Would You Like Whipped Cream With That? (fan fic short)

The thing about New England is its cold a lot of the year, so when just a hint of warm weather makes an appearance people go fucking wild. I’m not talking heat wave temps here, I mean days like today where the sun is shining and the thermometer in the car reads sixty two. The girls break out the skimpy clothes and strut around trying to impress the guys who are sitting out on their stoops talking sports with their neighbors. It’s like they haven’t seen each other since last summer even though they live right next door. I guess when bears hibernate they don’t socialize either.

So as we’re driving along, Rico at the wheel of course, I’m just watching the scenery. I admire the girls in their daisy dukes, though honesty I’m more intrigued by the muscles the guys are revealing in their tank tops, but the entire time I’m just waiting for the bomb to drop and get a call. Probably something like a drive by, or a stabbing, or maybe even a robbery, because give us Bostonians a bit of warmth and we just love to share that shit with each other.

What I wasn’t expecting when we got to the disturbance call happening at the ice cream shop was a very large woman having a melt down because they didn’t carry her favorite flavor.

“Here they are now!” Her arm flew up in the air as we entered causing shock waves to course down her brown skin to her elbow. She was wearing dark grey spandex shorts and a black tank that left very little to the imagination. And God how I wished she’d left it up to the imagination. Although I must say, what she lacked in fashion sense she made up for with a fancy hairstyle and perfectly manicured nails. “I want to file a complaint!”

I addressed the pretty mocha skinned girl behind the counter that was probably in her early twenties, “Are you the one who called?” She shook her head.

“No I called!” the customer yelled, “Didn’t you hear me? I said I want to file a complaint.”

“What seems to be the problem ma’am?” Rico asked her.

“They out of chocolate chip mint. How you run out of chocolate chip mint?” She grabbed a large cup of ice cream from the counter to show us, “She trying to pacify me with the white version. I want the green shit.”

“You know,” I said, “My friend and I were just talking about this the other day. The McDonald’s by him was out of the shamrock shake all thru March. It’s fucking ridiculous. The public likes the green mint.”

“Exactly!” she threw her arm up again then slapped her thigh. “See what that man say?” She asked the girl behind the counter, “And he a cop.”

“Not helping.” Rico uttered to me before turning his attention back to the woman, “So what is it exactly you want us to do?”

“I want to file a complaint!” She screamed at him, “Haven’t you been listening to me?” she pointed to the ice cream server, “And give her a ticket or something. She has a bad attitude.”

“I gave you a discount on your cup. What else would you like me to do?” the girl’s voice shook a bit when she talked, but she seemed confident that we’d back her up.

“I’d like you to get your skinny ass in the back room and find me some mint!”

“I told you we don’t have any back there. We only have the white kind! Only the white!”

“That shit’s racist.” I muttered as I shook my head while the women continued to argue. Rico, of course, shot me the stink eye.

“You two need to knock it off now,” Rico said, using his officer Hernandez voice. As the two quieted down, Rico turned his attention back to the customer, “We can’t give her a ticket. There is nothing we can do here. You can’t call 911 because you don’t like your ice cream. That is for emergency’s only, got it? Now, go enjoy what she gave you or go to another shop, either way you need to leave out of here.”

She narrowed her eyes as if she were a charging bull targeting the red cape “Fuck you!” and with that, she tossed her discounted large white treat all over Rico’s chest. Time stopped as his jaw tightened and the ice cream slid down his badge and blues to end with a plop on the linoleum.

“Oh no she didn’t. “ The girl behind the counter and I said at the same time. She and I exchanged a quick glance before I focused back on the situation at hand.

“Put your hands behind your back.” Rico said.

“Fuck you!” the woman yelled again.

“Put. Your. Hands. Behind your back.” Rico repeated as he went for his cuffs, “You’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer.”

“Oh no I ain’t” she said as she faked right. For a plus sized lady she was pretty agile on her feet. She almost made it past Rico on his left as he grabbed for her and I braced for the intercept, but she slipped on the ice cream, her flip flop flying off, and they both went down.

I took a step back to give them room to wrestle. Unless Rico was really in trouble I may cause more damage than good by getting involved. Besides I was wearing my last clean uniform and I didn’t want to drive around for the rest of the day smelling like soar milk.

I watched as they slipped and slid in the dairy goodness. Rico was trying to get a good hold on the dairy queen as she scrabbled for purchase on the wet and sticky floor. Fuck, it was better than Jello wrestling night at Club Fantasies, I just wished I had someone to place bets with. I briefly consider a wager with the cute girl behind the counter but figured that was probably unprofessional. Besides, she already had her iPhone out and was capturing the whole exchange on video. Shit, why hadn’t I thought of that? Just as well, again that may be construed as unethical. Finally Rico got the cuffs on and hauled large Marge to her feet. They were both breathing hard as he read her, her rights and hauled her out of the door.

I gingerly stepped over the mess on the floor and approached the employee to take her statement. Her name was Lisa, and after I recorded her account I pulled out my business card to write my e-mail address on the back.

“Hey, can you do me a favor?” I asked as I handed her the card, “think you can send me that video?”

“Sure,” she giggled. “I won’t get in trouble right?”

“No, not at all, you’d be doing me a favor.” I slipped a five into the tip cup and gave her a wink, “Thanks darlin’.”

Later, after Ms. Mint was booked and Rico was squeaky clean, he refused to talk to me. I tried everything, even offered to buy him lunch, but he didn’t budge. I mean it wasn’t my fault I couldn’t stop the laughter from bursting forth every time the image popped back into my head. Probably didn’t help that I asked him if he was dairy intolerant or told him how cute he’d look with whipped cream and a cherry on top of his head.

That’s okay he’ll get over it and forgive me eventually, he always does. Well, at least until I received that e-mail from Lisa and have Doug the tech guy set it on loop in the break room. It’s going be a perfect accompaniment with the coffee and donuts before roll call. 

For now, I can't wait to get off duty so I pick up some ice cream on my way home. I have a craving. I'll stick with strawberry though.

Good Mint

Bad Mint

  

Fishing in Florida

                                             Fishing on a party boat in Florida with Malibu Mike.

                                            Look how these Cobia come right up to the boat.

                                              

They put up a hell of a fight! Good eats though ;p

Passed out after long day of fishing...and maybe some sex

Marine shit

The shit marine's can talk about for hours...

                                 
                                 The shit marine's find funny or do to entertain themselves while deployed...

Recon Days (pics)

Team Sidewinder

Clockwise from top left:

Digger, Elias, Kelly, Owen, Ty and me

Ty...

Me...

Staying In, Or Going Out? (fan fic)

                                           (fan fiction written before Armed & Dangerous)

Staying in, or going out? Didn’t that question just keep creeping back into my life? Was I staying in the closet, or coming out? Was I staying in the corps or were they discharging me? Was I going to keep my feeling for Ty inside or was I going to finally fess up? Well at least now I had an answer for two of those.

Tonight, however, that question didn’t apply to anything life altering. Freshly showered and dressed in my favorite Sox tee and faded jeans, I’m asking myself weather I felt like staying in to watch the game alone, or if I felt like going down to McFadden’s and watching it with everyone else? A few months ago that question never would have been an issue, but lately I just feel off. I still joke around and laugh, still tell a good story, I still get laid as much as I’m able, but I don’t know…it almost feels like I’m acting. Like I’m playing the part of myself in some bazaaro movie of my life or something. I’m detached, watching from a distance as I go through the motions. God, I sound so fucking pathetic, I wanna beat my own self with that violin.

It’s weird, because until fairly recently I happily spent at least four nights a week at the corner bar if I wasn’t on duty. Not because I’m an alcoholic, but because, to coin a phrase from Cheers, it’s nice going to a place where everybody knows my name. And although everyone knows everybody’s name really, they treat me extra special. Not tooting my own balls or anything, just stayin’, I’ve been sort of Mr. Popularity around town my entire life. I like talking with people, making them feel comfortable, making them feel welcome, but make no mistake I’m no pushover. I’ve never backed down from a fight no matter how big or how many and I’ve definitely starting my fair share of brawls. Especially with Yankee fans, but I digress. What I’m saying is I’ve always been more of a leader type, and for some reason the knuckle heads around here always liked to follow. I’ve never lead them too far astray, well maybe occasionally, but my boys and me? We’ve had some wicked fun over the years.

Luckily, I’ve kinda always had a way with the ladies as well. Maybe because my ma thought me to be respectful, open doors, give lots of compliments, shit like that. Even as I’m ushering them out of the door I do it in a gentlemanly fashion so I don’t hurt their feelings, and I always spring for cab fare. I don’t know, maybe they flock to me because I never had the commitment gene, because hard to get is appealing. I wish I could say it was my dashing good looks, but I’m not fucking delusional. Not saying I have a growth on the side of my head, or that I’m necessarily a bad looking guy,  I do own a mirror; just saying I’ve always had more of a ‘cute, boy next door’ type of face then a ’turn heads as I enter a room’ thing going on. Of course this innocent appearance has gotten me away with some shit in my lifetime, so I’m not complaining.

Though with all of the female attention I’ve received, I’ve never had a relationship that lasted longer than a weekend. Like I said, I just never had the desire. Jenna McClusky was the one exception. We lost our virginity to each other when I was sixteen and she was fifteen and consequently dated off and on pretty much all through high school. We were one of those dramatic couples that were either loving on each other or hating on each other. We fought about every God damn thing, and admittedly I wasn’t the most faithful of boyfriends, so that was an issue. We broke up every other week until I turned eighteen and I enlisted, then we broke up for good. I never hid the fact  that I wanted to be a marine, it’d been my dream since I was a kid, but I guess she thought I’d change my mind, stay home and become a cop like our dads and eventually get married. Oh fate, she’s such a funny bitch isn’t she?

Not to sound like a prick, but honesty I was glad she dumped me. I didn’t want to go into the marines with any baggage. It was bad enough Ma made me promise to write at least once a week, I didn’t want to worry about keeping Jenna happy too. Besides, I wasn’t really feeling the same way about her anymore. Hell, maybe I never actually loved her like I should. At that point I was old enough to realize that the way I felt about other guys wasn’t how “normal” guys felt about each other. Taking my time in the showers while I appreciated the view and enjoying that pat on the ass after a good play weren’t necessarily my first clues either. Regrettably I also realized that no matter how much I prayed, those feeling weren’t going to disappear. Though I was still naive enough to believe that joining the corps might help beat it out of me. Why’d I think being surrounded by a bunch of guys 24/7, working out together, sleeping together, more fucking showering together, would help my cause? I have no fucking clue.

The most ironic part? As I sat on the bus waiting to go to Parris Island, Tyler Grady choose to sit next to me. He was the hottest guy I’d ever laid eyes on. It wasn’t just his physical beauty; his dark hair, hazel eyes and full lips, it was the way he carried himself. He had a cocky smile and a wicked swagger that was pure sex. After he plopped down and we did the usual introductions, he said, “You’re not gonna go all Private Pyle on me are ya? Because I’m hung over and I don’t feel like having to find a new buddy.” Between the Full Metal Jacket reference and that glint in his eye that said he wasn’t just looking for trouble he was willing to make some, I knew I’d found a kindred spirits. I had the sudden premonition that he was going to be the best friend I’d ever have. I also fell head over heels in love for the first and only time in my life. So much for the Marine’s curing my gay side; Ty Grady pretty much solidified it before I even made it to basic training.

Regardless, gay, straight or somewhere in between, I loved being a Marine. Loved Force Reconnaissance even more.  Ty and I passed through all of our training with flying colors, even if we were a nuisance a time or two. We ended up on recon Team Sidewinder with Elias Sanchez, Kelly Abbott, Owen Johns and Duruand “Digger” Garrigou. I loved those guys like they were my blood. We were flawless, six men working as one, and man the fucking missions we accomplished. We prevented terrorist attacks, prohibited assassinations, and I’d like to think we helped avoid wars. We did things to help our country that its citizens will never know about. I knew if I’d died, my family would never be aware of the real reason why or how, and that was ok with me. I had genuine purpose in life and I’d never felt so alive.

Even after what happened to Ty and me when that helo went down, I wasn’t planning on that being my very last deployment. I was going to retire a Marine or die a Marine, either way I was MC for life. Unfortunately the corps didn’t agree with that sentiment. When they unfairly discharged us, I was outraged and disillusioned. To say I was devastated would be putting it mildly. I went home to South Boston to regroup instead of following Ty and Sanchez into the FBI like they’d wanted me to. I had to move back in with my parents, which felt like a travesty of justice in itself, and watch my pop look at me with disappointment in his eyes. Not like him eyeballing me in that way was anything new, I just felt like for once I couldn’t handle the scrutiny.

I bought a fixer upper ASAP with my savings and was determined to spruce it up all alone. I figures I could flip it if nothing else and I threw myself into that house, working night and day, avoiding my family and old friends from the hood. When money got short, I got a job working midnights at the C Mart stocking shelves so I could work on the house all day and affectively ignore everything and everyone else in the process. I felt hollow. I missed being a marine. I missed active duty. I missed the team and the comradely and most of all, I missed Ty. It was like an open wound in my chest that just didn’t want to heal.

This went on for awhile, me feeling depressed yet emotionless, detached from what I wanted and what was reality, until finally my family staged an intervention. Basically they told me to snap the fuck out of it and cut the shit. Stop feeling sorry for my God damned self because I was alive for Christ sake and I needed to start fucking acting like it. Worst of all, they said I needed to quit being an Aunt Cicely. That last one was what really did me in.

Aunt Cicely was my great aunt, my Meemaw’s sister, and as Ty would say, she was nuttier than squirrel shit. She evidently didn’t start out that way, apparently at one time she was a budding film starlet. She had even lived in Hollywood for a short time, supposedly rubbing elbows with the elite movie stars of her day. I’d seen pictures; she really was quite beautiful with her reddish blond hair and big green eyes. After a few years she came back home for whatever reason, some say she had an affair with a married director that went wrong, others say she just didn’t have what it took to cut it in the industry. Whatever the fuck, she moved in with her mother and stayed there, taking over the house when my great-great grandma died, and pretty much never left. Literally. She became a recluse. Meemaw would take us over there for a visit now and then when we were kids, and honesty? She kind of freaked me out. Aunt Cicely was no longer the beauty of her younger years, though I guess she tried to keep up appearance. Her red lipstick never quite stayed in the borders of her lips, and that, combined with her blue eye shadow and pink dots on her cheeks that I suppose were meant to represent a girlish blush, I figure that’s where my irrational fear of clowns came from. She’d come at me with knurled fingers to pinch my cheeks or pull me onto her lap, enveloping me with her delicious aroma of moth balls and Lysol. Like I said, freaky man.

Anyway point being, all she ever talked about were her Hollywood days, pulling out old black and whites and rehashing stories, she was living in the past as if nothing that had happened since had mattered. Or more accurately nothing actually had happened since because she’d basically stopped living. I pictured myself forty years later, sitting in my house alone in my fatigues, metals proudly displayed and a rifle on my lap babbling about the good ole’ days to my grand nieces and nephews because I didn’t have a life of my own. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to become Aunt Cicely’s version of Baby Jane does Boston, so I got my shit in gear.

Being an O’Flaherty I had one of two options, go into public service and become a cop or a firefighter, or work construction for my Uncle Teebow’s business. I choose Police Officer. Seemed like I’d see more action that way, and more importantly, I’d get to carry a firearm again. It may not be my beloved M16, but a Berretta would surely fucking do.

I aced my physical and written exams to get into the academy and made it my goal to graduate top of the class. When I did just that, I concentrated on being a kick ass cop. I took the rookie hazing in stride, and that combined with how seriously I took the job, I was able to earn the respect of my senior officers fairly quickly. Probably helped that half of my family was either on the force or had been at one time, but I’ll choose to believe it was on my own damn merit and irresistible personality.

So I winded up really liking my job and actually felt settled there. Next, I started catching up with old buddies and meeting up at McFadden’s regular. If I was popular before, now I was a fucking rock star. Whereas most of the guys were either engaged or married to the same girls they were with when I had left, or still single but not by any choice of their own, I had slept with more chicks of diverse nationalities and appearances then any one guy should in a life time (I left out the few men of course).  None of them had ever left town except to go on the occasional vacay, and I had traveled the fucking world and learned new languages. I’d experienced danger and funny situations and just some crazy shit all around. They’d gone soft sitting on bar stools, working average jobs and raising families while I was in pique physical condition. They all wanted to be around me, hell some of them probably wanted to be me, and the girls…the girls just wanted to fuck or marry me. Usually both. As customary I took full benefit of the buffet, sampling all that was offered, filling my plate and going back for seconds if I found it tasty. I fucked strangers, I fucked girls I’d fucked when I was younger, I fucked girls I wanted to fuck when I was younger and I started fucking Jenna regularly again. I haven’t made any promises to her since I’ve been back. I’ve made it clear from the start I’m not looking for commitment or to get married, and she swears she’s ok with the friends with benefits thing we’re rocking. Only one of us is telling the truth though.

Anyway, that’s pretty much how shit’s been for the last nine years, just keeping busy. Work, go to the gym, visit the family, hang with the boys, watch sports and play them occasionally, drink, fuck as much as possible, and I was ok with that for the most part. I really was. The wound in my chest was still there, but it had healed over into a scar, ever present but not really bothersome.

I guess if I had to pinpoint it, things started to slip about two years ago when Sanchez was murdered. That shit fucked with my head, fucked with all of Sidewinder’s heads. Ty was badly injured shortly after, than nearly murdered himself almost a year later. Add to that, he was hurt so badly last October he was literally knocking on heaven’s door. I started playing the what if game, which is never productive. What if I’d joined the Feds when they had wanted me to? Maybe I could have done something to prevent Sanchez’s death and also have prevented Ty from getting hurt. What if I’d told Ty how I felt about him years ago? Maybe he would have reciprocated and I would have been on that vacation with him and my presence would have somehow prevented the chain of events that led to his injuries up in those mountains. Probably not I know. Especially on that last one with me being such city boy and all, and considering what happened the one time Ty tried to lead me up into those God forsaken trails; but what if? I was starting to drive myself crazy, that scar had started to itch and break apart.

Worse of all, the nightmares started to come back. Not that they ever really went away completely, but they had become duller, less frequent, and I was able to manage. But now? They’re back with a vengeance, happening at least two to three times a week. They’re as vivid as if I’m still in that fucking dessert, strapped to that table, locked in that cell. Worse still? In these new dreams Ty never gets out. He never comes home with me. No matter how much I try to fight or find him, he’s just gone. I usually wake screaming his name.

Still, I was holding on. Pushing those thoughts and feeling to the back of my mind, living my life, and only dwelling when I was alone. Until a few months ago anyway, when the Team went to Maryland for a paintball weekend that never happened. It wasn’t just the fact that Ty came out about his sexuality and admitted he’d fallen in love, yeah that last part stung like a bitch, but it was more than that. Owen acting like a complete dick and walking away from the team, (because if you betray one of us, it’s a betrayal to us all. Semper Fi.) Digger telling us he’d started that Creole restaurant he’d always dreamed about, and several weeks later Kelly calling to say he’d met the woman he was going to marry. It was as if they’d all moved on with their lives, they were growing up and letting go of the past. I may not have turned into Aunt Cecily, but I was still sure as shit holding out for the way things had been. I realized I wanted us all to remain the single wild guys that kicked ass and didn’t bother taking names. Getting together every few months on our paintball excursions and raising hell. Even if I’d always have to admire Ty from afar, I could live with that. Had been for eighteen years, so what was the rest of my life? As long as he was fucking barmaids and not giving two shits about them I could handle it. But him actually falling in love? Particularly with a guy? That was a jagged pill to swallow on top of everything else.

So yeah, basically what I took the scenic route to say is, hanging at McFadden’s and being the local hero has recently lost its luster. Sitting at the family dinner table and listening to the neighborhood gossip isn’t quite as funny anymore. Fucking just for the sake of getting off doesn’t feel as fulfilling. My scar is raw and torn open. The problem? I don’t really know what to do about it. I don’t know how to get that fucker to seal up again. I’ll figure it out eventually. Things will fall into perspective again. At least I hope so. I actually asked Deuce to look into some things for me. That’s Ty’s little brother the shrink. Damn, it made me feel weak to ask, even though I know he’d never judge me. I’m a fucking marine, a tough guy; I should be able to handle this shit on my own. Fuck I’d rather jump out of a plane into enemy territory then deal with this emotional shit though. D had someone call me, someone local I could go talk to, but I’ve been postponing making the appointment. I just…I don’t know. I’m not ready to face my demons yet. To face whatever fucked up shit is going on in this head and heart of mine.

I make my decision for the night and stand up to grab my canvas jacket from the hook. I slip it on and run my fingers through my freshly washed hair. I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly as I open the front door to head over to McFadden’s.  

The show must go on and all that happy horse shit.

Emo songs of the day

My sappy side can relate

Dropkick Murphys - Heading Up to Boston

This song always makes me want to start a fight. Preferably with a Yankee fan.

Domestic Call (fan fic)

                                               (fan fiction - written before Armed & Dangerous)

The morning started out like any other: roll call and updates from the Sarge as we had coffee and doughnuts (yeah, the stereotype was born from somewhere), I made some wiseass comment at Rico’s expense, Rico told me to fuck off and the Sarge told me to shut the fuck up, although he couldn’t hide his smirk. He dismissed us after reminding us once again that bagpipes weren’t in the stations budget, his way of saying to be careful out there. The day was relatively quiet, a couple of traffic violations, making ourselves seen in the sketchier parts of town, and shooing the skater kids away from the C-Mart. Personally I’d rather see them skating around and annoying the hell out of the housewives then selling crack on the corner, but that’s not my call.

By the time my shift was half over I was bored, drumming my fingers on the dash and singing as much to annoy Rico as to entertain myself. Rico, that’s my partner of five years. His name is really Dean Hernandez but I dubbed him Rico Suave since our first patrol together and it stuck. He’s had many aka’s since then; Slick Rick, Pace (extra chunky salsa), brown round, Free Willie, but I still like Rico the best. Besides, he’s been getting sorta sensitive about the extra twenty pounds he carries around the middle.

So I’m singing along, trying to keep my mind from wandering into too deep of territory as it tending to do lately when I’m bored, when the 10-16 call came in. Domestic dispute. Fanfuckingtastic. Automatically memories of my sister Dar and her jerk off ex husband Jimmy come to mind. Luckily he’s currently doing five to ten, unfortunately it’s at the expense of some poor kid he hit and permanently injured while driving under the influence.

The last time he decided to go all Rocky on my sister I was on duty, the call came in with Darlene’s address and I panicked. When I arrived and took one look at what that bastard did to my sister’s beautiful face, I fucking lost it. It took Rico and two other officers to pry me off of that scum bag. He tried to cry police brutality, but with Rico, Lumpy and Finn backing me up and saying he resisted and shit, I got off with a slap on the wrist. Also helped that the captain is a personal friend of the family and knew what a piece of shit Jimmy Donnelly really was. The image of my niece’s little tear stained face staring at me through the window will haunt me forever. Bad enough she had to witness her daddy beating on her mama, she also had to see her Uncle Nicky fuck up her father for it. I don’t want that little girl growing up thinking that violence is ok, fuck I’d shield all of the innocents out there from learning that if I could. Can’t though. I’m only one man. I do as much as the shield will allow, and sometimes a bit more, but still I feel like it’ll never be enough. Little Kayla seems to be doing ok since her father’s been away though, thank God, but it’s Jimmy Junior, or JJ as we call him, that I’m really worried about. Twelve years old and I’ve already caught him fucking smoking weed in a part of Dorchester I’d rather him not be in. A firm talking to isn’t going to be enough to straighten that kid out, but I’m at a lost as to what to do. As only his Uncle my position is limited and beating his ass isn’t really an option.

Of course the real test was getting through to Dar. She didn’t leave Jimmy right away no matter how much I begged or fought with her. She even refused to press charges. First she cried: I didn’t understand, the kids needed their father she needed his paycheck, not that he earned them all that often. Then she got mad, asking me what the fuck did I know? I wasn’t married; I didn’t even know what love was. She called me a faggot. Funny how she thought I’d take offense to that on a whole different level.

Finally it took pop stepping in to get through to her. He actually told her I was right for once, and she should listen to me and leave that abusive alcoholic. The irony of that statement wasn’t lost on me. Not that my father was particularly abusive to my mother, not physically anyway, but he was an alcoholic. He was also hard as hell on his sons. Me especially. I was never quite sure if it was because I inherited a bit of the bleeding heart syndrome from my mom and he thought I was too soft, or maybe because with my tall stature, green eyes and reddish hair I resembled more my mother’s brothers then his shorter, dark Irish clan. Although two of my sister’s inherited the same ginger gene and always got treated by him like the virginal princesses that they weren’t. Hell, maybe it was because he sensed that ‘something different’ in me that I couldn’t even acknowledge about myself for most of my life. Whatever the fucking reason, pop gave me shit about everything and I definitely got more than my fair share of ass whoopings. Of course Rebellious being my middle name didn’t help. Luckily Charming was my communion name, so I was able to sooth even the meanest of nuns at St. Brigid’s or I probably wouldn’t have survived my father’s ire through the eighth grade. It also helped that I was, and still am, Ma’s favorite. She’ll never actually confirm this fact, but I can tell. I am the confirmed favorite of my Gran’s though, my dad’s mom, so they always had my back.

I’m not sayin’ that my pops was a bad dad, he just believed in tough love. Tough being the operative word. That’s ok though, he made me a tuff fucking kid, and between him and my ma’s kind ways, I was a well rounded boy. Of course it wasn’t until I joined that marines that I became an honorable and strong man, I give full credit to the corps for that.

So anyway, it’s not just because of Darlene and Jimmy the dick that I hate domestics, it’s also because they’re unpredictable. One minute you’re breaking up the fight, the next thing you know they’re ganging up on you. God forbid you should get in the middle of a couple trying to kill each other. Apparently they think once they take their vows they have that right.

So we roll up to the row house on 7^th prepared for anything.

“Ready partner?” I ask before leaving the vehicle.

Rico sighs and nods before following me. That’s about the best response I can expect from my partner, he isn’t particularly known for his verbal abilities. Good thing I’m normally talkative enough to keep the conversation flowing for both of us.

As we approach the house and I notice the storm door is opened, leaving only the screen door between us. As if on cue, the door next to the disturbance’s house opens and out comes an elderly woman in a floral house coat and worn pink slippers.

“It’s about fucking time.” She greets us in a raspy smoker’s voice. Yeah, about time, we took five point three minutes to answer the call. Unacceptable really.

“You the one who called us?” I ask. Normally I’d throw in a dear, but this old bat didn’t look like she’d appreciate the sentiment.

“Yeah, that was me." She motions towards the door where the arguing has become audible, “This goes on all God damn day. Can’t hear my soaps. I wanted to know if Will was gonna tell his ma he’s a fag, now I missed that whole part.”

Lovely. Even an eighty year old grandmother doesn’t realize that word isn’t exactly pc in the gay community, and I for one take offense. Not that I can voice this of course. I shouldn’t be offended really; she probably still uses the word coloreds when referring to African Americans. Or worse, that other word, but we are in South Boston after all, etiquette isn’t exactly our strong suit. I’m ashamed to say that when I was a kid I wasn’t much better, not really knowing any different, but once I joined the corps and met so many extraordinary people of different races and religions, and yeah sexual orientation on the down low, I grew up and smartened up, but that was then and this is now.

“Alright, we’ll take care of it ma’am, just go and enjoy All My Children.” I placate her.

“It’s Days of Our Lives asshole, and that’s what the officers said last time.” And with that she slammed the door to presumably hope the fagot came out to his ma. Or not. Who knew?

Rico took the lead, first knocking and announcing our presence before entering on probable cause.

The place was a mess, although the dirty dishes, newspapers and magazines scattered around, and the inch of dust covering all of the inanimate objects was obviously a permanent state. An over turned wooden dining room chair seemed to be the only resent décor adjustment resulting from the ensueing fight.

The wife sat on the couch wearing an over grown nightgown, sporting dirt on her bare feet and not much else. She was cradling her head in her hands as she cried, her greasy bottle blond hair hanging down in strings to her elbows.

The husband stood by the overturned chair, beer in hand wearing cut offs and a stained wife beater stretched to its limit over his gut. Hey, again, stereo types didn’t come from nowhere. His brown hair was wild and his Grizzly Adam’s beard was in dire need of some grooming.

“Fuck you guys doing here?” he slurred, spittle flying with the words. Appealing, that one.

“We’re here for the great food and hospitality. What the hell do ya think we’re here for?” I ask. I can’t help it, dealing with geniuses all day gets tedious.

“We got a complaint, sir.” Rico, always the professional. At least when he did talk, he had something useful to say. “Neighbors are concerned for your wife’s safety.”

“My wife’s safety?” he barked a laugh as he righted the chair and plopped down. “That crazy bitch? You should be more concerned about me.”

“Go fuck yourself Tommy.” The wife shouted, lifting her head and switching from boohoo to fuck you in two point five. “Take him. Take him away.” She fluttered her hand in Tommy’s direction as she addressed me, “He’s a lying, cheating bastard.”

“I don’t really think that’s an arrest able offense,” I informed her, my body relaxing at the apparent lack of any real violence coming at us. “But I’d be happy to give you a free shot at his balls if you promise to keep it down”

As the wife nodded and started to stand, apparently liking my solution, Rico shot me the stink eye. He held up his hand towards the woman, “No, no that’s not going to happen.” I shrugged, worth a try, just looking out for that poor sweet granny next door.

“Ma’am, is that some swelling on your right cheek?” Rico’s words focused my concentration. As I took a closer look at the woman’s face, the bruise forming there was suddenly clear as day. How did I miss that? My anger came to the surface so suddenly I felt my cheeks flush.

“Yeah,” she nodded, “the fucker hit me. You can arrest him for that, right?”

“Sure the fuck can.” I answered, walking over to the drunk fuck, who had the nerve to look shocked.

“You hit her you piece of shit?”

“No,” he shook his head, “No, she’s lying. That crazy bitch did it to herself.”

“Yeah, sure, and I’m an Italian stallion with an excellent tan.” I fluttered my curled fingers at him, “Come on, get up, your under arrest.”

“Fuck that, no way, that bitch is lying.” And just like that shit got out of control. He threw his beer bottle at me as he stood and tried to dash from the room. Luckily the fucker was no Daniel Bard, the bottle sailed by my head and exploded against the wall somewhere behind me.

“Oh no you fucking didn’t,” I uttered through clenched teeth before diving after him. In his drunken state he didn’t get very far, his feet tangled in the rungs of the chair and he went down. I pounced on him like a cat on a mouse and struggled to subdue him.

“Put your arms behind your back.” He was already on his stomach, but the fucker was so sweaty he was harder to wrangle then a greased pig. Not that I ever tried to arrest a greased pig, but I figured this guy was as close as I‘d gotten. Well, at least in the last nine months.

“Fuck you,” he spat, “Get the fuck off of me pig!” Well, now wasn’t that a bit pot; kettle.

I dug my knee into his lower back and got a good hold on his left wrist, being a lefty myself, I had the advantage.

He screamed out. “Ow! Mother fucker!”

“Calm down and put your hands behind your back asshole, then I won’t have to hurt you.”

“Leave him alone!” the wife cried out, and I heard commotion from behind me, followed by a very Rico-like grunt. I had my hands full and hoped the wife hadn’t suddenly procured a knife and fucking shanked my partner.

As the husband’s attention turned to his wife, the fight was suddenly knocked out of him and I was able to get the cuffs on.

“Done now?” I asked as I hauled him to his feet.

“Tracey no,” he said, his attention on his wife.“We don’t got no money for bail.”

I turned to face what kind of situation my partner was in and found the wife attached to Rico’s back as he spun her around in a helicopter spin. It was a move I frequently used to fuck with my sisters growing up: get them dizzy, make them puke up their dinner; subsequently get the belt from my father. But Rico wasn’t having fun at the wife’s expense; he was trying to get that crazy bitch off his back. Shit, maybe the husband had a point.

Her nightgown had ridden up and with each turn I received a lovely view of a lime green thong and pale cellulite butt cheeks.

“Fuck Dean.” I was about to secure the husband to the stair railing and assist when Rico finally launched the woman onto the couch. She sprawled there and gave me an even more pleasant view of Hi, how are ya, my grooming habits are just as bad as my husbands, and turning me off of roast beef sandwiches for a good month. Maybe more. Her head tilted around as if she were still in that tail spin, like a cartoon character, all that was missing were the little birdies flying around and fucking chirping.

“Crazy bitch.” Rico muttered, wiping a hand over his face. The sentiment appeared to be unanimous. He went over and easily cuffed her as he read her her rights. And although the husband seemed shocked into submission, I called for back up to take him in. No way was I putting them together in the back of the squaddie.

After taking her back to the station to book her, the rest of the shift went by without incident. I couldn’t stop chuckling though every time I pictured Rico helioing the chick around.

After calling him Black Hawk he punched me in the shoulder.

“Too soon?” I asked.

“Too stupid.” He answered, “You can do better.”

I shrugged, couldn’t argue with that. I was off of my game, have been for awhile really, but I had plenty of time to come up with better. Fuck, I wasn’t letting Rico live this down for a long time to come. At least not until our next call when something off the wall happened to him, he was a target for that kind of shit. And Thank God for that.

Fucking domestics. 

                

Gotta love my town

About that kiss...that night (fan fic)

If You Wanna Hate Me, Hate Me, I Can Take It. But…

Do you think it’s fair to judge someone you don’t even know by one mistake?  You can call me an asshole for making a move on the man I’ve been in love with for my entire adult life at the absolute wrong time, I get that. Not going to argue with you there. Call me a pussy because I’d waited so long. Yeah, nothing I haven’t called myself for the exact same reason. When you’re raised in a family, and in a neighborhood, were you’re expected to be a man’s man (but not in that way) and then join the Marine’s, where if you’re anything but purely hetro you risk not only your brothers turning on you, but being discharged from your career, you build up a fear - a wall around your true feelings. I fought the way I felt for so long, it became second nature.

So, yeah, the thought of telling my best friend I was in love with him? Terrifying, man. This is the running argument that went through my head for years: “Tell him, you never know, he could feel the same way and the two of you could be really happy” - followed by - “Are you fucking crazy asshole? He has never given you any indication that he swings that way. He’s going to be repulsed, and things will never be the same between you. Hell, he may never even talk to you again.” So yeah, I was scared, a pussy, a chicken shit in that situation. But guess what? I’ve risked my life for my Country. I’ve gone into the God forsaken dessert, faced the Devil, and came out on the other mother fucking side. I put my life on the line everyday on the job, and no matter how much I fuck with my partner; I’d take a bullet for him. No question. I have a big, tight knit family, and lots of buddies that I’d do anything for and vice versa. I’m honest, sometimes to a fault. I still laugh at fart jokes. I tear up during those damn Sarah McLachlan ASPCA commercials. I visit my Gran at least once a week and I even donate to the fucking Red Cross. Besides, would an incredible man such as Ty be best friends with a shady, jerk off coward? Nah, I don’t think so.

He and I were the Dynamite Duo in the corps (and no, I’m not spelling dynamic wrong. I know who Batman and Robin are. I’m bisexual for Christ’s sake, I can appreciate men in tights), not because people thought we were so awesome, but because if shit blew up chances were we were behind it. We were inseparable, played the best practical jokes on every fuckin’ body, stayed up late in our bunks laughing our asses off about shit only he and I understood. More importantly, we confided in each other about our fears and feelings without ever worrying that the other would think us less of a man. Plus he’s damn gorgeous, and brave and strong and honest and wicked funny, how could I not fall in love?

Why did I make my move on that night? Oh hell, I could blame the beer but that’s just lame. The truth? I could give you many reasons, none necessarily legit. I finally found out he wouldn’t be disgusted by my sexuality. He told a man he loved him and the guy said nothing back for TWO FUCKING MONTHS. He wouldn’t answer me when I asked if Zane was using him for sex. He hoped Zane was being monogamous, and thought Zane loved him back, doesn’t sound like a ringing endorsement to me. I know Ty well enough to know something was bothering him, and it was more than just his coming out to the team. Forget about the fact that if Ty had told me he loved me, not only would I have said it back immediately, I’d have taken out an ad in the Boston fucking Herald, I was also worried that my best friend was going to get hurt (as were Kelly and Digger, I might add). I met Zane. Yeah he was good-looking and seemed nice enough, but the next night? That conversation I had with Ty and seeing him so vulnerable? Hell, how could I not think I would be a better choice for him? That I could make him happy and love him like he deserved? I’m not trying to blame Ty, I’m really not, I’d rather take the shrapnel, I’m just relaying how the conversation went, or at least how I perceived it to go.

With all of those thoughts in my head, and yeah with the beer lubing me up (don’t be a pervert), and all of those years of holding back my feelings – I lost my resolve. I made my move. I don’t know why, I can’t explain it, but at that moment I just felt like I had to finally put it all out there. Was it a dick move? Fuck yeah. That’s why I pulled back, apologized and left, although I couldn’t leave without letting him know he had options. I lay awake that night feeling horrible for putting Ty in that position though and wandered if I did the right thing. If he felt the same way, he’d be torn between me and Zane. If he didn’t feel the same way, he’d feel like he was hurting me and letting me down. I was also scared that my worst fear would come true and I would lose Ty’s friendship. Because above all else? Ty is my best friend, first and foremost. I want him in my life until he’s crying at my deathbed (he already knows this is a requirement). No, I didn’t feel bad about Zane at the time, can’t apologize for the truth. Now that I know him better, know that he loves Ty and makes him happy? I’d never pull that shit behind his back again.

So there you go. I made a mistake. I apologized to the person who deserved the apology, and he forgave me. We’re cool, and thank God our friendship is intact. I’ll have to live with not knowing what would have happened if I’d confessed my feelings sooner, but that’s my cross to bear.

 So, still hate me if you want to, whatever, I don’t fucking know you either.