GAMES PEOPLE PLAY - BRUCE HARRIS
She wore short shorts, sneakers, white socks and a tank top. No bra. Her blonde ponytail rested on Mr. Perfect’s broad shoulder. He was at least a foot taller than she. They listened as I stood next to my Saturn, explaining my actions to a cop whose shined shirt pocket nametag read Ortiz. He nodded. “Go on.”
“Like I was saying. I was out of milk and Stephanie, that’s my wife, asked me to head to the grocery store for a gallon. I was steering my car with one hand, trying to find the Cubs game on the radio with the other, and then I saw her.” I pointed to No Bra Girl. “Jogging, blonde ponytail bouncing up and down, but no one in hell was looking at that, especially me. Excuse my bluntness, but even Stevie Wonder can see, she isn’t wearing a bra, and her boobs were practically hanging out of that loose fitting top, smacking her face with every step. Damn.”
I paused for a second, but Ortiz kept staring at me. The couple seemed to hug each other tighter.
“I slowed down the Saturn, maximizing the time I had to admire her, my prurient thoughts raging. I shifted my gaze into the side view mirror as I passed her. I’m still watching her ass as she slowly jogs out of my life, then suddenly I see a black pickup truck pull up alongside her. She stops and peers into the truck’s window, and in an instant, she’s gone! Shit. I just watched some guy drag her into his truck. I do an immediate U-turn, and head for the pickup truck. At first, I can only see the driver, but seconds later, I see her blonde head, but it quickly disappears again. From my vantage point about 500 feet away, it appears as though they’re struggling. I floor it. I think the bastard is hitting her as he speeds up, but I’m not letting him out of my sight. I catch a break, as his truck has to slow down because of traffic. He swerves right to avoid a UPS truck, and I can see him looking back at me through his rearview mirror. I give him the finger. I smack into the truck’s rear bumper, and again the guy looks back at me. He’s cursing. I slam into him again. Now, she’s in sight, staring at me. She looks petrified. She’s screaming something, but I can’t make it out. He’s shouting, too. I’m playing bumper cars with this fucker’s, excuse my language, truck, but I’m not really playing. The radio is between stations, so I shut the damn thing and reach for my cell phone and dial 911. Before it connects, I hear your siren and see your flashing red lights approaching. Someone else must have called you. Within minutes, you cut him off, and here we are, all three vehicles are stopped on the side of the road. Good, I figured, now the bastard’s going to get what he deserves.”
“Boy, am I glad you came in time, officer. This fucking guy is crazy. Look what he’s done to the back of my truck! He nearly drove us off the fucking road.” Ortiz looked away from Perfect Man toward the damaged vehicle and shook his head.
“Watch you language, sir. Keep it civil.” He turned to me. “Do you have anything else to say?”
“Officer, I watched this guy pull this young lady off the street against her will. I was just trying to stop him and help her, you know, trying to be a Good Samaritan and all that. That’s the truth.” The policeman looked at the couple with raised eyebrows.
Now it was Braless’s turn. Pointing to me, “This guy is out of his mind.” The perfect couple hugged again. “This is my boyfriend, officer. We were just having a little fun playing a game, keeping things exciting between us. It was nothing more than a little harmless sex skit we were acting out. The next thing we know, this nut is ramming the back of our truck. I called 911 and thank goodness you showed up.”
A moment later, a second squad car pulled up. A black cop named Brown sauntered over, said, “Whatcha got, Ortiz?”
Ortiz motioned to the couple. “This guy was harassing this young woman. Get him the hell out of my sight, Terry.”
I watched two jaws simultaneously drop. Before either could say a word, Officer Brown escorted a handcuffed Perfect Body into the back seat of his police cruiser and drove off.
“What the hell are you doing?” shouted Ponytail. “That’s my boyfriend!”
Officer Ortiz slapped first her face and then cuffs on her wrists. He pushed her into the backseat of his car. “Get in there and shut up. You, Good Samaritan,” he pointed to me, “in the front seat.”
“Are you crazy? What the hell do you think you’re doing? I want a lawyer!” Ms. Boobs in the backseat was crying.
Shit, a lawyer was going to help her about as much as the boogey man was going to scare Ortiz. Ortiz was as crooked as an arthritic finger. I’d seen his type plenty of times. We left the sobbing blonde in the locked police car as we belted down close to a dozen cold ones at a local tavern. Ortiz told me shit I didn’t want to hear about his childhood and stepfather. After nearly two hours, he grabbed a fistful of peanuts and said, “Let’s go!” We were both drunk. He had trouble opening the patrol car’s rear door, stuffed his face with nuts, loosened his belt and grabbed the girl. Spitting peanut shells, he said, “If you say a word about this to anyone, you’ll think this was Christmas morning compared to what I’ll do to your boyfriend.” Ortiz undid her handcuffs and positioned himself inches away from her face. His uniform pants dropped. “You know what to do!” She did. When Ortiz screamed “Yes!” the poor bastard was too drunk to notice Blondie had removed his gun with her newly freed hands. She fired. Twice.
BIO: Bruce Harris is the author of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson: ABout Type (www.batteredbox.com) and a chapbook, The Man and the Mark (www.deadlychaps.com).