better angels

His cicada rhythm was off, that’s all. Been that way since he was a kid -- first to catch his ma at the Christmas tree, two hours before the sun -- and yeah, he had to forge a lot of doctors’ notes for all the morning classes he slept through, but it paid off come stake-outs, the last guy in the room to yawn. He was still sitting when the bars closed, as long as he could still sit. That was something to be proud of. All the stories you’ll ever tell are gonna happen once somebody, somewhere, turns off a light. Hang around long enough, you make that code.

Sean had thought so, anyway. Turns out, other people’s stories don’t have to follow that rule; there were work alarms to be set, usually three in a row (Wake Up, then Get The Fuck Up, then Enjoy Unemployment), and he'd learned to grimace around Dunkin’ Donuts styrofoam if it meant a slightly clearer head in the morning. If he had time to wait on the coffee line.

If he remembered to set the alarms.

Shades at home kept all the glare from getting in, but this morning, he rolled his neck and his eyelids lid up orange, red. The headache like a splinter too deep to dig out. He kept Excedrin in his nightstand for this -- his glovebox, too, where his palm hit while it blindly sought the drawer. This glow was the sun through his drivers’ side window. This pressure on his shins, the steering wheel holding back his legs from curling to match the bent-back seat. Sean tugged the door open to stand up (to prove he could stand up) outside, and closed it just quick enough to miss some kid on a bike. 

So these were the pieces, then: he’d parked on the side of the street, by a meter he definitely hadn’t kept filled. No papers on his windshield, but he must’ve earned that -- gone but not forgotten, not down here -- and what cop wouldn’t’ve recognized Sean’s peeling paint job outside Whitey’s? His mouth was full of fleece. Too-bright sky. Lights already on in the bar, so it was past 8 already. When he turned the key, the clock said 9:30. Add an hour for Saving’s Time (still had to fix that, one of these days) and that’s too late, too late, rubbing the blur out of his eyes as he backed up and got driving again.

On a good day, the drive from Whitey’s to the station took 10 minutes. It used to take 5, but that was a grumble his throat was already tired of making -- now, with traffic, 12 to get to the South End. The summers here were getting so warm, the pavement pressed heat into his shoes as he quick-stepped across the lot, one hand tucking loose shirt-ends in his slacks, the other busy pressing his collar down to keep it flat. There was an ID, somewhere (wallet?) (back pocket?) (front pocket?) (jacket pocket, folded over his arm!) and he swiped in at the side door so he’d skip the front desk, and the receptionist he still hadn’t warmed to. Already, the office was humming with the busywork of keyboards and copy machines, the tops of people’s heads in cubicles, and Sean had half a second to scan the clock before confirming he’d missed the meeting. Even the lieutenant was gone from the briefing room -- Van Campen was all that was left, shifting her laptop bag further up her shoulder. He tried to intercept her, quiet, ‘round the corner by the bathrooms. “I missed it,” he said. “I missed it, okay? Just gimme a rundown, real quick. Something I can take back to the guys.”