Her Shoes

I didn't know what to expect. It didn't matter that I had almost 20 years in this business. New situations reared their ugly heads on a daily basis. Most mundane, some interesting, some exhilarating, and some downright frightening.
This one was different. This was a first. I was excited, in a morbid kinda way.
I wove through the late morning traffic with my siren wailing and lights flashing. Thanks to the Chief of Police, a big car nut, my cruiser was equipped with more bright colored lights than you'd see while walking down the midway of carnival. There was always the occasional Buick that was slow to react. The old man in the hat driving the car would be oblivious to the screaming flashing monster in his mirrors, then suddenly take notice and jerk his behemoth of a vehicle to the right, bouncing off the curb.
I reached my intended destination without crashing, or causing any that I knew of. A big red fire truck was already parked out front. It's flashing lights, although impressive, demonstrated that the Fire Chief was not nearly as enamored with the presentation as his counterpart at the police department.
The tires of the cruiser squealed as I turned into the lot, past the woman in white who was frantically waving her arms as if stranded on a desert isle and I was captaining the rescue boat.
What was I about to see? Was her face going to be bloated and blue? Was there going to be any blood? Will there be many panicky family members with whom to contend? Will she be alive?
I bailed out of the cruiser, shutting down the shrill but forgetting the lights. What a beautiful day. Fluffy little clouds were adrift in a perfect light blue background. A summer breeze from the west caressed the back of my neck as the heat from the sun baked my face. The day itself was aloof to the horrific incident that was unfolding in the building right next to me.
I popped the trunk of the cruiser and grabbed the bright red medical bag and a pair of rubber gloves. The woman in white was yelling at me to follow her around the back of the office building. We jogged to a nondescript door that I didn't know existed. As I snapped on the rubber gloves, we crossed the threshold and took the curvy, carpeted steps two at a time.
She laid on the floor at the top of the steps.
Her lips were blue, which intesified her ashen face. Her eyes were shut and her breathing was labored and uneven. But she was breathing. That's always a good thing. There was a fresh, straight, red line running lengthwise across her neck. A small section of that line was bleeding from an abrasion. Her purple button-down shirt had partially climbed up her belly, exposing an old scar snaking vertically down her abdomen. She looked like she was in her mid-30's and not at all unattractive. How sad.
Her naked feet were still in the tiny bathroom, past the door that had been locked only moments before. Her black shoes sat, lonely, against the far wall of the bathroom. The brown electrical extension cord still hung from the ceiling vent, knot less.
The dentist from the downstairs office had attended to this young lady. He told me he helped her husband get her down, but he couldn't detect a pulse and she wasn't breathing. CPR brought her back but she was still in bad shape.
The psychologist, hands wringing, looked on from his office door. She never made it to her appointment.
After she was taken by the medical personnel, I collected her shoes and the cord and then distributed witness statements. As orderly and practiced as if may have seemed, it certainly was not. But this was one of the many situations in which I have to put up a front to keep everyone else calm.
I drove to the hospital not paying attention to the babble of the talk radio that was tuned in on my radio. I was trying to figure out how to talk to her husband, how to keep my sensitivity yet obtain the information I needed.
I began to wonder what her favorite color was and her favorite ice cream flavor. Did she like music, and what genre if she did. What did her laugh sound like? It probably wasn't shared enough.
And I still had her shoes.
As I pulled my cruiser onto the block that housed the hospital, I watched and listened to the big red and white helicopter take off from the roof. It headed south, toward the big city hospitals. My gut told me I knew who the passenger was.
I bumped into an emergency medical technician who had worked the scene. He confirmed my gut feeling.
I made my way back to the police station. As I placed her shoes in the property room, I wondered if they would ever be claimed.

A Fresh Perspective

The children and I greeted the abnormally cool, overcast July day with a livelier spring in our steps than I'd expected. Even more so since we were walking up to the church for Sunday Mass. L was out of town so it was just me and three kids.
As we crested the old, cracked stone steps, we saw the dark black man in green vestments standing in the narthex. Ah, a visiting priest.
A visiting priest to a Catholic Mass means two things: Primarily, to convey his message of the "suffering but not without hope" of a people far, far away. Secondly, to have the collection basket go for a bonus round. I'm unsure of the actual order of importance.
Our usual spots in the last two pews were taken. I reluctantly trudged up the left side all the way to the front pew. Right in front of the piano.
Reluctant, you ask? Yes. Again, for two reasons. First, I'm a sweat monster. I could break a sweat walking naked through a snow storm while eating a Popsicle. I'd rather the entire congregation not ogle me as my forehead dispensed droplets down my face as if my hairline was a shower head.
Then, there's Zander, our 4 year old son. Zander knows no boundaries. He truly believes we all exist simply to watch him perform.
How in God's name (pun intended) could I not break the sweat of a lifetime being in the front pew, with Zander, directly in front of the piano?
(Well, I've lived true to my first blog. I've gone off on quite a tangent. I hope you're still with me.)
Father Camillus de Lellis presided over, what started out to be, a typical Catholic Mass. Then came his homily. I learned that Father de Lellis is Pastor of a church in Ghana, Africa. He told us that Catholicism is relatively new in the "bush" and that his church has only been around since 1997.
This humble man told the congregation, sitting in an air-conditioned church, how blessed we are. How electricity is a luxury in Ghana and rationed by the government when acquired.
This humble man went on to tell us how incredibly blessed we are to be born on the soil of the United States of America. How being born on this soil naturally made us citizens and how so many others fight and struggle to come to our nation to live free, without those government controls. Yet, even if they make it, they still have to swear an oath to stay. Something I did not have to do, simply because I was blessed by being born here.
Father de Lellis continued about the opportunities here, and he legitimized himself by not being from here. He made it clear that we are still a destination.
In an era when we're being made to feel bad about ourselves, I felt Fr. de Lellis's homily to be uplifting about myself and my homeland. When I see so many of our leaders publicly denouncing our own country for perceived wrongs (or their own agendas), Fr. de Lillis made me proud, once again, to be American. To be blessed to be American.
From the lips of a Holy Man from afar, Father Camillus de Lellis gave a fresh perspective to a fat and happy and prosperous society how blessed we really are.
I didn't suffer a single droplet of sweat.
The usher made his predicted second pass with the offertory wicker basket. Even though I was the first be offered to contribute, I observed a $20 bill already in place. I suppressed my jaded look on life enough to toss in a $5. Not that I would've given much more, but it was all I had.
Zander did play "air-piano" along with Ryan, the musician. But he was not his usual flamboyant self.
Makes me wonder if Divine intervention kept Zander at bay so I could soak in this regenerating homily . . .

Dragged Into The 21st Century Kicking and Screaming (OK, maybe just wimpering and whining)

The moment I click "publish post" is the moment I lose my virginity. I'd been branded a Luddite by those in my circle and I took it as a compliment. I was all pens and paper, Webster's Dictionary on the floor, book of maps at the ready. Internet? Whatever. Who needs it. We've made it this far without it and I'm doing just fine.
"Really?"
Seems Lara, my wife, had been reading my thoughts . . . again. And the tone of the sarcastic response made me out to be a liar. Dang that woman.
No, I haven't been published. I'm not even a writer. Yet. But I'd like to be when I grow up.
"You said that at your 40th birthday party."
Don't you have yard work or something?
"Well, yeah, since you don't do a damn thing outside."
Ouch.
Speaking of growing up, it seems I better start soon. That 40th birthday is a couple of years in the rear view mirror and retirement from the mortgage paying job is smelling like a reality.
"You don't have a portfolio."
I have a cache of workable short stories. I'll revisit them and send them off to a couple of literary magazines.
"Try blogging."
I'm married.
"Ha ha."
I have to admit she's had some good ideas. This one included.
So, welcome all visitors to my blog spot. My plan is to slowly introduce my family, friends, life experiences, and interests. Then watch me tangent away from all of those topics as I continue to type.
I hope you enjoy as much as I . . . (and that blogging morphs into a legitimate excuse for getting out of yard work).