire dealership. 

I checked my wallet and saw that I had only enough cash for oral sex, which was fine with me. But when I took out the money and told her my choice, she pulled a badge from her purse and said I was under arrest. Next, she took out a little card and read me my rights, just like on TV. I was too dazed to listen, but I remember wondering why she didn't have them memorized.

A blinding light glared in my eyes. Squinting, I saw a large black man with a badge and flashlight in his hands. He pulled open my door and asked me to get out of the car. 

"I've never done anything this before," I told him, hoping to impress him as a good citizen. 

"Uh-huh," he said. "Lean over the car and spread your legs."

Me. Robert Feingold, an A student who never even smoked pot in college, I was being searched. I'll say one thing: the search was a lot more thorough than the one they do at the airport.

He asked for my car keys and driver's license and walked off talking on his phone.

A moment later, he pulled up in a patrol car and the hooker cop helped me into the back seat, saying, "Watch your head." Again, just like on TV. She told me she'd dispense with the handcuffs if I promised to be a good boy. 

Sitting in the back seat of the police car, I began shaking. I tried my best to hold back sobs, but a couple escaped. Officer Hooker--she told me her real name but I had forgotten it--turned to look at me. Our eyes met. For a second, I thought she felt almost as embarrassed as I. Almost. She, at least, was doing her job. I had no idea what I was doing.

Although scared out of my mind, I still felt energized. I began talking quickly. I don't remember a word I said.

At the police station, she put me in handcuffs. "Procedure," she said. She asked if they were too tight. Not knowing how tight they were supposed to be, I said they were fine. The metal was cold, but I didn't dare complain. She took me to another room with a metal door that she unlocked. It closed with a jolt behind us. Just as we entered, she said, "I have to search you again," and she had me turn and lean against the wall. Her search was as thorough as the first one.

She apologized as she patted down my crotch.

She pointed to a chair beside a desk and told me to sit down, she'd be right back. Removing the handcuffs, she asked a uniformed officer to keep an eye on me.

There were other desks and people in the room, but I could barely see any of them.  I was too scared to look around. What I did see were small cells, with bars, on the far side of the room. I thought about how I probably needed a lawyer, but the ones I knew were tax attorneys. For a moment, I worked on a pun involving my liability, but the steak and eggs made a sudden appearance. I thought no one noticed me grabbing the little trashcan by the desk and coughing up my breakfast, but soon an elderly black man unlocked the metal doors, pushing a mop and pail. He offered me paper toweling from a role on his cart, and I thanked him. As I wiped my pants and shoes, I said, "I guess I'm not the first to throw up here, huh?"

He looked up and almost smiled. "I work steady." 

The officer who was babysitting me brought me a cup of water and escorted me to the men's room. 

A little while later, I was fingerprinted. I filled out more forms than I do at the job. A new uniformed officer escorted me back to the locked room. He took off his guns and secured them in a locker next to the metal door before we entered. Finally, a woman in uniform sat down and began typing information into a computer on the desk. Officer Lattner, her name tag read. I didn't recognize her at first, but she was the one who had arrested me. Her dark hair was pulled back and she looked like she had just scrubbed her face clean. 

She told me there had been complaints at the truck stop of prostitution and was sorry I had gotten involved. The kind words meant so much to me, I wanted to reach over and kiss her. I knew that was a bad idea. She said she tried getting the charges dropped, but I had to go through the system and would be charged with a misdemeanor. Handing me a list of bondsmen, she suggested I call one. She also whispered that I should call a lawyer. Meanwhile, she filled out forms.  

It was 7:30 when I finally became aware of time. Not knowing what to do, I called Tom's cellphone. He was already at work.

"I'm at the police station," I told him.

"You're where?" He thought I was joking. "What are you in for?"  

"I need your help." I said. "I'll explain later."

Finally, I got it across to him that I needed a lawyer. A criminal lawyer. Fast. He assured me he'd make some calls. "I hope you don't mind me not going to the station, buddy. I'll cover for you when I see Leonard."

As if I cared about Leonard.

The lawyer called after a wait, saying he was a friend of Tom. He showed up about an hour later. More waiting, and I was given a court date and released on my own recognizance. The lawyer promised he'd take care of everything, saying something about entrapment.

"Just get me out of here. I want to go home." I felt my throat burning and I feared I'd start crying again. He put his hand on my shoulder. Now I wanted to kiss him.

They returned my wallet and keys, and told me my car was in an impound lot on the other side of town. My lawyer said he was due in court and couldn't drive me home. I called a cab, and sat on a bench outside the police station to wait. A flock of pigeons gathered at my feet.

I heard a woman's voice. "Are you waiting for a ride home?"  

It was Officer Lattner. She still had that embarrassed look in her eyes. When I told her I was waiting for a cab, she said she was off duty and offered me a ride. "Just follow behind me," she said. "I'm in the lot across the street. I don't want anyone to see you leaving with me. I'd never hear the end of it."

I figured, what the hell? So I walked a safe distance behind. When we got to a red Ford Mustang, quite a few years old, I got in, making sure I buckled my seat belt. 

"Thanks for the ride," I said.

She didn't say anything as she backed out of her space. She turned towards me and smiled. "One hell of a crazy morning, huh?" The top right corner of her upper lip remained straight as the rest of her mouth curved upward. It was the kind of smile that looked sinister on Dick Cheney, but on her it was cute.

"Not my typical morning." I didn't know what else to say. "I live off of Piedmont, near…"

"I know," she said. "I did a background check on you. Remember?"

"What else do you know about me?" 

"I know you keep a clean car. You're a lot better educated with a better job than the people I meet around here. I'm pretty sure you don't normally pick up hookers. What I don't know is what you were doing at the Bates Truck Stop at that hour in the morning."

"It's a long story," I said. I wondered for a second if she was still interrogating me for her report, but I relaxed and told her about not remembering my dream. I told her about calling Tom, smashing my cellphone and craving steak and eggs. I looked at the stains on my pants leg and felt myself blush.

"Sounds to me like you're leaving something out. There has to be a girlfriend involved. Or a wife."

Now it was my turn to smile. "An ex girlfriend."

For the next twenty minutes, we talked. I asked her about her job.

"It's not what I thought it would be, being a cop. I know it sounds corny, but I wanted to help people and I didn't want to be a nurse like my mom. But most of the time I'm just doing paperwork. This was my first undercover assignment and look how great it went."

I took a chance. "It seems to be working out pretty well." I looked over at her. I wasn't sure how to read her crooked smile.

When she pulled into my driveway, I thanked her again and asked if she wanted to come in. She said I needed a shower and a change of clothes more than I needed company. I couldn't argue with that.

I asked if I could call her. She said she'd call me, and reminded me that she had my phone number. "Use my home phone number because my cell is broken,” I said.  

There was that crooked smile again.

"By the way," she said, before I started to get out of the car. "My name is Connie."

We shook hands. I was afraid I held hers a bit too long.

The phone rang as soon as I got into the house. I saw it was Tom and I let the message machine take it. There were already seven messages—five from Tom and two from Katherine, my ex. I didn't care what either had to say, although I wanted to thank Tom for the lawyer. I wasn't the slightest bit curious about the meeting with Leonard or what Katherine had to say.

I showered and put on clean clothes. I felt hungry again. This time, I had a bowl of All Bran with a banana and skim milk. After all, I was home. But I did something I had never done before. I added two large spoonfuls of sugar.

I had some serious thinking to do. I knew Tom had found a way to cover for me with Leonard. The job would still be there, if I wanted it. Katherine's messages meant that she, too, was probably there. 

But my mind wasn't on my job or Katherine. I thought of Connie. I looked up Connie Lattner in the phone book, but she wasn't listed. Of course, I thought. She's a cop. Imagine the calls she'd get. 

What if she doesn't call? She was probably just being polite. Why would she call someone she had just arrested for trying to pick up a prostitute?  

While rinsing out my cereal bowl, the phone rang. 

"Hey," she said. "I understand your car's at the impound lot. Need a ride?"

I felt my heart pound at the sound of Connie's voice. It wasn't even twelve, but the afternoon seemed to be shaping up a hell of a lot better than my morning.

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