by Mindela Ruby
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\nThanks to my pygmy bladder, I wake before sunrise and stumble to the bathroom where, under sixty fresh watts of a light bulb bummed off my neighbor, a sluggish, inch-long cockroach hunkers in the sink.<\/p>\n
\u201cVamoose!\u201d I tell it and sit to do my business. Instead of pushing the toilet handle, I mind Ma\u2019s water conservation byword: Flush down the brown\/ Let the yellow mellow<\/em>. The reassurance of sour piss \u2013 the piddling extent of my family legacy. I pull up my shot-elastic briefs.<\/p>\n The stink that irked me as a pre-teen was the loose wino turd in Ma\u2019s undies. Hippie Bob, her precious husband, never changed her dooked BVDs or helped lift her off the floor. He\u2019d step over her prostrated body and say he\u2019s the only one in the family with self-respect. According to him, we were trashy losers who ought to kiss his ass.<\/p>\n Kick his ass is what we should have done. I flush and look at the cockroach. It hasn\u2019t moved and doesn\u2019t skedaddle when I tap his shell. Aren\u2019t these pesks supposed to be indestructible? This one\u2019s a limp-antenna goner.\u00a0I flip his pellet body over, not on purpose, into some basin muck. Stuck in mire \u2013 familiar feeling. This roach deserves a proper burial. Least I can do for a fellow inhabitant of earth.<\/p>\n Beneath the purple sky outdoors, alley cats screech a fucky-fighty duet as I kneel in the plant bed near the lobby door. Waterlogged and missing a leg, the insect waits on a square of toilet paper on the sidewalk. I dig a grave with a teaspoon I\u2019ve brought out. Goosebumps smear down my bare legs as I sing a line of a song by The Damned:<\/p>\n Or \u201cshall\u201d we survive? I wonder.\u00a0A car slants out of the dark and comes alongside the curb. Oakland Police have a knack for showing up unwanted.<\/p>\n Daryl Prettyman, a night patrolman who booked me on a Drunk and Disorderly last year, opens his window. His ears ride so low they\u2019re on his neck, not his head.<\/p>\n \u201cEverything alright, ma\u2019am?\u201d his drab soldier voice says over the dogged thrum of his motor.<\/p>\n I scratch my behind. This chauvinist let the lunkhead I was carousing with off the hook last year and arrested just me.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019re you up to?\u201d he says.<\/p>\n \u201cBurying a dead pet.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAt this hour?\u201d he says, as if the sanctioned pet burial portion of night has passed. He glances around for a beloved feline or gerbil and doesn\u2019t notice the deceased waiting on the sidewalk to take its dirtnap. \u201cYou have permission to place remains in this yard?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, sir,\u201d I lie, feeling jurisdictional eyes considering me. I spade a thorny berry shoot with the spoon.<\/p>\n Prettyman\u2019s arm drapes down the cruiser door.<\/p>\n \u201cHow \u2018bout you stop that?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWho\u2019s it bothering?\u201d I lick my knuckles and taste blood. \u201cBacon-brain.\u201d<\/p>\n The car door opens, and out steps \u201cOakland\u2019s finest\u201d in full regalia. As if my current fate wasn\u2019t demoralizing enough to begin with.<\/p>\n \u201cNow, see,\u201d he says, fingering his puppety ear, \u201cit bothers me<\/em> when a citizen disses the police force.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSorry.\u201d I wriggle into a squat, ligaments burning.<\/p>\n Pretty Badge peers around for a critter or incriminating evidence to bust me for.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s my job to keep my beat safe.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s everyone\u2019s fixation on staying safe?\u201d I mutter. My bestest friend, who called me out on some recent nasty sexcapades, is a big safety advocate. She believes I\u2019m endangering myself. I can\u2019t say she\u2019s wrong for wanting no part in it. Oh, how I miss her company, though.<\/p>\n \u201cYou better go indoors,\u201d the cop says.<\/p>\n Above the East Bay hills, first dawn gleams, the color of just-forged steel, as if this new day might hammer itself out less tarnished than previous ones.<\/p>\n When I stab a chokehold of dandelion, the spoon handle buckles into candy cane shape.<\/p>\n \u201cYou ever see that TV magician that bent spoons with the power of his mind?\u201d I say.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t think I have.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy step-dad, the expert spirit-crusher, claimed it was a trick.\u201d<\/p>\n Pretty\u2019s face holds its official blank expression.<\/p>\n \u201cNo magic here.\u201d I fling the spoon away. It gyres through the air, strikes the police car fender and plonks to the asphalt.<\/p>\n \u201cStep forward, ma\u2019am,\u201d the officer says.<\/p>\n I know from experience that stern-voiced cops expect to be obeyed. But no giddy-up\u2019s in me. My knees are stiff as padlocks. I\u2019m rooted to the ground.<\/p>\n \u201cThat was accidental,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n His hand twitches near his gun belt.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019ve been instructed to stand.\u201d<\/p>\n Though Daryl probably won\u2019t shoot, he might be gunning to put hurt on me, more than I\u2019m prepared to bear. I limp out of the flower bed, arms POW high. The surrender pose excites me. But my right foot\u2019s pins and needles, frozen like a clubfoot. I have to stomp feeling back into it.<\/p>\n \u201cMiss?\u201d Pretty says.<\/p>\n Wagging my boot victoriously, I notice a paper scrap wedged in its cleats.<\/p>\n \u201cMy bug!\u201d I pluck out the shred and turn it over in my hands. Search and rescue\u2019s hopeless. The cucaracha is a smear at best, and I\u2019m woe-is-mea-culpa crushed, too. The small things in life are what break us.<\/p>\n My arms flail like let-loose water hoses. Pretty vises me in a body lock. I hang half naked in his police custody arms, cursing, \u201cFucker! Ass-wipe!\u201d<\/p>\n His service revolver is holstered inches from my face. I\u2019ve never touched a real-life pistol. Soon as I do, he tackles me to the pavement, locks my wrists into metal cuffs, frisks me from the waist up, and, before the thrill of that wears off, hoists me by the sweater with excessive force into the backseat of his car.<\/p>\n Thick wire mesh separates the front seat from the back. The Gestapo dispatches a radio report I decipher only \u201c10-50\u201d out of. I rub my snotty palms on the plastic seat cover, look out the window and wonder if my sick neighbor is watching me get in trouble out here. I hope she\u2019s sleeping and missing all this.<\/p>\n \u201cFive-O,\u201d I say, \u201cWhat you got on me?\u201d<\/p>\n He re-clips the mike to its mount and twists around. \u201cSay what?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSay wuh?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMa\u2019am, what\u2019s your beef?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou wrecked my attempt at a good deed!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPark.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPark what?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBorn Under a Dark Star Park. MacArthur Park.\u201d<\/p>\n He turns and starts the car.<\/p>\n Eventually I\u2019ll have to tell him my full name, Dickinson Park. \u201cDid someone from my building call the cops?\u201d I say. \u201cOr was you showing up my crummy luck? I wasn\u2019t trying anything funny with the weapon.\u201d<\/p>\n The cop turns again with a searching glance I feel the need to explain away.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s just that my whole groove\u2019s gone bust in one swell foop.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFell swoop?\u201d he says.<\/p>\n \u201cNot even that fast. My life\u2019s been going steadily downhill for months.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHappens to the best of us.\u201d<\/p>\n There\u2019s this about cops: you can bare your heart, and they sit you out and protect and serve. With my undies clumped in my butt crack, the plastic seat\u2019s perforations are scratching my exposed buns.<\/p>\n \u201cGetting busted doesn\u2019t help, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n The police radio fuzzes on and fizzles off.\u00a0\u201cSimmer down,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n The sash of sunrise widens. I sigh.<\/p>\n \u201cGot a right to know what you\u2019re charging me with.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201c314, probably.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat-what-four?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMisdemeanor lewd exposure.\u201d<\/p>\n I rub my knees together. He thinks this is lewd?<\/p>\n \u201cAnimal carcass violation,\u201d he mumbles. \u201cAnother possibility.\u201d<\/p>\n I bat tears off my cheek and think of more lyrics from \u201cWait for the Blackout\u201d:<\/p>\n \u201cProbably transfer you from the stationhouse to the psych facility in San Leandro,\u201d the cop says.<\/p>\n \u201cJohn George? Please, no. I\u2019d rather cool my heels in the slammer than go the heebie-jeebie bin again.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA clinician should evaluate you. You could be a danger to yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n Not this old story again.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m no psycho! Swear on my mother\u2019s grave.\u201d<\/p>\n He smiles, not knowing Ma\u2019s still alive and kicking.<\/p>\n \u201cAlright, then,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n I smile back. There might be a way out of getting arrested.<\/p>\n \u201cYou know how cops put the moves on girls sometimes?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, I do not.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSure, you do. It\u2019s common knowledge that copsicles use the badge and their vested authority to get girls to do them.\u201d I lean on the screen and blow on Pretty\u2019s neck. \u201cSome girls are up for a little copophilia if it keeps \u2018em out of trouble.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI stopped listening five minutes ago,\u201d he says, shoving his gear-shifter. My building drops from sight.<\/p>\n \u201cRear entrance, some playful spanky-spank,\u201d I say. \u201cYou can get it here, Daryl baby.\u201d<\/p>\n He brakes so hard my forehead bonks the screen.<\/p>\n \u201cKeep it zipped,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n I slide back on the seat and snort down more snot as we drive past the boarded-shut grocery I used to buy Doritos and cigarettes at, before Mom and Pop got deported. \u201cYou\u2019re on duty; I get it,\u201d I say. \u201cRules and regs, respecting my rights. I was just foolin\u2019 with ya. Onward to the clink.\u201d<\/p>\n My cuffed hands pull my sweater over my thighs.<\/p>\n \u201cCan I get a blanket at the station? And this time can you not call my parents? Don\u2019t want my ma paying for bail or my step-dad blow-harding advice. I\u2019d rather freezate at Boy George than take more wrong-rub from him.\u201d<\/p>\n We pass renovated buildings a century old, full of nice clean men, outside my shady little orbit. No cockroaches, no disappointment.<\/p>\n \u201cIf you change your mind, pull over here.\u201d I point to a massive stucco house with white shutters, circa 1930. \u201c\u2019Cause you\u2019re the man. And I\u2019m just a half-naked skank with bound hands and a juicy \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShut that filthy mouth!\u201d He stops the car, throws off his seatbelt, throws his door open, throws my door open, and throws me to the curb. He unlocks my nippers and throws them down near me.<\/p>\n \u201cI thought you were carting me to the loony farm?\u201d I say.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t want to deal with you.\u201d<\/p>\n I rub my wrists. \u201cWhat if I wanna deal with you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGo home.\u201d<\/p>\n He slams my door shut. I crawl to his shoes.<\/p>\n \u201cDrag me half-undressed blocks from home and abandon me? Police brutality!\u201d I grab his legs to pull myself up, one hand accidentally slithering over his wiener.<\/p>\n He pulls his gun. This time I\u2019m not so sure he won\u2019t shoot.<\/p>\n \u201cEasy,\u201d I say, backing away. It\u2019s one thing to act smutty, another to get capped for it. I flap my arms like a moth. \u201cSee? I\u2019m flying home, like you said.\u201d<\/p>\n He gets in his car and is off to harass other small fry in the \u2018hood, leaving me across the street from the wall I smashed my toe on three weeks ago, when my ex-friend Bridgit got mad about my fiendish sex antics and dumped me off without a toodle-ooh. I hear a garbage truck clanging down the block.<\/p>\n On this side of the street is a strip of grass all springy green from the recent rains. I lie down and let dew penetrate my sweater. At the sidewalk\u2019s edge my fingers hook onto something hard and cold. I pull it toward my face.<\/p>\n Handcuffs. The discombobulated po-po forgot that he threw them down. I flip to my stomach and inhale the brawny sweetness of the ground through the unlatched loop of one handcuff ring.<\/p>\n \u201cToo bright out here,\u201d I say through the bracelet, thinking of \u201cWait for the Blackout.\u201d I hum a few notes and lay my head down. Under this grass live relatives of my cockroach: worms, earwigs, millipedes.<\/p>\n \u201cCan\u2019t even get myself arrested,\u201d I tell them, conspiratorially.<\/p>\n But there\u2019s no indication they hear. by Mindela Ruby Thanks to my pygmy bladder, I wake before sunrise and stumble to the bathroom where, under sixty fresh watts of a light bulb bummed off my neighbor, a sluggish, inch-long cockroach hunkers in the sink. \u201cVamoose!\u201d I … Continue reading
\nYet we shall both survive\u2026<\/em><\/center><\/p>\n
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\nMINDELA RUBY<\/strong> has been a nanny, motel maid, tutor and punk radio deejay. She currently works as a community college professor. Some of her recent fiction has appeared in Boundoff, The Medulla Review, Emprise Review, The Binnacle and Literary Mama.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"