Short Story:  19 May 2006

Night Sweats

--by Mike Murray

Gazing out the window from the back seat, I turn my attention to those riding up front.  The driver is dressed in dark blue.  Even from behind, I can see that he's wearing some kind of uniform:  there are official-looking epaulets with brass buttons on his shoulders.

Only members of the military -- and of law enforcement -- dress like that.

From his robust size (the offset angle of my vantage point reveals the unmistakable slope of a "middle-aged spread"), mottled gray and black hair, and manner of speech, I take him to be in his forties.

Turning my attention to the other front-seat occupant, I see that it's a woman.  She's young and attractive, her long brown hair rolled up so as to fit under a cap.  She is obviously inferior in rank to the man.  The pitch in her voice is high and her vocabulary is breezy -- in the manner of a "twenty-something."  A young twenty-something.

To my left is an obviously bored female.  She doesn't appear particularly concerned or upset, just nonplussed.  It's clear that she's taken this ride before.  She reminds me of a stage actor -- garishly attired and made up.  The sharp contrasts in her appearance, like those of I've seen from the cheap seats in plays, seem intended to snag a viewer's eye from a distance.

In the way that people know when they're being stared at, she senses my attention.  She turns in my direction and our eyes meet.  Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, I rack my brain for something appropriate to say.  Her stare stops me cold:  "Don't bother," it unmistakably declares.

I return my gaze to the front and reconsider the officers.  They are eerily detached, as if they're out for a casual ride.  They seem completely indifferent to their cargo.  The woman is chatting up the man in a solicitous way, playing to his ego.  He's eating it up.

"I have a lot to learn," she coos deferentially.  Leaning ever-so slightly toward him, she continues, "I'm, like, so lucky to be paired with someone with your experience, Frank."

Delivering his line like an actor in a low-budget flick, he replies, "Stick with me, kid."  A lascivious look comes over him as he adds, "I'll whip you into shape in no time."

Frank fails to notice the impact of his smarmy remark:  the slight shudder of the young woman's shoulders, the pained look on her face.

"Hey look, Toots!  That new bar has opened for business.  We can continue your orientation there over some brews when we get off."

"Maybe," she responds weakly.  As she suspects Ed is about many things in life, he is oblivious to the hesitancy in her voice, the transparency of her reluctance.

Looking out the window, the street scenes confuse me.  They are contradictory; they are at once familiar and foreign.  The bright, multi-colored storefronts are as I've always known them.  I recall many a pleasant summer night ambling along, alone with my thoughts.  I regularly habited darkened city streets -- illuminated only by occasional street lights and signs such as these.

Those were oddly pleasant times.  Out late, well past any reasonable hour for someone my age, I walked the streets in solitude.  I had no destination.  I only intended to take in the other-worldly embrace, the peacefulness, of the night.

Which is not to say that my sojourns were peaceful in any normal sense.  There were definite dangers lurking in the shadows.  There were serious risks for a young teenager out alone during the wee hours.

But they were risks I took without hesitation.  I was fleet of foot (and more than a little naive) back then.  I used my advantage in speed and endurance to elude the pursuit of clunkily attired, juiced-up gang members -- and of police officers cruising for curfew violators -- whenever the need arose.  It seemed a relatively small price to pay for escape from unpleasantness at home.

As reassuring as my youthful memories of late nights in the concrete jungle were, however, I was now oddly disturbed.

The streets we are driving down tonight seem strange.  They are so clean.  Where are the overflowing trash cans?  Where are the discarded food wrappers, the crumpled-up newspapers drifting lazily along sidewalks?

And why aren't any of the shops recognizable?  Where is Mickey's Auto Parts?  Where is Keller's jewelry store?  What happened to Fisher-Fazio, to Royal Castle?  Shouldn't there be a Cleveland Trust branch on this corner?

What does that street sign say, anyway?  It should be Lorain.  I can't make it out ...but it doesn't begin with an "L."    Where, exactly, am I?

And what am I doing in the back seat of a police car?  Why am I being driven somewhere in the middle of the night?  Am I a witness to some crime?  Why do they want to talk to me at this hour?

"Excuse me," I blurt out at the back of Frank's head, only to be cut short.

"Put a sock in it, Mack," he commands.  "Keep your mouth shut or I'll shut it for you."

The female officer moves uneasily to her right, further away from Frank, while simultaneously engaging him in distracting chatter.  He instantly looses all awareness of my existence.

Time passes as the window scenes change.  Views of the city are replaced by rural landscapes.

We eventually arrive at our destination.  We pass through the gate of a large, institutional-looking building that is surrounded by a tall chain-link fence, topped with razor wire.  There are people in uniform waiting for us.  A man appears to be in charge, and is giving instructions to several younger men and women -- officers in training, perhaps.  A woman walks to the other side of the car, a man to mine.

My backseat companion and I are ordered to get out.  As we comply, hands are placed on top of our heads and push down (to keep us, I presume, from banging them on the door frame).  Recognizing the "perp" treatment, I finally face the uncomfortable truth:  I am a prisoner.

I am herded over toward one of the young men in uniform, who removes my handcuffs (how did I fail to notice them until now?) and places me in leg irons.  He gently grabs one of my arms -- the older man gruffly grabs the other -- and they shuffle me over to the building.  Looking over my shoulder, I see that my traveling mate is being escorted to a different entrance.

Standing in front of a counter, before a man who reveals not the slightest trace of interest or emotion, papers are transferred and stamped.  My personal effects are handed over and placed into an envelope.  I surrender my belt and shoelaces, and I am handed a folded bundle of clothes.  (No one asks about sizes; an experienced eye simply approximates my dimensions.)

Moving along to the next station, a couple of folded sheets and an Army-style wool blanket are stacked atop the pile growing in my outstretched arms.  My attendant resumes our march down the yellow-striped aisle.

We arrive at an electronic door, and catch the attention of a heavy-set man seated on the other side.  Exchanged nods between the guards prompt the pushing of a button, whereupon a tone signals the release of a lock and the opening of the iron-barred gate.

We pass through the security checkpoint and enter a cavernous section of the facility.  Looking out, I am reminded of an old arcade building in downtown Cleveland.  There is a long corridor, rimmed on either side by several stories of pavilion-style walkways.

But instead of shops, restaurants, and offices, here there are endless rows of cells.  The guard walks me to my final destination:  D-117.  The door is already open when we arrive.  After I enter, it slams shut behind me, its locking mechanism clanking noisily into place.

I look back to the guard, who has already turned and is walking away.

Why am I here?  What have I done?  Why can't I remember?

 

Copyright © 2006 Michael F. Murray       All rights reserved.