the shouldered muse

The next day, Johnny’s dad brought him to meet the chief. Anxious and distracted by what would follow, Johnny’s father had forgotten that he’d pinned up Johnny’s wanted poster the previous day, and for but a second was clueless as Johnny dallied in the hall … then … Johnny’s elated face quickly reminded him.

“Oh, I see you saw that,” his father said, and for once that morning was able to genuinely smile … and like a blinder, closed out any invasive stares from the other passing bodies in the hall. “The … the chief was happy to have it up. Said it would … it would lift morale.” Johnny’s father knew that the chief hadn’t exactly said that, but he thought it could be a good lead into why they were there. “Chief thought you working for the department could also lift morale.”

“What’s morale?” Johnny asked. Here was another example, for Johnny’s father, of Johnny’s loss leaking through like water through holes in a boat. When his father had thought he’d plugged them all, having accepted them with a sigh, another hole would show its hollow head and the boat would lower another inch. Johnny’s father though had made a successful attempt at not sighing now, now that his guard had fallen and he’d become aware of the multiple eyes on them.

“Morale? Why it’s um…” Johnny’s father knew the word, but never really thought about having to define it. He just understood it. “Um … it’s feeling better about yourself. Gives you strength … you know, the belief you can do something. It’s thinking things are going to be all right. You understand?”

“… I … I think,” Johnny answered. “And I’m supposed to do this?”

“Good people wear off on other people and make them good,” his father said. “The chief wants a good person like you…”

“So I can make others good?”

Johnny’s father gazed inconspicuously around at any eavesdroppers. “Well, feel better,” he said. “They’re police, not bad to start with, remember?”

“Right, “Johnny said, but his two eyebrows had collided. “So I can make them feel better so they can do a better job?” Johnny’s voice was louder than his father would have liked.

“Exactly, Johnny … well put,” Johnny’s father replied, patting him on the back, and was relieved to see the furrow in Johnny’s brow slowly disappear. “All right?”

“Uh huh.”

“The chief’s waiting … ready?”

“Ready.”

When they arrived, the chief was surprisingly attentive to the needy child in the grown man, answering all Johnny’s questions regarding his being the chief of police, what cop shows he thought were the closest to real, and what doughnut he liked best. He allowed him to play with his cuffs, and did not allow him to play with his gun or taser, and in a very fatherly way made it perfectly clear that they were off limits. Then the chief, after asking his dad if it was okay, treated Johnny to a soda out of the vending machine.

With sodas in hand, he sat down behind his desk, and Johnny sat down opposite him. The chief then proceeded to outline in simple words what he wished Johnny to do here at the police station. The chief clearly didn’t have to warm up to Johnny, or try and figure him out, at least not in the way Johnny’s dad thought he might have to, nor did it seem that Johnny had to warm up to the chief either. The uniform alone had suckered Johnny in, and the uniform wanting him there to work and be a part of this department had him spellbound.

“So what do you think, Johnny?” the chief asked. “Do you want to work here?”

“Do I ever,” Johnny answered.

“Pass out the paperwork, empty the trash bins, help where you can? I’m sure we’ll have plenty to keep you busy … and you’ll get paid.”

“And the posters?” Here was this grown man nearly wetting himself over crayoned posters, and the chief, unlike the-day-before’s laughter, right with him with no hint of a smirk, no sarcasm, no rolling of eyes … just complete sincerity.

“Oh sure … sure, you can use the extra desk in my office to make them,” the chief answered and took a sip from his soda bottle. “I think we’re going to get along just fine. What do you think, Dad?”

“Uh … no thinking necessary,” Johnny’s father said, “Look at that face.” Johnny was glowing brighter than a centenarian’s lit birthday cake.

(To Be Continued)

Roger McManus

Johnny’s father stood in front of his opened dresser drawer in his room, and stared at his collection of primitive wanted posters his precious boy had given to him over the years. It amounted to a small book, but the one picture he stared especially hard at was the wrinkled drawing he’d nearly a decade ago saved from the police precinct’s trash bin. Johnny would have made an insufficient cop, but he was a very good drawer of these lousy pictures.

The accident had reversed the wheels of growing old and caused Johnny to retreat back to that boy he used to be … the boy who drew those lousy pictures … and wanted as much as before to be a policeman. Johnny’s father knew that his retreat wasn’t temporary, that he’d gone back to stay. Johnny had already begun handing him new pictures, hoping just as before that they might be posted at the station. Johnny’s father felt uncomfortable about this … embarrassed … and felt ashamed that he felt so.

So what if Johnny was a grown man? His mind was not … or at least it no longer acted as if it was due to no fault of Johnny. Johnny’s father had come to grips with this new beginning, but this altered repeat was at the opposite end of the universe from the joys he’d experienced the first time around when he’d raised his son. That first time he’d never had to go to the garage to cry after spending time with him. That first time he could pick up Johnny to console him, but now he would have to find another means to comfort him … but he fashioned he would. He would find it. Johnny’s father sucked it up and derided himself. There was nothing to be embarrassed about. Johnny would need him, his dad, more than ever now, more than even the first time … and so he considered Johnny’s puddle pictures once more.

The doughnut-bulging chief had passed away a few years ago due to a heart attack, and his replacement was by all means approachable. He could see getting Johnny’s drawing posted if he explained the situation beforehand … and if he was told “No” … well … he’d put it up anyway for Johnny. Johnny’s happiness was all that mattered.

Not willing to chance his son’s heart getting broken, he thought it best to take one of the pictures he’d been given and ask the chief about it prior to informing Johnny. He was glad he had. Police Chief Matthews had been understanding, and moved, it seemed at first, but the ridiculousness of the picture, which to some would have made the situation even sadder, caught the chief off guard and sent him into a different stratosphere, busting with laughter, roaring like a mating hippopotamus. It was a tickle in his throat he couldn’t rid himself of, no matter how hard he tried, and excused himself to the water fountain, looking redder than ever and Johnny’s father not able to tell if it was from his being embarrassed by how he had reacted or from the exerted force of the guffaws. After a few swallows and a hiccough, the chief finally said, “Sure you can put it up.” and Johnny’s father felt a well-spring of relief flood his insides. “And I’d like to meet this Johnny of yours,” the chief added, crushing the paper cup, and tossed it into the garbage can.

“But you have, sir,” Johnny’s father replied. “You’ve met my son.”

“I have,” the chief said. “I’d like to meet him again.”

Johnny’s father was skeptical; he had to protect his son. He wasn’t sure why the chief wanted to see him. Was it his way to repent for his inappropriate behavior? The chief clearly must have noticed how he had only stood there frowning at him while he bellowed a fit.

The chief, sensing his reluctance, suddenly became very solemn. “I’d really like to meet him,” he repeated. “His drawings remind me of something. I think he’d be good for morale here at the station.”

“Morale?” Johnny’s father said. “What do you think … he’s some sort of dog?”

“No, you read me wrong,” the chief said. “I’m sorry I laughed. It’s heartbreaking what happened to your son … it is … and I’m not just saying that. Been there … not my own, but a nephew … retarded.”

“My Johnny’s not retarded!” Johnny’s father retaliated.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …” the chief backpedaled, and paused a moment before proceeding. “It’s just that, my nephew, it would make you cry if he didn’t make you laugh. I find I discover something better in me each time I’m with him; or rather I see my faults as not all that bad in comparison, and on top of that, his problems don’t bother him. He’s uplifting in a way.”

Johnny’s father scowled at the chief. “You want to pity my son so you can feel better about yourself? Is that it?”

“No,” the chief answered, but appeared unaffected by his glowering appearance. “I don’t want to pity him,” the chief continued. “That would be counter-productive. No, I want to give him a job. You say he wants to work for the police, right? An academy man? Well then … let’s let him.”

(To Be Continued)

Roger McManus

After the breaks had mended, it was months of therapy to get his body working again. For a time in the healing process, Johnny had used his grandfather’s old squeaky wheelchair. It had squeaked more than ever, but Johnny didn’t allow anyone to oil it, because out of so much he had forgotten, the squeak reminded Johnny of that dear old, comical man, a root in who Johnny was, while it seemed a lot of the plant was missing. A plate had been placed in his head where the skull had collapsed. Johnny knew something was different. He could count his ten toes and fingers … and they were all there … but he had struggled so hard for that number after nine.

“Ten … ten,” he repeated to himself, trying to encourage his memory to not forget it again … but it would.

Johnny’s father, who had known of Johnny’s dismissal from the academy even before the accident, had never been upset at him. The accident didn’t have to wipe anything away in that regard. It didn’t have to teach him a lesson, refocusing on what was really important. Johnny’s father knew … so what was the reason? Johnny’s father couldn’t blame himself and say God intervened on his behalf because he’d been stupid and his son was sacrificed to learn him something. He couldn’t. He could only blame a drunk driver and that wasn’t good enough. The driver was numb and thoughtless and incoherent. Where is reason in that? Where is motive?!

Johnny had lost something, and he couldn’t understand what he’d lost as much as he couldn’t understand what his father was going through. Life was simpler … he didn’t know why, only that he was less filled with things, but Johnny wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be all right … simpler. He wore a plastic badge on his chest, and it made him happy. It was the only thing that seemed to call to him as he rummaged through what his parents had said was his closet. He was sitting at his desk in his room … which he’d also been told was his … looking at the four sides of a box, there was nothing more meaningful of that room than that, when his foot stepped upon something below. Out of all he’d forgotten, without knowing what any of it was, he bent over, and reached into the darkness, and picked up an old crayon covered in dust, ages forgotten. There was no tip to it, and it was rounded at its end like a ball, and the torn wrapping in the middle suggested it had once been longer. Johnny sat up and examined it, and cradled the crippled piece between his fingers … and just knew he’d held this before … but then wondered if he should care … and began to cry, because he didn’t know.

(To Be Continued)

Roger McManus

Johnny had entered the academy as a civilian, very much like a caterpillar that enters the cocoon to metamorphose into something else more charismatic. But Johnny knew he had the right stuff. He knew it. There was no question of that. The only change there would be, would be that others would now know this too. He’d wear the uniform and the badge like his father, and his father’s grandfather. He’d uphold the law, which he’d sworn he’d do back in kindergarten with his hand on a lump of Play-do. He’d leave behind his crayon and wanted posters he’d used and made years ago and that yearning they signified that had stayed and grown with him in exchange for a pistol and cuffs … and he’d do this all … when he graduated … but that was if he graduated.

“What was the right stuff?” Johnny asked himself. “It comes from the heart. Right? It doesn’t matter if you can’t hit the target at target practice, even though the target’s a ringer for the instructor and because of that and nothing else you really wanted to blow its head off. Blow it to bloody pieces!”Relax, there is a note (Note: He said “its” and not “his”). “It’s a mindset,” Johnny went on. “It doesn’t matter if my asthma prevents me from finishing any of the obstacle courses … or … even the monkey bars in the kiddie park,” he muttered. “It’s a loyalty to justice … and it doesn’t really matter if I’m … that I am … afraid.” But yes, it did … and Johnny, with his head bowed, knew this, and wished that he were more fearful of failing in his dad’s eyes, something to deter him from giving up … but being cursed … his father was far too understanding and gentle a soul for that. He would take his son for who he was and love him … cop or no cop.

It was a turmoil he put up with for a month or so, and then, finally, Johnny was saved from the disgrace of having to quit when the academy kicked him out instead. At least he could say he’d been a tough enough man to have not folded … and being the optimist, thanked his lucky stars for the boot and his ability to say this. But what would he do now, Johnny thought, when he’d lost everything he’d strived to be … what about the tradition?

It would be hard and insensitive to say this made it any easier, or gave Johnny another excuse he could hide behind, or see his loss of so much as a cure, but fate as it so often leaves us with questions, did so for Johnny’s family. The man was drunk, and the tangents leading up to it, a loss of a job, or a broken heart, were of no concern. The man had been drunk and that was all there was to it, and because he was drunk, he’d failed to see where the road had gone … failed to see where he was going … and failed to see Johnny as he stepped from the last step of the police academy with a small cardboard box containing his belongings from a shattered dream.

(To Be Continued)

Roger McManus