Ride-along

Greg Munci took one step into the building and realized he was totally, undeniably, fucked. It didn’t take long for him to take complete inventory of the room: about ten feet long and eight feet up, six feet across. To his left was a magazine rack, to his right a small pain of plexi-glass with a talk-hole. Above the magazine table hung a faded print of a flock of sheep standing in a parking lot. Directly in front of him was a wooden door and, surrounding the door frame, an odd sort of metallic border. A metal detector - to keep unauthorized firearms out of the cop shop.

A large voice said:

Mr. Munci! That you sir ?

Greg said:

Officer Moreland?

The booming voice again, closer this time “Please…” All at once there was a massive man dressed in a police uniform behind the plexi “Call me BigJohn. Everybody does” The giant flashed a toothy grin. “You can just come in that door.” And he heard a buzzing noise, confirming the promised buzzing-in.

Greg was still sort of entranced when the buzzer sounded. Different parts of his mind considering different angles and options. On the one hand here he was, about to harvest the vengeful fruits of almost ten years planning. On the other hand, the man before him did not look old or fat or soft as he’d expected. On the contrary, he was mountain-like. Even seated, he was still almost filling the window completely. The sleeves of his uni were burst-ready on his arms. His eyes were a deep stinging red. Even so, Greg felt his resolve stiffen: he was ready to do what he’d promised. Besides, if anything went wrong he’d most certainly die and, at least, gain closure.

All this coursing through his cerebrum in a matter of nano-seconds, and all of it dovetailing in reverse back to one hard truth: He had an unlicensed, unregistered .22 caliber revolver in his pocket, and a Rhino-sized police officer was about to make him pass through a metal detector.

He took one step towards the door, mimed a big “Oh I forgot something in the car moment” and started to turn back. He said: “Ah idiot!” and opened the door to the night, “I forgot my notebook in my car,” and shrugged his shoulders while the rest of him tried to exit.

Hold up!

Greg felt himself freezing still.

BigJohn was standing up now, a total eclipse of the florescent light.

Just come back and I’ll give you a legal pad… Got a thousand of ’em!

Well, I’m sort of attached to mine

He tried to escape again. This time he was actually outside with the door closing behind him when he heard:

GREG!

Greg walked back in and tried to say, “what?”

But all he could muster was a measly breathy rasp. He stood now again in front of BigJohn, unintentionally guessing his weight at about 300 pounds.

Just come inside, sir. I have everything you need here.

Greg said nothing and started moving towards the door. He took one last look around at his life before federal prison, grabbed the door handle and went in.

He didn’t make it.

Shiiiiiiit you know what, sir?

What? Greg burped out.

Wait right there, I’ll come out. I just got an idea.

Greg heard footsteps for a while and then the giant was in the room with him, shaking his hand like to rip it off at the wrist.

I hope you're ready for a wild time duder…

Greg Munci, nodding, “yes” in sweet relief.

And the two men started making their way to BigJohn’s cruiser.

***

Tonight’s gonna’ change your life, sir. You’ll see…

Really. Well let me just say thanks in advance then officer Moreland.

Ha. You said it my friend. You said it.

The cop was driving weirdly. For the first few minutes he just flew around side streets heading in no particular direction. He drove like a 17 year old, flooring it around curves and un-weighting the vehicle through every dip of the road. After about ten minutes of this however, he jumped on the highway headed south, cleared his throat:

So what do you do again Greg?

Well, I’m mostly a freelance writer. I work all around New England, I write features on local civic leaders mostly.

That’s right. You said that on the phone. I’ve been called a lot of things, but never a civic leader. Ha!

Well, I dunno officer you’re certainly a leader around here. Folks in Wakefield can’t get enough of you. You’re a hero.

People are wrong though Greg. I’m just an old beach cop, trying to make his pension in one piece.

Maybe the folks here are just easily impressed, right?

The gigantic cop scrunch up his face and looked over. He said:

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Sudden heavy air in the cop car and Greg stared stuttering and gasping for words…

It’s just that…You know I uh…

I’m just fuckin’ with you buddy. I know my reputation. My guess is the things you see tonight will probably change a thing or two on that score.

He stared at Greg for almost a full mile of 85 mile-an-hour highway driving.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Just sit tight we’re almost there.

Almost where?

Moreland twisted up his features again as if he couldn’t decide:

Wellllll. There’s a few places we can go, and I’m trying to think of the best way to lay this on you.

Moreland was amped and pumped, but also very odd. The guy was wound.

Wow. Sounds like you’ve got a special night planned for us.

You know I’ve been busy as hell these last few days, and you being here means that at least somebody will appreciate that work and in that regard I'm lucky. We are, however, pressed for time, and so I wonder where we'll start.

All of this delivered tentative, hesitant, as if the cop was trying to navigate his way through a poorly-deployed lie. In between Greg could here him mumbling, out loud, to himself. Munci was beginning to doubt the soundness of his mission. He went through second thoughts, then had some third thoughts, and finished up with some fourth and then fifth thoughts. All the while the huge cop still waxing weird.

“C’mon thought Greg. Just pull over somewhere…

***

Barney Allens was many things to many people, although he was debtor, criminal, and vagrant to most. First and foremost though, Barney Allens (call me “BA”!) was a low-bottom, chronic alcoholic. He never let work or his marriage get in the way of that. Because of this he was constantly getting hurt at work and/or beating the intestines out of his wife Brenda. To most people, this type of life-choice would seem vile and damaged but not BA. In the dark backwaters of his own twisted mind Barney Allens had achieved something like balance. He knew what the world expected of him and he played his part to the hilt.

Ironically, it was Allen’s single-minded performance of that part that caused the Samuel Colt company - after almost thirty years - to end their association with him. A general inspection by the board members spelled his downfall.

Who’s that man?

Who? Oh the fat guy? That’s Barney Allens he…

He’s asleep

He what? Wow. He can’t be…You know I think he is asleep.

Barney, deep in the throws of an alcohol-induced REM, did not hear any of the conversation even though most of it took place directly in front of him and speaking directly into his face. A cloud of vodka vapor hung about him and the board members all shook their heads.

They fired him over the phone later that afternoon.

Good ol’ BA though, faithful till the end. It was Colt steel that they found, and pried out of, his cold dead fingers. He’d shot himself in the brain, just under the framed poster in his breakfast nook that said: “you can have my gun when you pry it from my cold dead fingers”. The cops and medical people on the scene would tell that story for years.

They bagged the pistol for evidence and went to type out paperwork. The gun stayed in the evidence room at Allentown, PA Metro-Precinct for 12 years until February of 1998, when it was sold to a pimp named Viper during an “Arms Around the Neighborhood” bake sale and used firearm swap-meet. Mr. Viper got the weapon free with the purchase of a platter of pecan sandies.

***

What Mr.Viper didn’t know was that the (pistol) was never to fire successfully again. Barney Allens ghost hung about it like stink on poop, moistening the powder and fucking with the works. The nether-creature caused catastrophic misfires to no less than 30 people as the gun was bought and sold around the country. A guy in Texas tried to shoot his cheating wife and blew his own hand off. A gentleman in Cambridge shredded his arm at the elbow trying to shoot his brother in-law in the face. Three Eskimos were killed when they tried to rob a bank with it and fired it randomly at a secretary. Finally it ended up in the top drawer of one Vincent South, aka Vin the crack-head, from South Kingstown, Rhode Island. Vin the crackhead spent most of his money on (surprise!) crack, but believed that every drug addict had to possess a dependable firearm. Partly for protection but mostly so he could one day sell it at an insane crack-head mark-up and use the cash to buy more crack.

In November, seeing Greg Munci drive down into crack-town looking scared and very white, Vin just knew that day had come. Mr. Munci paid him 250 dollars for a 45 year old gun that was cursed. Vin the crack-head spent the next 10 days getting fucked up, and trying cage free blowjobs in exchange for grain-of-sand-sized rocks of crack.

***

Greg fingered the pistol in his jacket pocket and broke out in a cold mud-sweat. Moreland was swinging them by the public park skirting the sea wall. If he stopped, Greg knew it would be on.

Let’s pull in here OK? Im gonna’ tell you the whole story, and then we’ll see where we are.

Greg nodded a yes and braced himself. Before he knew it he was in action. He took a picture from his pocket and handed it over to the huge cop.

Wha…Whassis?

Take a look, you remember that guy?

Ahh…This is…

And then his face softened with dawning comprehension: Hey wait a minute. What the fuck is thi…

And that’s the moment Greg chose to put the rotted pistol in Officer Moreland’s face and pull the trigger.