The man manages a rubber smile and a shy nod, accepting my silent apology. He looks straight at me, surely surprised, but not disgusted. Not a bad reaction. If only everybody react like this! The majority starts mumbling stupid comments and excuses. Poor thing. So bad. Sorry, I didn't realize I was talking to a cripple. Hey, I have no legs, but I am not a cripple! And sometimes – even worse. They look through you, as if you don't exist. Frankly, I prefer if people ask right away why I have no legs. But the quiet understanding nod is also great. The United States are at war, shit happens. The girl is a legless veteran, so what? Being legless is not a piece of cake, but not the freaking end-of-life, by any means.
“Let's go, Mister Chen,” Kim interrupts the silence. By the way, he is one of those few: brave enough to ask me about my missing legs right away. And after he received a direct answer, he accepted me for a whole person.
“Sure, Deputy,” Mr Chen says. Then turns to me: “Have a nice evening, Ma'am.”
I nod back and smile again. What a stupid idea – making show of myself. ‘Are you Taiwamerican, Mister Chen?’, followed by my chair-riding, eye-opening demonstration. He lost his Dad! Even if he himself killed the old man, still must show some mercy.
***
I return my chair to the proper position behind the desk (the wheels complain again) and try to read through Tan's report scribble. No, today I can't concentrate any longer. Besides, the clock shows 4:59, my day is over. I'd rather slither home. The old report returns to its native pile.
I switch off the Police-issued tablet and lock it in the desk drawer. The cell phone goes into my bag. I am ready to go. Squeezing the desktop with my left hand, I lean forward and extend my right arm towards the designated landing zone. In the hospital, they called this trick ‘chair to floor transfer for short above-knee amputees’. It's a controlled fall of sorts. This world is not designed for girls, who are halved to the butt and now stand only thirty-two inches tall (or rather thirty-two inches short?) But I am almost used to it. My abandoned office chair rolls to the wall, sadly squeaking with its wheels. Don't cry, buddy. I will be back on Monday. From under the desk I extract my trusty transportation kit: a pair of fingerless leather gloves, an oversized skateboard and two wooden blocks.
Next to the entrance door a cracked plastic label on the wall reads: ‘SAVE THE PLANET. Switch off air-condition, lights, and computer screens before leaving.’ Of course, there is nothing to switch off in the Beat office now, except for the tablet. There has been no AC and no computer screens for many years, and the only lights we have are solar-charged lanterns and emergency flash-lights. But our Sergeant likes this label for some reason and does not allow us to peel it off. This time, the useless label reminds me of something I have forgotten. Leaving my bag, gloves, and wooden blocks at the door, I push the skate with bare hands. The floor in our Beat is exemplary clean. One of the things I do here besides sorting papers and calling the Dispatch once in a while. I approach the coffee table, reach into the storage compartment under it and pull out my Wonder-weapons: a spray bottle and a rag. Thirty seconds later, the glass surface is shiny. Viruses and bacteria from the bloodied gut-driver are on the way to their Microbiological Heaven. Or their Microbiological Hell, depending on the bio-hazard level. I roll to the desk and wipe the water jug. Pull a plastic sink from under the desk and wash the used glass. All shipshape. Now the Beat will survive without me through the weekend.
Outside, the steaming-hot September day slowly turns itself into pleasantly-warm evening. I lock the Beat door and zip the key into the bag pocket. On the way back, my hand automatically reaches inside the main compartment for my very special tobacco box. The voyage will be long. Over one-mile long (back in March I would call it ‘one-mile short’). Well, after the Cruise, for one-mile long voyages I make careful preparations. First of all – load the mandatory ammo. Surface-to-air missile, code name To-Ma-Gochi. ‘Ma’ is for ‘marijuana’ and ‘To’ is for ‘tobacco’. Wonder-blend, three-to-one. Since 2023, it's completely legal in Texas. Even the Police officers may use one occasionally, but not while on-duty and only for medicinal purposes. About me, the Police brass can't say a word: phantom pain, sir! Once in a while, my absent left foot makes me jumping on the absent right.
Besides the tobacco box, my bag holds a lighter: the military macho type, handicraft version of Zippo. The nickel-plated body has an engraving: a naughty mermaid. The creature sits not on your usual sea rocks, but on the pile of ammo boxes. As any self-respecting mermaid, she does not care for a bikini top, but has her Navy cap and holds her favorite weapon. Exactly my choice in the goddamn Venezuela: the M240D machine gun with turret mount, nine hundred and fifty Freedom-and-Democracy servings per minute. Below the ammo boxes, the ship name is stenciled: ‘Piranha-122’. Our Piranha is gone. Out of seven naughty mermaids on-board, only three are alive. Including this one, who lost her tail, and now has to ride home on her skate, pushing the dirt with her wooden blocks.
Talking of which… I pull the fingerless gloves over my hands.
“Hey Kate! Targeting home? Want a ride?”
A cargo tricycle stops in front of the Beat. Two young men look like our neighbors from the Koreamerican Patch-3. To my shame, I have no idea about their names. But they know mine. Well, on the West side of the GRS, many people know the Police by our first names, and in my present legless state refusing the ride is simply impolite.
“Sure. If this half-girl is not too heavy for your trike.”
“Hey, you call yourself heavy? I can throw you in with two fingers!” One of the boys replies, readily getting off the cargo platform.
“Don't help, bro. I'll manage.”
They surely don't teach this in the military hospitals: ‘skateboard to cargo tricycle transfer for short above-knee amputees’. Slide from the skate to concrete. Throw the skate, the blocks and the bag to the cargo platform. Right hand on the platform railings, left hand on the front wheel. Sharp push with both arms. A little flip in the air. Bang! And I am inside! Not too bad: have not caught much dirt and even my To-Ma-Gochi is intact. Well, the dirt – the boys have plenty. On the platform, there are bent bicycle wheels, rusty frames, sprockets, chains and other such stuff. Returning from the Landfill, what else.
“Nice jump,” the second man says, pushing the pedals.
“Experience, bro. You must see how I deal with toilet seats. Are you coming from the 'Fill?” I throw my magic tobacco box to the first man. We all know the Slum Rule: if you share the ride, you must share the smoke.
“Sure thing.” The trike's top speed is around three miles per hour. On the concrete path, I can go way faster. But, why complain? Besides, the concrete path will be over at some point, and pushing the skate on dirt is not too easy.
“Good catch today?” I puff my ‘medicinal’ cigarette.
“Excellent. A freshly discovered bike grave! Nice parts, all pre-Meltdown. Those frames – see? Japanese steel. They are the best.”
The cell phone from my bag interrupts our relaxing mood with the Police call tone. As always: as soon as you settle with a lazy chat and a smoke, you get an urgent call! The phone screen shows the standard Sheriff's star icon and the caller ID: ‘GRS-2’.
I press the green button. “Hey Tan.”
“Kate? What's the freaking address, again?”
“What address?”
“The stubbing. I got an SMS from the Dispatch. Came to the address – there is nothing!”