9

He may not have been Bond in his used tuxedo, but after the hard work of an interview he could sure use a martini, or perhaps a Bond girl. He walked briskly to the nearest bar and had a martini. As he drank alone he remembered the last real date he had gone on with Matty. It had been nearly eight months ago. J and Matty had gone out to dinner, her treat. J had borrowed a shirt and tie from Ben and promised Matty a fancy dinner. She’d been delighted at the prospect of a well-dressed J. Briskly, he had walked to her door. J had straightened his vest, before hiding the chocolate rose he’d swiped from a gas station behind his back. J didn’t usually steal, was possibly strongly opposed to stealing, but this was a special occasion, not to mention a one dollar and sixty nine cent rose. He buzzed her door with three sharp pokes. He’d told her it was his way of buzzing “I love you.” She’d liked that. J liked his threes, they were good luck. One look at Matty’s smile was enough to remind him of that. She had looked stuning in a long blue dress, the tiniest hint of cleavage centered between spaghetti straps. She had looked so elegant, that for a moment J hadn’t said anything. As enormous as the transformation of J from his ratty street clothes to his borrowed shirt, tie, vest combination was, the transformation of Matty from her business suits to this dress was bigger. For a second J had wondered what business a gorgeous woman had being with a goof like him. The moment, the second, passed as J took a breath and thought that this was just another way he was sticking it to the Man.

“W. O. W.” he had spelled. “You look like you’ve just stepped out of a magazine.”
The wattage on her smile had jumped up a few notches at that. J remembered taking her arm and walking her to her car. He usually preferred walking or public transportation, but had relented when Matty had pointed out that he could consider their outing as carpooling. She drove, because J didn’t have his license. He tried not to carry it when he could avoid it because he suspected it held a tiny microchip tracking device.

At Maisonette, J had gritted his teeth when Matty had chosen to valet park. It seemed so wasteful, and it reminded J of her upper-class leanings. He knew he needed to make an effort so he kept quiet, but his borrowed clothes seemed to be closing around him. He remembered having a little troubling breathing and it had no longer been a reaction to Matty’s elegance. They were going to sit down to dinner surrounded by people that J didn’t know but despised. He fought the queasiness that started to bubble inside of him. He ordered wine for them, which Matty waved off, explaining to him that tonight she had a special bottle picked out for them. Crushed grapes, J had thought, it’s all crushed grapes stomped by working class individuals for the consumption by the greedy ruling class, but he had again bit his tongue and suffered silently.

“What’s that look?” Matty had asked him.
“Look?” he’d asked surprised. “I don’t have a look.”
She knew him too well to let it pass at that, but she had sensed trouble and backed off. They both had been trying so very hard to enjoy the date. She had looked so good he reminisced sadly. The height of her glamour was only equaled by the volume of their fight that night. J had just started to remember the accusations that had flown that night on everything from vegetarianism to fascism when someone bumped his arm.

“Excuse me. Joseph Jones?”
“Yea?” He said as he looked up angrily from the rim of his martini glass.
“We need to talk.” said a man dressed in blue, with a belt and a night stick and some handcuffs. The realization came to J slowly, this wasn’t just any man in blue with a belt and a night stick and some handcuffs, this was a police officer.
“It’s my first martini!” he hollered as he leapt up from the bar stool.

“Calm down, it’s not the martini, son.”
A rather large policeman stood before J, handcuffs hanging on his belt, one hand on his nightstick, the other palm up and offered to J trying to calm him.

J took one look at the door and made a break for it. He faked left and went right, the policeman had been a football player a number of years ago, but he hadn’t been on the field for years and J’s hurried exit had taken him by surprise. This was a minor offense, he hadn’t expected a chase. The officer lunged to grab J, but came up short and ended up with his thigh in a chair. He brushed the chair and the stabbing pain away and took off after J screaming, “Mr. Jones. STOP.” He panted, “We just need to talk to you.”
J hit the door running. He nearly knocked over an older man on the sidewalk. He hollered “sorry” as he broke into a sprint. He was headed up a hill and he could already feel his quads starting to burn. He could hear the cries of “STOP!” starting to fade in the background. Before he could crest the hill, he heard sirens. He ducked down a side street and wobbled slightly on the turn. His dress shoes were doing nothing for this dash, neither was the martini. He was still sprinting when his stomach rejected the running idea altogether. J slammed on the brakes and doubled over in pain. He spat out martini and the partially digested remains of lunch. Complain all you want about couscous, but J will tell you that couscous like most things is still better going in than coming out. A few more wretches and J felt fresh again. He looked both directions and took off again in the direction he had been headed before his stomach so rudely interrupted. There was some unpleasentness left in his mouth, but the break had helped his legs wake up. He paced himself as he moved quickly down the street. He had to keep moving while he was thinking. J couldn’t figure out what he could have done. He hadn’t done anything completely illegal in quite a while and he’d been extra careful recently. He racked his brain as he zigzagged down side streets. Taking an awkward but relatively quiet route home, he was moving at a decent clip for a man coming off an afternoon bar stop. Beyond what he had done, he also wondered why they had wanted to talk today. Then as his dress shoes rubbed one too many times against his big toe, a blister reminded him that the bank had probably run a background check. Of course, the bank would be looking into his past, if he had anything outstanding the police would contact the bank. Some teller had probably seen him go into the bar. That solved the why. J slammed on the brakes again. This time there would be no throwing up, though his feet were none too pleased with the day’s run. He reached down and pulled off his dress shoes. He tossed them under a dumpster and doubled back in the direction he had just come. J had realized that he couldn’t head home. He’d given the bank his real address. There were probably cops there waiting for him. He knew he should’ve gone with a fake identity. J surged as he decided that he’d head to Sid’s for the time being. He still didn’t know what had the cops all excited. It hadn’t ocurred to him that a chase might raise their excitement levels rather than lower them. When an officer patrolling in Sid’s neighborhood spotted J, his used tuxedo coat flapping behind him, his white socks dirtied and slapping the ground one after the other, he radioed for help. The officer thought about jumping out of the car and giving chase on foot, but followed a few blocks behind instead. J lead him right to an apartment complex where he was buzzed in. The cops had him located, and he didn’t know it. The officer who had been headed to his apartment was called over to stake out Sid’s until back-up arrived, of course the officer didn’t know which apartment was Sid’s, or even who Sid was. She just knew that she was waitingto stop J if he came out of the apartment building.

Inside Sid’s kitchen, J had already torn into a new carton of Butternut. Sid watched as J scarfed down three bites straight from the carton. As fast as J was moving Sid was almost surprised he’d had time to grab a spoon.

“Sid, what the hell? Why are the cops after me?” he shouted.
When Sid didn’t answer in the time it took J to take a breath he carried on, “I haven’t done anything. I know my rights... PIGS.”

Sid was looking at J, trying to figure out what all of this was about. “Slow down. What happened?” he asked, confused.

“The cops,” replied J, “They’re after me.”

“What did you do at the bank?” Sid asked accusingly.
“I got a job.”
Sid furrowed his brow, turned his head slightly and shot a scrunched up glare at J.
“I did. Then I went next door to celebrate with a martini. I was feeling Bond-y in the tuxedo,” he said as he waved his hand up and down his vest. “The next thing I know, I’m being chased by the cops.”

“The next thing you know?” Sid inquired.
“Well, they asked if I was me,” J explained, “and I was, or, I am, I mean. Then they said they wanted to talk. So I bolted. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

Sid’s concern was obvious.

“You think maybe that wasn’t the best way to avoid suspicion?” J asked with a smile.

“Do they have reason to be suspicious?” Sid asked worriedly.

“They’re FFPs! They’re part of the government. Suspicion is their nature. They are a suspicious lot,” J cried out.

“You know what I mean,” Sid told him sternly.

“No. I haven’t done anything really illegal in a while.”

“Nothing?” Sid asked with doubt creeping in his voice. He admired J, but knew J wasn’t always the most honest guy around, especially when it came to matters of the law. J always said laws were just security blankets for the people who created them.

“No,” J shrugged.

Sid again cocked his head to the side and examined J. It was Sid’s lie detector test. He was trying to bore little holes into J to see if he was telling the truth. Sid didn’t know the success ratio, but it always made him feel better.

“Then maybe you should go turn yourself in and...”
Sid was interrupted by three forceful raps on the door.

“Hide me,” J hissed.

Sid walked slowly to the door as if deciding the best course of action, or as if he had grown very sleepy, while J scampered around the kitchen in a panic and then darted into the living room.
“Who is it?” Sid asking betraying his jitters.

“Don’t be alarmed. It’s the police,” came the reply. “Please open the door.”

“I didn’t order any police,” Sid replied.

“Please open the door. We have reason to believe Joseph Jones is in your home,” answered the stern female voice. “We need to speak with him.”

Sid had run out of witty reparte and opened the door.

“Thank you,” said the officer. “Is Mr. Jones in?”

Sid, who had always been afraid of authority, didn’t respond, but looked toward the living room.

The officer entered the apartment and walked toward the area Sid’s eyes had indicated. She calmly asked, “Mr. Jones?”

J groaned. The officer looked down at the couch and saw the pillows scattered over a human form. Slowly, the form shifted as if to stand.

Defeated, and quite embarrassed by his inability to hide, J stood up and faced the officer.

“Mr. Jones, you shouldn’t have run. Now I have to take you in.”

J just stared glumly at his feet. He hadn’t been arrested in several years and the only lawyer he could stand had just cheated on him.

The car ride to the station was miserable. J had forgotten how much he disliked police. He felt so caged in their cars, which he knew was the point, but that didn’t lessen his disdain. He didn’t like the way the officers talked to him, they were always so condescending. As if quote, law-biding citizens, end quote, were better people somehow. It infuratied him. This officer was actually pretty nice. At least she wasn’t saying much. He still didn’t know why, other than his exercise regime, he was headed to the station.

When they arrived, the offier lead him inside where he waived his right to a lawyer. The FFPs put him in a room and left him there for what felt like an hour. It was probably closer to 45 minutes, but either way it was starting to try J’s patience. He was feeling feisty when an officer joined him in the room.

“I ordered dessert half and hour ago and still haven’t received it. You aren’t going to get a fifteen percent tip if you keep treating me this way.”

The officer didn’t smile. He didn’t make any movement that indicated to J that they were even in the same reality until he said, “Do you know why you’re here?”

J replied angrily, “Your stupid officer drove me here. You better know why I’m here.”

The officer still focusing his eyes at some point beyond J’s head calmly replied, “That tone won’t get you anywhere. I’m going to sit and we’re going to talk.”

“That’s very forward, I think you should buy me a drink first,” J said sarcastically.

The officer ignored him. “My name is Loren and I’m here to help you.”

J decided not to respond, but didn’t seen any reason to believe Loren.

Loren continued, “You’re here because we have reason to believe that you robbed an Amoco station.”

J looked at Loren. Loren looked at the spot somewhere past J. J clenched his fists and said, “I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Look, Mr. Jones,” the officer said.

“J. Call me J.” J said with eyes narrowed.

“J then. We have surveillance footage from an Amoco on Elm that shows you clearly stealing. Amoco has recently enlisted our help to crack down on petty crime. They want to make examples of all the people they can catch. I think we have better things to do, but you are caught in an unfortunate spot because we were running your background check today when someone recognized your name as one of the unlocated Amoco suspects.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. And why are you being so honest with me?” J asked suspiciously.

“J,” the officer said still looking past him, “I know you think police are the enemy, but no matter who is the enemy here, you’re screwed. I’m trying to make my life easier here. If we can get you processed quickly without courts, without jail time, without much paperwork then my life is easier. If that happens to make your life easier too, whoop de doo.”
The officer smiled slightly at this, but still kept a steady gaze. Maybe he had a lazy eye, thought J.

More silence. More staring.
“Do you want to confess?” asked the officer.

“I don’t think so,” replied J confidently.

At this point another officer entered the room pushing some standard-issue elementary school style Audio-visual equipment. Figures thought J, even the FFPs- an extension of the Man if there ever was one, don’t get enough funding to have good equipment.

The other officer plugged in the TV and VCR. He loaded the tape without drama and then pressed “Play”.

J watched the counter of what appeared to be a gas station. The date was June 11. The time was scrolling by just past 4:37 pm. He watched a lean figure walk in, stop at the counter, appear to chat with the woman behind the counter. The figure turned around casually and he saw his face. J watched as the little black and white J turned back to the counter and made the woman laugh. He tried to remember what he’d said, but couldn’t. Then as her head was thrown back in a guffaw he walked as the little J clearly took something off the counter and slid it into his pocket.
J sat in shock. He stared as the black and white figure walked casually out of the store. As the door shut and the tape was stopped, J remembered the scene.
“Oh my God,” J gasped aloud with the realization of what he’d just seen.

“Do you want to confess?”

“I stole a candy rose. One dollar. Sixty-nine cents. Not including tax,” he paused and then said incredously, “Could I just pay for it now?”

Unbelievable. A candy rose and incredibly poor timing were going to cost him a bank job and a chance to fight consumerism from the source. This year was off to a swell start after all, he thougt sarcastically. Only a setback, only a setback, he told himself.

10 is in