Joe Friday, Myrtle, and the Diabolical Case of My Package

by Tom Piccirilli

Grinning that livid grin, she stuck her feet up on the dash and urged

the slick desperation out of me, giving that laugh and hissing,

come on, run.

Her breath as thick and heavy as honey,

mascara bleeding from her eyes like an Egyptian queen ordering

slaves into the desert, under the stones,

to fall on their swords.  Her tongue flicked back and forth across her lips,

and a strap fell from her white shoulder.  Pale flesh in moonlight,

the promise of a sweaty sack, you do unreasonable acts for very obvious

reasons.  I am

the living cliché of my forefathers, the empty summit

of their common hopes,

the wasteland of their menial efforts, they're all spinning

under the earth thinking, Christ,

this is where my blood has gone?

...this is where my sweat and love and death

have brought my name?...

I drop my chin and ease off the brake

because I have nothing better waiting for me now or tomorrow

than this.  Sometimes you call the tornado down,

boredom and the sound of your own heart

is almost as bad as your brother's smiling disregard.

You sure, I said, and she answered by leaning over

and gripping my goodies.

I could almost see the cop in the rearview

snicker, knowing that I was no different than the rest,

his twice-busted nose wrinkled, teeth on display,

eager in his judgment,

reaching for the radio to call in

my plate numbers–hey Myrtle, got an antsy one at a red light,

acting suspicious, he's making the air cold, and I think

his girl has got her hand around

his package, yes it's confirmed, she's got him

by the goodies, Myrtle–

I am

a split hydrogen atom,

the destruction of a mother's standards,

the failure of a species

and I've never even done anything wrong.  I'm not interesting enough

to have done anything wrong,

so a lot is riding on this.

I floored it through the red light without another car

in sight.  At 4am the city gives you

some space to scream,

to chase yourself around the far corners of memory

and brutality.

Ride my bumper, Joe Friday,

let's head to the river.

The siren exploded, the brights boiled my eyes into steam.

She gave a yip and tightened her fist

and I gave a cry that cut back through the centuries,

that made my brother hike up in bed with his nose bleeding,

that shook the books from the walls of the New York library.

Tires smoking, I swung it over to the east side

because if we were gonna kill anybody

I wanted it to be

one of the elite:

the magistrates, the movie stars, the ones who had

forgotten, the ones who did not know, the ones

who've traded my soul for their silver,

out there now walking their dogs

in the pre-dawn glow

of a paradise

they never thought they could lose.