Tommy Bedlam Part II: Sticks and Stoners

I scurried up the stairs to my apartment, the walking stick at my side tapping out a beat that momentarily brought the musician in me back to life, then stopped dead. My fears were well founded. One of the boys in blue, who definitely wasn't a boy, stood before my front door, banging loud enough to wake the dead. Old reflexes told me to bolt, to turn around, run away, and never look back. That was the junkie in me: The "Old Me". I don't have anything to hide these days, but old habits die hard. I'm sure you understand. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves, then surveyed the situation.

She was short and perky, alive with a frenzy of motion: The archetype of a frizzy blonde. Her demeanor was in complete contrast to the stiff and commanding behavior I'd come to associate with anyone in that dour blue uniform. I guess she heard me bounding up the steps. Whatever deity there is knows I'm not at my sneakiest when having to rely on assassinated lumber to walk. Whatever the reason, she heard my approach and whirled about to face me, hand at her holster. For some reason, looked very familiar, someone I met somewhere. I decided to play it cool.

"I know I'm a dangerous criminal officer," I said, brandishing my walking stick and exaggerating my limp for full effect. "And a brain damaged junkie to boot. But is it necessary to shoot first and ask questions later? You generally miss a few answers that way."

She tried to hide a smile, but couldn't quite manage it. The corners of hir lips kept turning up every time she tried to suppress it. I guess I could have said something to assist her, but I didn't. It's not polite to go uninvited to fight another's battles fort them. Besides, once I'd gotten past my initial apprehension, I was having far too much fun. It took her nearly half a minute to win her private little war. I was timing her with my watch, just so you know.

"Mr. Bedford?" She asked, her voice lower than I would have guessed. It haunted me like a half remembered dream. "Thomas Bedford?"

"I am. " I replied, lacking a better response, "What can I do for you, Officer?"

I left the words hanging in midair hoping to cadge a little more personal info from her.

"Daniels. Karen Daniels. I hate to drop in this way unannounced, but your usual probation officer is on leave, and your case has been transferred to me."

"What's happened with Jake?" I asked, relieved that I wasn't in any trouble with the law, but worried. Jake Richards has been a family friend for years.

Her head shot up, taken aback by my familiar tone

"Officer Richards is on temporary leave for personal reasons." All ice now. I wondered if I'd hit a nerve or she was just schitzoid. With some women you just can't tell until it's too late.

I fumbled for a response. "Ah. That's good I suppose."

Officer Daniels was really getting me off balance. And to think I started this conversation out so well. I did the only thing any sane man would do to even the score.

"Um..uh...Would you like to come inside? I have..Um....Bagels." Yeah, I know it was lame, but see if you can come up with better.

"No thank you, Tommy." Smirking, yet... And how did she know I went by Tommy? " I just came by to check on you. Don't worry about coming into the office today. I'll take care of all the paper work. Your next scheduled appointment is at five o'clock next Tuesday. Don't be late or I'll have to arrest you." I could have sworn I saw a bright yellow smiley face hanging superimposed over her badge, but before I could catch more than a fleeting glimpse, she turned and quickly bolted down the stairwell. The bouncy blonde basket case...jeez, I thought I had problems.

I tried not to let it bother me. I tried to just forget about the whole encounter, but that damned smiley face hung in my minds eye, mocking me in it's sunlit splendor. I still had to go by Jim's place, but dread followed me like a puppy every time I went there. Something, somewhere deep inside, felt that the place was trouble waiting to happen. I can't say I can argue with it.

The trip to Jim's took longer than I'd hoped, having to rely upon my trusty walking stick to carry my weight the entire distance so soon after my jog home. I got there, winded for the second time in the afternoon. I was shaky and tired and the sense of wrongness I'd felt at Jim's over the last few weeks was nearly palpable when I arrived. I saw a Corvette in the driveway, a '65, black as midnight and without a scratch on her: Spider's car. His real name is Dave, but ever since he started dealing he's insisted on being called Spider. I guess it makes him feel important or something.

Jim's front door was open and I let myself in. True to form, Jim was on the couch. His glazed expression and the rubber tubing still wrapped around his left arm stood as mute testament to the day's activity. Jim didn't concern me though. I heard muffled voices from the bedroom, and sought out the source.

Again, the door was open, as if the occupants didn't have a care in the world. I'm sure they didn't. I peeked around the corner and wished I hadn't. Spider sat on the mattress, his pants around his ankles and a baggy in his hand. Gina knelt before him, paying for the goods in the only coin she had. Her black hair bobbed up and down in front of his exposed crotch while he whispered near her ear. The bastard must have seen me, because he looked up sharply, a sly, knowing smile on his face as I ducked back around the doorframe.

I'll admit it. I ran. I ran as fast as I could, my need for my walking stick forgotten in the rush and haze of pure adrenaline. I'd pay for it later, but at that moment, I didn't really care. I kept remembering that damned smile. I guess I couldn't really blame Gina though. A part of me eyed that little bag of hellish heaven and could have knelt down right next to her for a shot at it.

I didn't stop running. I thought about going back home, but that didn't seem like the right place to be. The sun was already low on the horizon and there really wasn't a whole lot to do in a little town like Pine Lake. With my options limited by geography and my slowing stride, there was only one real choice. The Shop: Yeah, coffee. It wasn't the juice I craved, but the bitter kiss of coffee might just hide a multitude of sins. I slowed down, took my cane from under my arm, hefted it experimentally, then proceeded to The Shop, the rattle and tap of the cane's tip drumming out a dirge to keep me company.