“No. Silly.”
“Or trips to a psychiatric hospital? Because, right about now, I could do with lying on a couch and talking to a shrink.”
“Noooo,” Sharon says, smiling as she snuggles into my arm. “You’re so funny.”
“Funny is good,” I say, relaxing. What is it with me and crazy women?
“I like what you did back there on the train,” she says.
“You saw that?”
“Very clever.”
I smile. Suddenly, life is rosy again, and I’m content. Jobless, but with a gorgeous woman hanging off my arm, I don’t know if life could be any better.
Without any warning, Sharon pushes me briskly into one of the cops standing on the street corner. My shoulder connects with his and he tumbles forward off the curb, skating for a second on the ice before crashing backwards on his ass in the snow. The officer ends up lying in the gutter covered in slush.
“What the hell?” the other cop says, already reaching for his gun. Before he can draw his 9mm Glock out of its holster, Sharon slaps him across the cheek.
“Police brutality!” she yells, pushing the cop. He staggers backwards, bumping into a trash can. Already, several bystanders have their phones out, holding them up and capturing the incident on video.
“I have the right to free speech,” Sharon cries, facing one of the pedestrians with his cell phone recording the incident.
“Just calm down, lady,” the cop says, holding one hand out in a gesture to keep Sharon at bay while his other hand grips his gun still in its holster. He’s seen the bystanders with their cameras and is playing to them as much as to her.
Sharon looks over his shoulder, facing one of the pedestrians recording the incident. She bellows, “The Second Amendment guarantees my right to assemble peacefully without police harassment.”
I’m mortified. Actually, I’m pretty sure that’s the First Amendment.
The cops are going to kill us—shoot us stone cold dead on the pavement.
“Nobody’s doing anything to take away your rights,” the cop says, as the first police officer gets to his feet. He’s hurt. He must have landed squarely on his tailbone as he’s leaning to one side and grabbing at his ass. He’s on the radio, talking into a microphone strapped over his shoulder.
I have my hands up. Just so everyone’s clear about what’s happening here, I blurt out, “I surrender.” I want nothing to do with this melee.
A siren sounds and a police car cuts across the intersection, sliding on the icy road as its headlights flash, catching us in their high beams. Blue and red lights strobe from the car’s grill.
“There have been too many unlawful deaths,” Sharon yells. “You can’t treat us like criminals, executing us without a trial.”
Two uniformed police officers jump out of the cruiser, positioning themselves behind each car door and leaning forward with their guns drawn.
My arms go from raised slightly above my head to absolutely fucking straight, perfectly perpendicular with the ground. I’m reaching so high I’m almost on tiptoes. I’m sure I look like a gymnast about to start a floor routine.
“Just take it easy,” the second cop says, pulling a pair of cuffs from his belt. “Let’s go for a drive downtown. We can talk about this at the station.”
“Do you see this?” Sharon yells, appealing to the cell phone cameras. “This is police harassment!”
Although she sounds hostile, Sharon has her arms out in front of her, with her wrists facing up, ready to be slapped with a pair of cuffs. The injured cop advances on me with his gun drawn. Out of self-preservation, I copy Sharon, holding my wrists out and hoping a pair of cuffs slapped on my arms is the worst that happens.
There’s some serious chatter going on over the radio. Assaulting a police officer tends to get the NYPD’s utmost attention, and another three police cars pull up with sirens blazing. Within seconds, several other police officers have shotguns and AR-15 assault rifles leveled at us. These guys are ready for World War III. I swear, the NYPD uses Die Hard videos in basic training. I only wish I could slip between the cracks in the concrete and disappear.
Why, Sharon? Why?
Someone grabs me by the scruff of the neck and marches me over to a waiting police car. Sharon’s bundled into one squad car while I’m pushed into another. These guys aren’t taking any chances, keeping us separate. Sharon’s still yelling for the cameras, “The United States is a police state!” As for me, I cannot shut my mouth tight enough.
“You and your girlfriend are pretty fucked up,” one of the officers says, hopping in the front of the police car and staring at me through the metal grate. What can I say? I agree with him wholeheartedly. There’s no argument from me.
“Where’s she from?” he asks as we round a corner and race down the road with sirens still blazing.
“She’s an alien,” I say. I’ve got to stop being so goddamn honest. No one’s going to believe this shit.
“Illegal alien, huh?”
“Something like that,” I reply, wondering how the hell I’m going to get out of this without spending the next few years in jail. For a cute chick, Sharon is seriously messed up. Why me? How the fuck did I get caught up in all this? Again? I’m questioning not only her sanity, but my own. Secret alien moon base? Are you serious? Try explaining that to the judge. What the hell have I been dosed with? Did someone spike my drink with LSD?
There’s more chatter on the police radio, as well as between the two cops in the front of the vehicle, but I’m in shock. I don’t catch anything not being said directly to me. I’m not sure if we drive a hundred yards or a hundred miles, but we pull into a police garage and circle down below the police station. Dozens of police cars, SWAT vehicles and heavy duty trucks are parked in the basement.
I’m dragged into a holding cell while they wait to process us for prints and mug shots. The steel bars that close behind me slam shut with a vengeance.
Sharon’s already seated on a bench running along the wall. A junkie sits slouched next to a stainless steel toilet. He’s counting ants crawling along the floor, pointing at them and mumbling numbers to himself.
Sharon is prim and proper, sitting with her back straight, her legs together and her hands resting on her thighs. She plays with her handcuffs, smiling warmly at the guard and I’m tempted, sorely tempted, to tell him not to be fooled by her looks, but I keep my mouth shut. The sound of boots squelching on the floor slowly fades, leaving the three of us alone.
“What were you thinking?” I ask, sitting down beside her. “I can’t believe you. Here I was thinking we were starting to act like a regular, normal couple, and you assault a police officer.”
“Oh, don’t worry about him,” she says, batting her cuffed hands through the air. “He’ll be fine.”
“It’s not him I’m worried about.”
Sharon ignores me. She twists her handcuffs, working her wrists back and forth so they oppose each other.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Getting us out of here,” she says with that sweet innocence that seems to mesmerize me every time.
“Getting us out of here? You’re the one that got us in here in the first place.”
“I know,” she says with a smile that reveals the machinations of a cunning mind.
“Why are we even in here?” I ask, knowing this had to be deliberate on her part. Sharon may be crazy, but she’s not stupid.
“Police stations are difficult to break into,” she says. “So I thought we should ask politely for a tour. Everything’s so much easier once you’re on the inside.”
I raise my hands in frustration, letting them then drop back in front of me.