Through the Light of the Bottle
From Shades of Blue to Grey
Over the last three hours, it has become extremely apparent that the Baltimore Police Department has a strong disbelief in the use of heat in any forms; radiators, furnaces, I’d take a fucking space heater at this point.
But no, I sit on a cold metal chair, across from Officer Stern-face-buzz-cut, explaining for the twelfth time what happened that night, shivering.
He nods solemnly across from me after I finish my story with a lame, “and then I passed out,” and stands up abruptly, most likely to cue in the next officer with the stern face and buzz cut to sit in the chair for me to recount that night too.
I sigh deeply, sinking into my chair, my head throbbing dully. I rub my hands up and down my bare arms, the goose-bumps dancing under my fingertips.
“Motherfucker,” I whisper to myself, my body convulsing in a violent shudder as a result of the early fall winds rolling into the east coast.
“Language, language,” I hear a voice drawl from behind me. He clicks his tongue, and I turn to see him shaking his head, a smug smile set on his face.
“Fuck off,” I sigh, turning back around and facing the wall of missing person signs and wanted posters behind Officer who-gives-a-fuck’s desk.
“Sweetheart, I wouldn’t get testy with me,” I can fucking hear that smile plastered on his face.
“Don’t call me sweetheart, Way,” I answer dully, focusing my attention the yellowing poster showing the face of a man from South Orange wanted for rape and murder, a small tear running down the middle of the man's face, a while line obscuring his features from the public's view..
“I’m sorry, did it look like I gave a flying fuck what you wanted me to call you?”
“Well next time you decide to barge into my hotel room and fuck me, I guess it will be helpful to know what to scream,” I smile smugly.
Silence falls over the room. I roll my eyes and turn in my seat to see him sitting in an identical one about ten feet back. His hair is a solid black now and he stares hard at me, lips in a thin line, eyebrows furrowed.
“You fucking led me-“
“Oh, spare me,” I shoot at him, letting the venom pour from my words. “What are you even doing here?”
His eyes dart to a female officer shooting him sly glances from a desk in the far corner of the room. “In for questioning, seeing as I’m the asshole that left you alone at the bar table.”
I roll my eyes and let my eyes trail to the door where I see a couple of officers staring hard at a board with my picture thumb-tacked in the middle of it. I stand up; stretch my arms above my head, letting out a shaky sigh as I shudder again.
“You cold?” he asks quietly, looking up at me with raised eyebrows.
I start to open my mouth to provide a snide remark until I see his hand poised on the zipper of his hoodie, waiting for my answer. I nod slightly, and his hand moves downward, the sweatshirt falling open revealing a black shirt. He shrugs it off, tossing it to me gently.
I smile, refusing to bring myself to formally show my gratitude with spoken words, and slip it around my shoulders, the warm fabric hitting my cold skin, creating instant positive results.
I wrap my arms around my body, eyes darting anywhere around the chaotic police department, besides his form.
“What the fuck is wrong with us,” he finally speaks after a minute of silence. My eyes finally fall on him. His face holds a bemused smile and he’s shaking his head slightly, laughing cynically.
“I mean, one minute you’re trying to fucking ruining my career and me doing the same, and then the next it’s like…” he trails off, nodding his head towards my form, swimming in his sweatshirt, “this.”
I open my mouth to speak, but little miss blonde officer from the corner, suddenly steps into my peripheral, smiling sweetly at Gerard’s form.
“Mr. Way, can I get you something to drink?”
I suddenly am overcome with the strongest urge to throw something at her.
“No, I’ve got some coffee,” he motions to a Styrofoam cup sitting on the floor near his foot.
“Alright, then if you can come with me, I want to ask you a few questions,” her smile widens.
Yes, preferably something sharp and heavy, right at her fucking little bright Crest-white smile.
Gerard smiles back, standing up and grabbing his small cup with him as he saunters over to her desk, leaving me standing awkwardly next to a cold table in a too big sweatshirt.
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“So spill,” I march over to her form, pulling a folding chair with me in the process and placing it in front of her form, sitting on it backwards, and my hands resting on the backrest, “what’s been going on around here?”
She stops plucking a guitar, and looks up at me with expectant eyes. “What?” she answers shortly, sighing slightly in annoyance.
“Oh fucking come off it Genie, you aren’t pissed.”
“Yes, I am,” her face is set in a serious tone, eyes narrowing.
“Genie,” I moan, “don’t do this too me,”
“No, I’m not talking to you,” her voice is hard, and her eyes return back to the guitar.
“Genie, it wasn’t an attack on you, it was on them. And it wasn’t personal; it was to save my own damn skin. That’s part of the game, hate to break it to you.”
“You felt morally obliged to leave? Are you fucking kidding me?” her voice rises, standing up, her knuckles white against the finger board of the guitar. “You left because Gerard wasn’t tempted by your innocent little act, bouncing your legs up and down, pretending to be fucking nervous and whatnot. And when he slinked off, you couldn’t take not being the center of his little universe and made some dramatic exit!”
“First of all,” I stand up, mimicking her aggressive stance, “that’s not why I fucking left. Gerard could tell me he wants me to drop dead on the spot and I couldn’t give a fly fucking! And second of all, don’t tell me why or why not I fucking left a bar, last time I checked I had my own thoughts.”
“Whatever,” she laughs cynically, shaking her head from side to side, hair flying about as she storms to a table on the adjacent wall, stuffing the guitar in an open case. She zips it up quickly, slinging it over her shoulder and hurrying towards the door.
When it hits me.
“Wait,” I yell, turning quickly and facing her. She freezes in mid-step, hand on the handle of the door, poised to slam it shut. “How would the fuck do you even know that?”
Her head whips in my direction.
“You left, with Bob, before I even went to sit with Gerard. How’d you know that I was shaking my leg? I saw you grab your coat and walk out the door-“ But I’m cut off with the door slamming, silencing my last words from her ears.
But no, I sit on a cold metal chair, across from Officer Stern-face-buzz-cut, explaining for the twelfth time what happened that night, shivering.
He nods solemnly across from me after I finish my story with a lame, “and then I passed out,” and stands up abruptly, most likely to cue in the next officer with the stern face and buzz cut to sit in the chair for me to recount that night too.
I sigh deeply, sinking into my chair, my head throbbing dully. I rub my hands up and down my bare arms, the goose-bumps dancing under my fingertips.
“Motherfucker,” I whisper to myself, my body convulsing in a violent shudder as a result of the early fall winds rolling into the east coast.
“Language, language,” I hear a voice drawl from behind me. He clicks his tongue, and I turn to see him shaking his head, a smug smile set on his face.
“Fuck off,” I sigh, turning back around and facing the wall of missing person signs and wanted posters behind Officer who-gives-a-fuck’s desk.
“Sweetheart, I wouldn’t get testy with me,” I can fucking hear that smile plastered on his face.
“Don’t call me sweetheart, Way,” I answer dully, focusing my attention the yellowing poster showing the face of a man from South Orange wanted for rape and murder, a small tear running down the middle of the man's face, a while line obscuring his features from the public's view..
“I’m sorry, did it look like I gave a flying fuck what you wanted me to call you?”
“Well next time you decide to barge into my hotel room and fuck me, I guess it will be helpful to know what to scream,” I smile smugly.
Silence falls over the room. I roll my eyes and turn in my seat to see him sitting in an identical one about ten feet back. His hair is a solid black now and he stares hard at me, lips in a thin line, eyebrows furrowed.
“You fucking led me-“
“Oh, spare me,” I shoot at him, letting the venom pour from my words. “What are you even doing here?”
His eyes dart to a female officer shooting him sly glances from a desk in the far corner of the room. “In for questioning, seeing as I’m the asshole that left you alone at the bar table.”
I roll my eyes and let my eyes trail to the door where I see a couple of officers staring hard at a board with my picture thumb-tacked in the middle of it. I stand up; stretch my arms above my head, letting out a shaky sigh as I shudder again.
“You cold?” he asks quietly, looking up at me with raised eyebrows.
I start to open my mouth to provide a snide remark until I see his hand poised on the zipper of his hoodie, waiting for my answer. I nod slightly, and his hand moves downward, the sweatshirt falling open revealing a black shirt. He shrugs it off, tossing it to me gently.
I smile, refusing to bring myself to formally show my gratitude with spoken words, and slip it around my shoulders, the warm fabric hitting my cold skin, creating instant positive results.
I wrap my arms around my body, eyes darting anywhere around the chaotic police department, besides his form.
“What the fuck is wrong with us,” he finally speaks after a minute of silence. My eyes finally fall on him. His face holds a bemused smile and he’s shaking his head slightly, laughing cynically.
“I mean, one minute you’re trying to fucking ruining my career and me doing the same, and then the next it’s like…” he trails off, nodding his head towards my form, swimming in his sweatshirt, “this.”
I open my mouth to speak, but little miss blonde officer from the corner, suddenly steps into my peripheral, smiling sweetly at Gerard’s form.
“Mr. Way, can I get you something to drink?”
I suddenly am overcome with the strongest urge to throw something at her.
“No, I’ve got some coffee,” he motions to a Styrofoam cup sitting on the floor near his foot.
“Alright, then if you can come with me, I want to ask you a few questions,” her smile widens.
Yes, preferably something sharp and heavy, right at her fucking little bright Crest-white smile.
Gerard smiles back, standing up and grabbing his small cup with him as he saunters over to her desk, leaving me standing awkwardly next to a cold table in a too big sweatshirt.
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“So spill,” I march over to her form, pulling a folding chair with me in the process and placing it in front of her form, sitting on it backwards, and my hands resting on the backrest, “what’s been going on around here?”
She stops plucking a guitar, and looks up at me with expectant eyes. “What?” she answers shortly, sighing slightly in annoyance.
“Oh fucking come off it Genie, you aren’t pissed.”
“Yes, I am,” her face is set in a serious tone, eyes narrowing.
“Genie,” I moan, “don’t do this too me,”
“No, I’m not talking to you,” her voice is hard, and her eyes return back to the guitar.
“Genie, it wasn’t an attack on you, it was on them. And it wasn’t personal; it was to save my own damn skin. That’s part of the game, hate to break it to you.”
“You felt morally obliged to leave? Are you fucking kidding me?” her voice rises, standing up, her knuckles white against the finger board of the guitar. “You left because Gerard wasn’t tempted by your innocent little act, bouncing your legs up and down, pretending to be fucking nervous and whatnot. And when he slinked off, you couldn’t take not being the center of his little universe and made some dramatic exit!”
“First of all,” I stand up, mimicking her aggressive stance, “that’s not why I fucking left. Gerard could tell me he wants me to drop dead on the spot and I couldn’t give a fly fucking! And second of all, don’t tell me why or why not I fucking left a bar, last time I checked I had my own thoughts.”
“Whatever,” she laughs cynically, shaking her head from side to side, hair flying about as she storms to a table on the adjacent wall, stuffing the guitar in an open case. She zips it up quickly, slinging it over her shoulder and hurrying towards the door.
When it hits me.
“Wait,” I yell, turning quickly and facing her. She freezes in mid-step, hand on the handle of the door, poised to slam it shut. “How would the fuck do you even know that?”
Her head whips in my direction.
“You left, with Bob, before I even went to sit with Gerard. How’d you know that I was shaking my leg? I saw you grab your coat and walk out the door-“ But I’m cut off with the door slamming, silencing my last words from her ears.