Murder in the Mews

Officer Casey handed me the ticket with a polite warning: “Sir, I do not approve of the gutter language used by my partner,” he gestured toward the baleful yellow face peering from the passenger window of the squad car, “but I must agree with him. You were driving most erratically – I was concerned!” He smiled but there was no mistaking his serious tone.

As I climbed back into the eighteen-wheeler, I cursed under my breath and took it out on my passenger.

“This is the last time I am bailing you out!” But I knew inside that as long as he is around, there is never a last time. “Good thing he did not see us switch in pulling over.” The eighteen-wheeler’s height makes it difficult for an average car – even a squad car, to see much inside.

As we moved on, I felt the anger melting away. He drives the only way he knows. The stereo blared a song from my favorite CD.

There is a storm across the valley
Clouds are rolling in
The afternoon is heavy
On the shoulder
There’s a truck out on the four-lane
Mile or more away
One end of the wheel
Just makes it colder…

He made a face – “Switch it off?!”

“Why? It’s a good song.”

“You know it is only pretending. It’s all make-believe.”

“Sounds real to me!” I kidded “perhaps the song is real and YOU are make-believe!”

He looked hurt – talk about being fragile! No wonder I can never stay mad at him too long. I tried to change the topic.

“What is with the bar?! You have been spending too much time there.”

“So?”

“I mean, you are not drunk, are you?”

“No.”

“Obsessed, or something?!”

“What makes you say that?! You haven’t seen me miss any dead lines, have you?”

“Pulling wool again – but it won’t work on me! People who don’t have real jobs have no deadlines! Especially you – who has just been mooching off others, off me!”

“Look, my dead lines are more critical to me than your deadlines could ever be.”

I felt the temper rising. “Listen, pal! If I do not meet my deadlines – I don’t eat! Then you, the moocher-off you – will not be able to eat also.”

He looked discouraged. “It is impossible to make you understand.”

I handed him the mug of coffee I had made just for him. It was not very warm any more. He took a sip and made face – “it tastes different!” But he drank it anyway – he always drinks whatever I make for him.

John Denver went on:

There’s all the news to tell him
How you spent your time
What’s the latest things
The neighbors say
And your mother called last Friday
“Sunshine” made her cry
You felt the “baby” move
Just yesterday!

I tried to keep looking ahead with a straight face but he caught on. It is almost impossible to hide anything from him – as if he can read all my thoughts.

“You have something on your mind?!”

“I have told you before – it is okay to drink, but only in moderation. And you shouldn’t bother the bar girls – unless you wish those bouncers to kick you out every time!”

“They do their job – and I do mine!”

“Sure you do – living like this! You know it can not go on this way.”

There’s a fire softly burning
Supper’s on the stove
It’s the light in your eyes
That makes him warm…

I pulled the truck over to the road side and stepped outside. He followed me. There was a large new housing development – in planning stages – to our left. To our right, there was a newly developed golf course. The grassy landscape seemed to go on for ever. We stepped over it. The sun felt nice and warm and the grass under our feet felt soft.

He put his hand on my shoulder. I had trouble meeting his gaze.

He smiled, “tell me the truth. What did you put in the coffee?”

“You know I had no real choice. It had to be done!”

“You know that will make you a …”

“Don’t say it!”

“But…”

From the truck behind us, we could hear the song conclude. The lines were so familiar.

Hey, it’s good to be back home, again!
Sometimes…it’s so far…
Feels like a long-lost friend
Hey it’s good …to be back home…again!

He stopped. I watched him closely. He said: “John, I am feeling sleepy.” I held him.

Then he slumped.

There wasn’t much left to say – sometimes it is better to merely understand. I lowered him on the soft green carpet of the grass and put my ear near his lips and strained hard to hear. He was barely audible now:

“The shadow
Of fear
Will lift
And gift
The light
To warm
The cold,
Cold night…”

I felt an inadvertent teardrop. I heard a hoarse voice, which sounded strangely like my own: “I love you, Beej!”

He smiled – but the smile came out more like a smirk. He tried to make a mock bow and a face. “My dear! You could never love anybody but yourself!”

His voice became more slurred. He was fast losing consciousness, but struggled nevertheless. The clarity was lost.

“…no choice
No use
Just die
Or end
Murderin’
The muse!”

The breathing stopped. All was still. But only for a moment – and what is a little moment in the scheme of things!

I returned to the truck – there was a long road ahead and there was cargo to deliver.