Monique

Jim wasn’t in the mood, but he knew he needed to get moving and get to work. His Social Security check was a total joke, and he needed the money. Why the hell hadn’t he planned better? Young and so fucking dumb, he thought. With his mom dying of lung cancer at the age of 38 and his dad having a fatal heart attack at 45, Jim didn’t think he’d live to be very old. So his motto as a younger man was “go balls out!” He’d had a hell of a good time, too, for the most part. Partying. Gambling. Womanizing. But in hindsight he realized one of the errors of his ways; he’d gone balls out on the wrong things. Instead of focusing on getting a college degree or learning a useful trade, he had supported his indulgent lifestyle by working at a sad hodgepodge of shitty, usually low-paying odd jobs that he blew through almost as fast as he did his cash. Jim lived in the fast lane and assumed he’d die young. Considering all the risks he took, on top of his family history, he was very surprised that he hadn’t. Yet here he was. Seventy six years old, collecting a meager SS check, and still working shitty odd jobs.

He clicked off the T.V. and grunted as he stood. Son of a bitch, his knee was killing him today. Maybe he should have taken more risks as a young man. Getting old sucked. He grabbed a couple of Advil from the pill bottle next to the kitchen sink, swallowed them with the last gulp of his lukewarm coffee, and headed outside. Damn, it was hot today. Great for business but not for his comfort. He dreaded getting into the sweltering van with the AC that crapped out last week, the one he couldn’t afford to fix. He was thinking he might go insane listening to the ridiculous, obnoxious tunes that blared from the truck’s loudspeaker. Could he make it through another day of this torture? He guessed that he could. Obviously, he was tougher than he thought. Even though the AC was broken, the freezer compartments in the van were still working. Gotta love it, he said to himself with thick sarcasm. He would drive through the neighborhoods, the little brats would come running with cash clenched in their sweaty little fists, and Jim would dole out Dove bars, popsicles, and snow cones. Wasn’t life great? Jesus! He couldn’t wait for summer to be over.

His name tag read: R. Swindle. The “R” stood for Robert, but he’d never been called that. As a kid, everyone called him Bobby. Then, when he turned twelve and started the 7th grade at Conway Middle School, he insisted on being called Rob and would ignore anyone who still called him Bobby. It didn’t take long for people to get with the program, but with a name like Rob Swindle, it was no surprise that other kids liked to tease him. "Hey, Burglar Boy, the fuzz is comin' to get you," they'd say. Or they'd call him names like Grifter or Sharkey, their favorite, but it never really bothered him. In fact, he thought it was pretty funny back then and even funnier now, at age 36, considering that he was an officer at the Conway Police Department. He still got lots of shit from his coworkers about his name, but it was all in fun, and nobody at the department doubted his integrity and abilities as an officer. After 18 years of service, he had more than proved himself to be a “good cop.” In fact, he was considered by the C.P.D. to be one of their best. Rob had a way of quickly assessing the most contentious or violent situations and getting them under control in minutes. His fellow officers were in awe of him. He'd been asked many times, "How do you do that?" Rob would just shrug and smile, but he knew how. He had a special skill; he could actually smell fear. It smelled like moldy bread with undertones of burnt hair and cumin. As a kid, he assumed everyone could smell it, but eventually he learned that, no, they sure as hell couldn't! And it turned out that being able to smell fear was very useful as a cop.