Small Orange Cap

A San Lorenzo Story

The barrel of the gun was pressed hard against my temple. I could not help but stare grimly at the flickering box. An episode of "SpongeBob Squarepants" flashed on the flat screen of televison. I could not hear a sound. Not because of my busted hearing aid, but the fact that the telivison was on mute. That was all I watched all day. Not because I gave a damn about why a starfish is under a rock, talking to a piece of cheese who lives in a tropical fruit, but that was what the kid wore. A SpongeBob T-shirt.

I decide to put down the gun, revealing a cylinder mark from the gun barrel. I touch my temple with the tip of my index finger, feeling the dent that the gun left. I think about why I should have pulled the trigger. I think about how low I've slumped down.

With a flash the power goes off. The TV, now a blank screen. I hardly react; I just take another swig of the bottle of tequila resting on a stack of unpaid electric bills. It's funny. Just two weeks ago, I was on the fast track to beign a San Lorenzo detective. Now I don't know where I'm headed. I can guess. Downhill. Not another place else. I run my hands through my wavy, greasy, blonde hair, grabbing a small handful and ripping it out. I drop it on the floor like a golden retriever who's shedding. I wish I were dead. I wish I had the balls to just pull the trigger. I flash back to the events that explain why I'm like this. It all started with the death of a boy:

Two months ago I was on patrol in the Drake district. The district that barely had any crime at all. We still had to keep an eye out just in case. The rest of the city is a breeding ground for organized crime.

Anyway, me and Joe. That was fun while it lasted. Paul Miller and Joe Gonzalez. Funny guy, Joe was. Hell, that was back when I could hear his jokes.

It was Tuesday, when my life went straight to hell. Joe was being Joe, "I don't get why you insist on getting me a girl,"

"Cause you need something to work for besides Mr. Budwieser,"

"Paul, you have real beautiful eyes. Like the ocean,"

"Cute,"

Joe licked his lips, then puckered them, and started making kissing noises.

"You wanna kiss me?"

"You care for me like nobody ever has before. I think I'm falling for you, Paul,"

"I find it hard to resist your Latin charm. Yo! I got a riddle: Two coins make up 15 cents, one of them is not a nickel,"

Joe was obviosly confused. I like to fuck with Joe.

"Okay another one, If you have one bucket with five gallons and another with three gallons, how many bukets do you have?"

"Eight?"

This is why Joe was funny. It wasn't his jokes (although they were good), it was his stupidity. I decided to give him a break, "Sure, Joe sure."

Across the street was a kid, no older than ten.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" I shout as I throw the bottle of tequila at the flat screen. The half empty bottle exploded along with the glass from the TV screen. A shattering sound echos throughout my mostly empty apartment.

No. I have to face it. Just look into the face of the goddamn situation.

The kid pulled out a gun. He aimed it at a weary, frail, old man. The man let out a shout, "Put that away Tobin!"

I emerged from the police car and told the boy to put the gun down. The kid aimed the gun at me. When you stare into the barrel of a gun, time slows down, your whole life flashes before you. I drew my standard issue Beretta and took aim. I knew it was just a kid. But I paniced. My weapon went off. I swear I didn't even pull the trigger. The young boy looked up at me. His hazel eyes wide with terror. He began to fall to the ground. Crimson began to run across his chest, staining his SpongeBob shirt. He fell to the ground, his body remained still. At that moment I knew he was dead.

They say the body is beautiful in death. They obviously havn't seen a kid die. His eyes were wide and gave an almost menacing stare. I'm so focused on the body that I don't realize that the gunshot blew out my ear drum. The old man looked at me and shouted, "You killed him!"

I looked at the Glock in the boy's hand. It was not a Glock at all...

"A toy!" the old man shouted, tears streaming down his face and saliva spurting from his mouth as he spoke.

I took a closer look at the gun. It did look real. But there was one thing that distinguished it from a real gun. A small orange cap at the end.

A knock echoes from my door. I stand up, my bones cracking. I open the door. The old man was standing there.

I stare blankly into his eyes, then I see the boy. What is he doing here. Is he here to kill me? I don't care. I took his grandson. I deserve worse. He looks me square in the eye.

"I forgive you,"

All I can do is stand there, bewildered.

"May I come in?"

I let the old man in.

I feel a little bit better now. What will happen will happen. The past is the past. And I know it would take a miracle to make me feel better. But someone (I forget who) said there is time for miracles until time is over itself. But time is never over.