Candy Delivery

George winced at the sound of his abused handbrake crunching its way up. State funds rarely stretched to preventative maintenance, and every click of the handle drove nails of frustration into his skull. He silenced his siren, left the lights spinning red and blue against the trees and called in the traffic stop to dispatch. Reaching over to the mounted laptop, he checked those damned boxes to confirm he had followed protocol, entered the plate number, switched on his body cam and finally, was able to open his door and act like a human being. If it had been George’s decision, he would have let the guy go about his business. Running a red by a fraction of second was hardly grounds for punishment. Hell, he’d done it. But all those cameras, they didn’t allow for common courtesy, and it would be his neck on the line if he didn’t make the call that aligned with policy. Sometime before his sideburns had turned grey, he had accepted that the ‘right’ decision, often felt wrong. He crunched his feet over the gravel shoulder, flicking his flashlight between the uneven surface and the car ahead. A boxy Toyota Corolla, nineties model by the plate. Although, he could have figured that himself by the peeling paint and billowing exhaust. George dragged his feet up to the driver's window and rapped on it with the heel of his torch. He hated when they made him do that. Down the glass went, agonisingly slow and full of suspense, ready to reveal a new face to add to the long list of all those that hated him. Despite having uttered them thousands of times in his long career, George stuttered over his first words, and had to double take at the eyes staring up at him. It was not Mr. Farley, as his laptop had told him to expect, and he was most certainly not a pensioner. It was a boy, no more than nine years old, with a writhing fury rippling across his face.

“Good evening there, son.” George said, unsure what else to say, “I’m just going to reach in and grab those keys from you, alright?”

The boy did nothing but stare daggers at him, as he very slowly pushed his hand into the lion's maw and pulled the key from the ignition. Every one of the scraping ridges vibrated through his arm as it pulled free.

“My name is Officer Chiarenza, what's yours?” He said, forcing a smile into his lips and fighting the urge to chastise the youngster. That constant flame in his eyes was disconcerting. The glow of the red, then blue lights against his face made it worse.

“Bugs Bunny”

George sighed.

“Well, Bugs,” He said, “How is it that you find yourself behind the wheel of a car in the middle of the night?”

“Had someplace to be.”

“And where was that? Your parents couldn’t take you?”

The kid scoffed, and George knew immediately that he was either orphan, or worse, wished he was. He reassessed the person in the drivers seat. This wasn’t just some kid. He noted the scuffed knuckles, the hint of a bruise under his collar, the subtly worn-out clothing. The constant aggression of a cornered beast emanating from him. He seemed unable to relax for even a moment, for fear of attack. White, but not some spoiled brat out for a joy ride. No. Something else entirely. It was in this examination that George saw it, that subconscious shift of the eyes backward. The one that always revealed the truth. He swept his flashlight through the rest of the car, and seeing it completely empty, knew the next step from long, hardened experience.

“Pop the trunk for me, son.” He sighed.

Officer George Chiarenza was a black cop in Louisiana. So, when he told people he was not a religious man, and only had one prayer than he ever uttered, they were always surprised. He knew how unusual he was. He rarely cared. He mumbled that single prayer to himself as he depressed the latch and lifted the trunk lid of the old car.

“Please God, don’t be a body. Please God, don’t be body…”

Through squinting eyes he saw a sea of stacked boxes and let out a sigh of relief for the lack of blood and body parts. All of the cardboard cubes were small and packed in tight. It took some encouragement for one to come free, but when it slid out, George barely managed to contain his laughter. Illuminated with a circle of light from his torch, in big black printed letters on the side of the box, read, SOUR CANDIES. On another he saw, gobstoppers, and further back cola bottles. Seemed like he had apprehended the candy store robbery that had gone wide, with great mirth, on the radio earlier that evening. The kid had jimmied the locks, emptied their store room and made it most of the way across town with a horde of sugar. He was almost home free, only to be caught out by rushing a red light. George shook his head, almost wishing the boy had made it. He looked like he deserved a treat more than most. The tension left his shoulders and stowing away his smile, he reached up to close the trunk and do his duty anyway, as policy obligated. That was when his nerves ignited, to the sound of a latch and the rock of the car, as the driver's door swung open.

Officer Chiarenza’s training and years of service did him proud. He dropped into a crouch and pulled his weapon. Boys were just as dangerous as men, if they had the right tools in hand. And it was always right to assume the worst. He called out.

“Bugs? I need you to return to your vehicle! Stay seated!” He yelled from behind the cover of the trunk door.

“I can’t!” He roared, “I need to deliver them boxes, or I’m dead!”

“Return to the vehicle! We can talk about it!” George shouted back.

Please just get back in the car, kid.

“I told you! I can’t!” He shouted, his voice cracking on the last word. Hearing the sound of his dismay, George made his choice. He stepped from behind the trunk and out into the open. He held his weapon high, bracing his shoulders and bending his knees, just in case. He was glad he did. ‘Bugs’ was stood there, feet planted overly wide, holding a pistol that was far too big for his hands and pointing it straight at George’s chest.

Officer Chiarenza held firm. But he knew what this looked like. Black cop, raised weapon, against a white kid. He could see the headlines already.

ANGRY OFFICER GUNS DOWN YOUNG BOY IN RETALIATION SHOOTING.

Ignoring the gun, robbery and grand theft auto, he was a good kid. He had bright future, cut short by racial violence. What are we to do about our warring and corrupt police force?

The camera strapped to his chest. Those check boxes on his laptop. The regulations and the forms. His history. None of it mattered when you were staring down the barrel of a gun and had to choose.

“Bugs. It’s just candy.” George said, blowing air through his nose, “Come on, son. Put the gun down. It’s not all that.”

“You don’t get it!” He shouted. That anger pouring out over his words, leaving only the fear behind. His hand trembled, his bottom lip quivered, and George could see the turmoil roiling beneath the fury-soaked shell, “They’ll kill me if I go to prison! They’ll kill me if I go back without it! The only way I don’t die, is if you let me go, or if I make you!”

“Who would kill you for sweets? If it's some other kids, you don’t need to worry, lad. Come with me and we will keep you safe. You stole the candy and the car, but you’re young, you’ll probably get a slap on the wrist, that’s all. As for any danger you’re in, you’d be better off under our roof.”

The child laughed, and George heard the age in it. Far too old a soul for such a young body.

“Are you stupid or somethin’?” He asked, “Don’t you understand? It was my fault. Labelled the boxes wrong. They went to the wrong store. I had to get ‘em back. A’fore they notice…”

“Please, son. Just drop the gun. It doesn’t matter what's in the trunk. It’s not worth your life.’

“I’m NOT your SON!” He yelled, picking the barrel up from where it had drooped for a moment, “Just lemme go!”

George paused for a moment. Talking the boy down wasn’t working. He had to make a choice. The only real question was, what was he willing to risk for this tortured child?

As much to his surprise, and to the boys, by his widening eyes. It turned out he would risk it all. Procedure be damned, George dropped his weapon and holstered it. Holding his hands out wide, and taking slow steps forward, he spoke in a gentle, soothing voice.

“You’re right,” he said, “I don’t understand what all this is about. All I know is that you are afraid of something, and no matter what you might have been told. It’s my job to protect you. I don’t care what you’ve done, I just want us both to walk away from here alive. That’s the only way this gets fixed.”

He was halfway across the distance and still free of holes. George kept his steady pace forward and noticed the increasingly erratic wobbling of the boys gun. He invented a new prayer that day.

Please don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.

“The people that made you do this. They are not going to hurt you. I promise. I’ll make sure of it myself. You come with me and I’ll stay by your side. I won’t leave you. I’ll keep you safe.”

Officer Chiarenza was within arms reach of the loaded firearm, which if fired, would hit him point blank in the chest and likely kill him instantly. He slowly raised his arm, pressed his hand to the child’s own, and pulled it from his grip. Tears fled in streams from the boy's eyes. His chest wracked with sobs. He was so afraid. They both were. As soon as the weapon was out of his hands, ‘Bugs’ collapsed forward and pressed his face into Georges ribs and cried. He wrapped his arms around the kid and felt his tiny body release every inch of emotion that had been clamped down inside it. George did the same, only in strong silence.

After standing there for some time, holding the lad, while the bright lights of intermittent traffic streaked past, George ushered him into the back of his car. He draped a blanket around his shoulders, then closed the door and with him safely secured, let out a long breath and pressed his forehead to the roof of his patrol car. Still not knowing what to make of it all, and worried he had almost lost his life over candy, he walked over to the still open trunk. He took out a knife and sliced into one of the boxes. Inside, he found packets of tight-wrapped white powder, that he was certain was not sherbet.

Why was it always drugs?

He shook his head, called it in and got ready for a long night of waiting by the side of a lost and abused kid, that needed his help more than he had realised.