My Last Day

The dim glow of an old-school LED alarm clock ticks over; 5:30 AM. With its characteristic and irritatingly loud beeps, it’s the only thing that can wake me up these days. On the nightstand rests my badge, my sidearm, and my whiskey glass from last night, sitting on its cork coaster. As I fumble around clumsily for the button to turn this damned thing off - CRASH. There goes my glass. “God damnit”, I thought to myself, “I liked that one”. Time to get up.

Thoroughly annoyed, as is usual for mornings, I haul myself up out of bed. Back hurts. Knees hurt. These first few moments are always rough. My bones sound like a gravel driveway these days. I make a gloomy shuffle to the mirror. My hair is still gone. Well, most of it, anyway. My beer gut gives me a solid center of gravity, a reminder of years of dinners with the boys, and how damned out of shape I am these days. After getting dressed, I grab my sidearm & badge, and glance at the framed picture right beside them. It’s me, 25 years ago. Not bad! Out the door I go, coffee & cigarette in hand, hit with the unbelievably thick humidity of a summer morning.

After being waved in by the front desk, I see the common area with all our desks is completely darkened; lights out. “What the hell?” I can’t see a damn thing. Suddenly, the lights pop on. It’s the entire investigations division, wearing those stupid little birthday cone hats. A giant streamer is hung from the ceiling with the words: “CONGRATULATIONS OLD MAN!”. A custom job. All at once they cheer and applaud, I can’t help but smile. It’s my last day. They really went all out. A few handshakes and kind words and I finally make it to my desk. No paperwork? Unbelievable.

On my desk sits the oldest computer in the entire office. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve refused requests to get a new one; it works for me and that’s that. One button press and it whirrs to life, hard drive chugging away. It’ll be at least a minute or two until it’s ready. The Chief himself appears in front of me, holding... a bottle of whiskey? And two glasses? “Sir, it’s only 9:30. Who’s that for?” I ask. “It’s for you, dummy. Today’s technically my day off, let’s have some fun.” And so, the chief and I reminisced about some of the dumbest things we’d seen in our more than 20 years together over drinks, while everyone else got to work.

A bank robber climbing into a ventilation duct on the roof to make his great heist, only to get stuck and sobbing for help once we found him. That other bank robber that fell out of the ceiling directly into a trash can in front of officers. That time the former Major got caught piss drunk, passed out on the pool table at the local bar, then tried to fight us when we tried to bring him home. A guy with national felony warrants who applied for a job here and made it all the way to the board interview. Man, good times. Eventually, the Chief gives me something to do: Write a letter to our rookies about how to survive the career. Easy enough... or so I thought. What seems like a few minutes later, I’m startled awake by detectives standing over me. “Yo, old man. Wakey wakey.” Oh God, I fell asleep. As I sit up, I feel the crunch of balled up wads of paper all down my back. Those idiots stacked almost 50 crumpled up papers between me and my chair while I was out like a light. Very funny. “Chief said you can go home whenever, you can get with the armorer sometime this week to turn your stuff in.”

It’s 2 PM already? Well, I’ve always wanted to do this – time to stroll out of the office early like I own the place. In 25 years I’ve never left early without a reason. There was always something to do, some case that nagged at me, some idiot’s mess to clean up. As I step out the front door of the office, the oppressive summer sun blasts me right on my bald head. It sucks out here. There’s my car. Low, proud, and old – one of the last old Fords the department kept, just for me. Solid steel, roomy, comfortable, no electronic BS, not even traction control. After landing myself in the drivers’ seat and expelling the hellish oven-quality air like a hairdryer that smells of cigarettes, I realize something. I’m free. I can do whatever I want. Wait a minute, what does that mean, really?

The beach! That’s what it means. I’m going to sunbathe like a walrus on a weekday, like I always wished I could, instead of sipping terrible breakroom coffee and fussing over cases. A quick jaunt to the store for sunscreen and I’m set. The beach is about 30 miles south, should be easy enough. After gathering my necessities, I’m on the road. These new cars are just ridiculous. Who would buy something like that? Money can’t buy taste. For curiosity’s sake, let’s turn on the scanner radio and see what the boys are up to.

The radio crackles to life. Silence. Then, “10-33, 10-80 NORTHBOUND 319. High rate of speed. Dark green late model van.” Wait a second, I’m on 319. I reach for the radio out of instinct, but decide against it. I’m retired. Not my problem. Even if it’s a high speed pursuit, these boys in their new SUVs have it handled. A couple minutes go by and I realize the chase is definitely getting closer. Ahead, I see it. A long, two-lane stretch of road, flanked on both sides by a narrow shoulder that drops off into a salt marsh. At the end, a curve. Right as I consider slowing down, there he is. A brand new work van, in the oncoming lane, swerving around cars. He’s fast. Too fast. Someone’s going to get killed if this goes on any longer.

My blood and guts mentality gets the better of me. I don’t see the pursuing unit behind him, he must have fallen back somewhat. It’s up to me. I’m technically still on the clock, may as well do something. Here he comes. Oncoming lane, regular lane. I can see him. Wide-eyed, desperate, white-knuckle gripping the steering wheel, he knows I’m a cop. In one quick motion, I yank the wheel over and put myself directly in his path. He locks up the brakes with a tremendous screech, throwing up a cloud of tire smoke, and I brace for impact. Except… the impact never comes. By some insane miracle, he managed to swing the van out of the way, skidding sideways off the shoulder and rolling it, coming to rest upside-down in the mud. As I watch this ungainly brick tumble and somersault, kicking up dirt and plants, I catch a glimpse of blue lights in my peripheral vision. It’s the pursuing unit. Wait, he’s not stopping. He’s not stopping at all. Another screech of tires and WHAM. A fully loaded police SUV, weighing somewhere north of 6,000 lbs slams into me doing at least 70 miles per hour. At the last moment I glimpse my badge sitting on the passenger seat.

It hurts, for a split second. Then, nothing. Then, it hurts again. Then, more nothing. At once, I feel the sensation of falling. I’m falling through what sounds like hollow openings in a chasm, whup-whup-whup-whup-whup. I can feel the wind on my hair and the strangest mixed sensation of terror and peacefulness. I open my eyes to see pitch blackness, the darkest dark. There’s nothing. As if through a veil, I can see a faint outline of my car in the third person. God, it’s messed up. Closer. Uh oh. That pink and red stuff on the drivers’ side window is me. Or, was me, rather. I’m dead? Why am I still falling? I see multiple officers converge on my car, some with guns drawn on the suspect’s van, and some desperately checking on me, then turning their heads and covering their mouths. Poor bastards.

The light goes out again. I’ve stopped falling. It’s cold. I feel… itchy? My head hurts. I’ve ended up on my back somehow. I’m too scared to open my eyes. There’s a dull, orange glow beyond my eyelids. Is this it? What the hell am I laying on? I clench my fist underneath me. Straw. As in, hay. Farm hay. Dried grasses. Huh? With tremendous effort, I peek my eyes open. I see wooden framing, very crude, spiderwebs. Head still hurts. I take a breath: musty. Agricultural. I pan my eyes around, gingerly nursing my neck. A barn? How the hell did I end up in a barn?