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The Road Home
By
Fran Alt
Driving away from the police station, you see lights going on in the homes you pass. It's almost dawn. People are getting up for work, you're going home. Scared, shaky, tired, you keep asking yourself why. The car, in automatic pilot, turns on to the Long Island Expressway. Why? Why what? You don't even know what you're thinking.
Lost in your empty thoughts you miss your turn. Damn the expressway! It will take forever to get back to the exit. Hell, just keep driving. You're too keyed up to sleep, especially after that cop shot at you.
Your mind zooms into reverse and the scene plays like an old TV movie - the guy coming into the bar, dressed in a suit right out of GQ, glassy eyed, mumbling. He knocks the bar-stool over trying to sit. E
You figure he's drunk or doped up, and tell him you can't serve him. You smile your sweetest smile and say maybe he should go home and get some sleep. You know he isn't listening. You study his face.
Eyes in another universe, he starts saying bizarre weierd stuff. He's not really making sense. Suddenly he leans over and says he'll leave if he gets a kiss.
Scared, you pull back and ease down toward the other end of the bar, where your friends, Lou and Maureen are shooting pool. You tell them you have really bad vibes about this guy. Maureen thinks she's tough. She hands you her stick.
"Try my shot," she says, eyeing the dude in the suit, "I'll keep an eye on the bar."
There's an eerie silence. You draw back on the cue stick and the dude is walking toward you, his left hand holding something - down and away from his body.
"Lookout! He's got a gun!" Maureen's voice echoes through the room.
You watch his hand come up, and your heart tries to jump out of your chest. You see crazed eyes staring, and a gun barrel pointed - at you.
Lou leaps forward, grabs the guy's wrist, and forces it upward. The gun goes off and a bullet whizzes over your head, lifting your hair like static electricity. You watch Lou struggle with the guy and see Maureen on the floor behind the bar, blocked by the struggling men.
The phone booth is between you the guys, and you need to get by them, to call the police. More shots go off. Adrenaline rush. You are magically in the phone booth dialing 911.
The cops come, and the shooter doesn't say a word. They search him and find a badge. The three of us are ordered outside. You stand there, hugging yourself to keep warm, staring at the full moon and wondering what's going on.
Two cops come out to question each of us. One of the cops says the gunman is an off duty New York City detective, and they had to call in some brass. We're still talking and they bring the guy out, put him in a patrol car and leave. Two officers stay behind. They tell us to lock-up and follow them to headquarters.
In the station house you sit in a room with Lou and Maureen. Thirsty, and tired you get up and glance down the hall to see what's going on. You could have been killed, and there he is, feet on a desk, blowing cigarettes rings, drinking Pepsi and laughing with detectives. They treat the shooter like some kind of deity, while you sit in a dank back room wondering why you're being treated like - the bad guy.
What was it that sergeant said about you? "Barmaid's probably lyin'. They're all alike them broads. No good, none of 'em."
What the hell does he know? What's the use, everyone seems to think that way. You work seven nights a week, until three in the morning. You spend your days cleaning, cooking and taking care of five kids. You clear big bucks, doing damn good. You're really proud of yourself. You drive a new Lincoln, live in Great Neck, and even have live-in help. Self respecting. Ha! It's a good thing you feel that way, because no one else seems to.
Exit coming up; better take it. You can see the sun coming up over the eastern end of the Island. You make your turn, and head back toward home. Still dark out and already there's traffic headed toward the city.
You think about the rumors you've heard. Wow, what a reputation! Sounds like you've got one hell of a sex life. Go ahead - cry, you're so frustrated you wish the rumors were true. Can't cry, can you? No feelings. No emotions. You do a man's work, make a man's salary, you're tough, you're hard - you wish.
Pulling in the driveway, you see eerie shadows cast by dim lights in the parking lot. Fear grips your psyche, and you wonder if someone's lurking in the alley.
You can't sit in the safety of the locked car until broad daylight. You check out the lot, open the door and quickly run through the alley. A dark monster, a chill - grabs at the back of your neck. You feel someone chasing you, and you run faster.
Finally you reach the apartment door. Keys in hand, breathing hard, you fumble with the lock. In an eternity of seconds you're inside, leaning back on the already closed door to catch your breath.
"Is that you Mommy?" The voice comes from a small shadow in the foyer.
You walk over and hug a tired eyed little guy. Now you know why.
You give the little guy an extra squeeze, change into your jeans and start cooking breakfast.