Sammy

The throbbing pain in his knee battled the war drum beating in his head, each trying to inflict as much agony as possible. Sammy rolled over on the sofa hoping to find a more comfortable position and muffle the pain. Instead, the movement strained his knee and he unleashed a string of obscenities and grumblings under his breath. He clenched his teeth and the pain subsided, allowing him to believe a few more moments of sleep were possible. He kept his eyes closed, soldiering on, willing himself to fall back to sleep.

Minutes passed but his body refused to cooperate as the frustrations of the past week wormed their way through his mind. It was too hot to sleep anyway. He was slick with sweat and the fan aimed at him did nothing other than replace hot, stagnant air with hot, moving air. Even the tiny tick, tick, tick of the fan set his teeth on edge.

Nothing was going his way, nothing at all. Passed over for a promotion, shredding his knee and facing surgery, dealing with his mother's declining health and injury, and now allowing a couple of kids to get under his skin. It all was very tiring.

His stomach rumbled and he decided a sandwich might hit the spot about now. And a beer. Maybe even two beers.

He hobbled to the kitchen and scratched his head, running his fingers through hair in dire need of a comb. A cool shower sure would feel pretty good, he thought. But those beers will be better. A note taped to the door of the refrigerator left him slack jawed and confused. He stood with his hand on the door to the refrigerator, unable to recognize the handwriting until he saw the initials "A. M." Abbie. It clicked and he felt like an moron. She was letting him know she had driven to the hospital planning to sit with Grandma for a few hours. Good. He needed some peace and time to think. He crumpled the note then opened the door to the fridge, reveling in the cool air as it washed over him and for a moment toying with the notion of pulling up a chair and camping out right there.

A chunk of leftover meatloaf on the second shelf looked like it might make a decent sandwich. He rifled through the other shelves and bins, waiting to see what other ingredient provided inspiration. Nothing other than some spicy mustard and cheese slices of an indeterminate variety, but that was good enough for him to assemble a two-fister--Abbie's name for the size of his Mt. Everest proportioned sandwiches. Given half a chance, she could find something to poke fun at him in about everything he did. And of course, he loved her all the more for it.

He hunkered over the sink to avoid creating a trail of meatloaf debris throughout the kitchen and wolfed down the first half of the sandwich. Well into his first beer, the curtains began to billow at the open window facing out toward the west. Dark clouds churned through the sky, heavy and threatening while leaves and debris scuttled across the yard as if seeking shelter in the face of the advancing storm. Far off in the distance heat lightning danced across the horizon casting an eerie staccato glow through the advancing darkness. Finally, he thought. We're gonna get some rain. And maybe a tornado or two, it looks like.

His thoughts drifted back to his conversation with his neighbor, Sadie. The words and anger he had shown her were embarrassing in hindsight. She had been nothing but kind, even when faced with his rude and callous behavior. And no matter how he tried to rationalize it, he sounded like a child. It just seemed his life was going haywire these days and everybody irritated him. Of course, it didn't help he was in constant pain. That just made everything worse. Maybe he could find a way to be a little more... what? Approachable? Kinder? A better neighbor?

I don't have a clue, he thought. But I do know, I'm not proud of myself right now.

The doorbell chimed, interrupting his train of thought and startling him at the same time. The intrusion irritated him and he slammed the beer down on the counter wishing he could be left alone. He wallowed in self pity which further escalated his frustration. The bell rang again.

"Alright, already," he called out. "I'm coming!" Limping back through the front room, the bell rang for the third time and he gritted his teeth ready to lash out and let the idiot with his finger on the button know just how annoying that was.

The idiot turned out to be the detective from the hospital.

"Hey, if it isn't Sherlock Holmes." He couldn't have stopped that comment from escaping even had his lips been glued shut.

"You're quite the comedian, Mr. Morris. But I would prefer Detective Simpson." He stood on the porch with his hands on his hips and sported his own frustrated expression. "Would you mind if I came in? Perhaps you won't think of yourself as humorous when you hear what I've got to tell you."

"Don't you have anything better to do? Aren't there a bunch of criminals running around out there?" Sammy asked waving his hand toward the street in a vague manner. Simpson didn't respond and a few seconds ticked by leaving Sammy with an awkward feeling.

""Fine. Come in," he said, standing aside to allow the detective to enter. "I hope whatever you've got to say is worth interrupting my dinner."

"Look, Mr. Morris, I don't have to be here. This really isn't a part of my job. It's getting late and I could be home right now watching the Cubbies and sipping a cold one. But there's a time when a man thinks he can make a difference by speaking up and this is one of those times."

Sammy lowered himself onto the sofa, moving with caution yet wincing at the same time. "Oh yeah?" he said, trying to get comfortable. "Short of arresting a few juveniles or at the very least thumping some skulls, what could you possibly be doing to make a difference?"

"You are a trying man, Mr. Morris. You know that?"

"Just get on with it, will you. I've had enough grief already and I sure don't need any more from you."

Simpson cleared his throat. "This situation is getting out of control and somebody's going to get hurt. And when you or one of these kids end up in the hospital or the morgue, you better believe I'm gonna be back here to start thumping some skulls."

Sammy opened is mouth to speak but Simpson wasn't finished. "And furthermore, this friend of Markus Williams--this Jay C kid--he's headed for trouble. I just left the hospital where he's beat the ever-lovin' daylights out of some poor schmuck who will never press any charges because he's scared to death."

"Well, aside from the fact this is the same worthless spook that attacked my mother, what's this got to do with me?"

"He's gunning for you. Get it? He thinks you've humiliated and oppressed him, I guess. And It looks like he has made plans to attack you."

"Hmph!" Sammy reached down and slid up the leg of his pants. "You see that scar? I got that twenty some years ago from a Japanese bayonet on this little godforsaken island in the South Pacific. It was the last thing that little Nip did on this earth, let me tell you. And if I managed to survive the Japs during the war, I think I oughta be handle a kid who thinks he's tougher than he really is."

Simpson studied him for a moment. "Alright. Forewarned is forearmed. But I'm warning you as well: quit stirring the pot. You hear me? Somebody's got to have a level head here and maybe it ought to start with you."

"Hey, I'll keep my nose clean. But if he's gonna dish it up, then he'd best be prepared to sit down for dinner."

Simpson stood to leave then stopped at door. "I am not just flapping my gums. Don't make me come back here because you decided to do something stupid. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah." Sammy was glad to see him leave.

The detective walked to his car with the wind buffeting him and tossing his hat high into the air then tumbling down the sidewalk. Sammy chuckled to himself as Simpson chased after it, catching it halfway down the block. Served him right, the arrogant fool. He stood at the door with his arms folded across his chest watching until the man drove away. It still rankled the way Simpson had handled events when it was thought Maggie had been taken. It never failed--a man with a badge believed he alone possessed intelligence while everyone else had no more brains than a field mouse.

He sat on the sofa, again disgusted with himself. Was he going to turn into one of those old crotchety guys, those old timers nobody could tolerate? They were the ones always complaining and never happy, with no friends and no family who could stand them. He feared he was well on his way judging from the way things had been going of late. He didn't want to sink into old age this way. Trapped by himself and left alone with only his anger and intolerance for company, that was no good. Life was too short to live it like this. He had already chased away his wife and now Abbie was fed up with him. He didn't want to lose her as well.

I need another beer.