The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

Peering around the doorway, he checked the large numeral digital clock on the dresser. He was at little risk of being late for his shift. As he finished toweling himself off, he tried to decide whether he had time to have dinner there or if he should grab something at a drive-through before heading up to pick up his patrol car at the dispatch office.

He tried to remember how much cash he had in his wallet . . .

. . . probably like three dollars . . .

. . . and how much he had in his bank account . . .

. . . probably even less than that.

John checked the clock again. Unless his father was earlier than usual, John would already be on his way by the time his father arrived home from work.

I guess I can text him, John decided. He’s going to lecture me either way.

A speech by text—while no less annoying—was, at least, was a little easier to ignore.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, he padded barefoot back to his bedroom, once again wishing he could remember where his slippers were. The fake wooden floors were cold this time of year.

Later, as he drove to the dispatch office, with the aroma of fast-food burritos mixing with the other stale scents in his car, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder where he might be assigned to that night.

My track record lately has been . . . well . . .

He trailed off, unable to find a good way to rationalize that nearly all of his patrol shifts over the past few days had involved someone being dead. Tempted to call ahead, to see whether they would tell him which assignment he had drawn for the night, he resisted, afraid that he might just turn around and go home if he knew.

When he walked into the dispatch and signed in for his shift, John had the distinct feeling that he was on the receiving end of several sidewise glances. He caught no one at it, specifically, but was certain that it happening. Carole’s customary smile seemed a little wider and, John thought, almost predatory. Her eyes appeared a bit brighter as well when she handed him the keys. John the smile noncommittally, feeling uncomfortable.

In the past, she had been friendly enough—in a cordial, yet professional sort of way. She had, however, never really teased or flirted with him the way she did with most of the other men. Although she was not really at all his type, being a bit too lean and with a narrow face that he did not find particularly attractive, he still felt a dull stab of jealousy and disappointment at the perceived rejection.

Tonight, however, seemed different. It was a poorly kept secret that the night dispatcher preferred “bad boys”. His getting hauled in for questioning by the police the night before had evidently now placed him into that category in her mind.