CHARLES WEBSTER
July 2nd 2001
Charles thought he was seeing flashing lights, when he awoke from a nightmarish sleep. Rubbing his swollen eyes, and feeling his head, reminded him that he had a mother of a headache. Stumbling into the bathroom, and almost tripping over his combat boots, he reached for the medicine cabinet. He grabbed at the bottle of Excedrin migraine pills, and took two of them. Charles had been suffering more and more migraines lately, causing his work performance to be less than satisfactory.
He would be late again, today. The last time, he'd been hauled into his supervisor's office. He had been reminded that too many latenesses would not be tolerated. He could see Mark Benton's face, frozen in that stern position, as he reprimanded and berated him. The bastard had just about threatened to fire him. Now, the asshole was a Vice President in the company. Lucky him, he thought.
The pills wouldn't start to work for at least a half an hour. Holding his head close to the mirror, Charles squinted through blurry vision to shave. "Fuck.!" In trying to see, he had knocked his toothbrush into the dirty toilet. Charles retrieved the toothbrush, ran it under hot water
and brushed his teeth.
Quickly dressing in his uniform, he snapped on his utility belt. It held a flashlight, shiny new handcuffs, his pepper spray, and a nightstick.
He gave a quick once-over to his reflection in the mirror. He flopped down on the unmade bed, and put on his boots. His blue uniform was meticulous, unlike his house, which looked like a vagrant lived there.
He'd have to drive over the speed limit to make it to the nearest subway train into the city. Speeding away from his place, Charles reflected on Mark Benton. He definitely had plans for that bastard. All through the night, he thought of the different ways he would torture him in his basement. It would be slow and painful. Charles wanted to see the fear in Mark's eyes, as he took his life little by little. If he got fired today, it would be very soon.
The subway ride was uneventful but tiring. The Excedrins had only just started to work, and Charles had to stand up the whole ride, being bumped around inside the train. Even though he was late, the train was still crowded. Bending over to see the underground street signs, made his head throb. Finally, the train stopped at one of the many 5th Avenue stations, and Charles quickly ascended the steps, two at a time. As he came up from the dark tunnel, the sun's glare caused him to shut his eyes. He fished his sunglasses from his front shirt pocket. When his eyes came back into focus, he was unprepared for what he saw.
There were at least five police cars and various emergency vehicles parked in front of the Visual Trends building. Police were going in and out of the building in a hurried frenzy. One cop was stopping all who entered, before they were allowed to pass. "What the hell?" Charles was mumbling to himself. He made his way through the crowd of spectators and press reporters to the front of the building.
Charles found himself face to face with a young rookie cop that was directing building traffic. "I'm a guard here," Charles barked, with bravado. "Let me pass!" He flashed his identification card at the young officer, and pushed past him.
The lobby was decked out like disaster central , with police everywhere, and empty coffee cups scattered on the reception counter. Approaching the front desk, where the other security guard was attempting to field phone calls, Charles stuck out his chest, looking every bit like supercop! He could see that it had been a bad shift for Corporal John Waverly. Too bad, he thought.
Charles didn't like Waverly. He felt that this short, pip-squeak of a guy, was the reason he didn't make shift supervisor. He was always blaming someone for his shortcomings.
Cpl. Waverly was a good family man, who spent quality time with his wife and kids. He had just turned forty, but didn't suffer from mid-life crisis, like other guys his age. His reddish brown hair, was dark with sweat as he quickly answered the constantly ringing phone. In between rings, Waverly shouted at Charles. "You're LATE, MAN!" Charles shoved him over and retorted, "I can handle this, just fill me in."
"THEY FOUND BENTON, DEAD UPSTAIR THIS MORNING!"
A slow distant buzz started in Charles head. The room seemed distant, and in a fog. He could barely breathe or make out the sounds of the crowd, when he almost said it outloud. Some other motherfucker beat me to it! All of his tortuous plans sped through his head like a silent movie. "What the hell happened?" He asked Waverly. "I don't know all the details, yet. Benton's secretary found him this morning....and can you believe it? He was stark naked!" Charles still whirling from the news, shook his head no. "Hey man, I can't leave yet," Waverly shared. "The police want to question all of us. Take over this frigging desk, while I head to the conference room. They're doing questioning there. Besides, I gotta piss like a son-of-a-bitch?!"
Vera couldn't help but notice the crazy activity around the Visual Trends building. She had been resting in a doorway across the street, completely unnoticed. A half bottle of wine had put her in a drunken stupor. Using her shopping cart to carry her weight, Vera pushed it right into the middle of stopped traffic, on 5th Avenue, and crossed the street. She remembered the lipstick, stopped and opened her purse. She streaked a line of crooked lipcolor across her lips, and continued toward the building. The rookie cop, that Charles had passed earlier, stopped Vera in her tracks. "Can't go in there," he said, while holding onto Vera's shopping cart.
Robby Wilson reflected on his duty as a NYPD police officer. He had only been out of the academy for six months, and was tired of pulling shity posts. He wrinkled his nose at Vera's foul odor. She must have tossed back a whole bottle, he thought. Vera Jackson hadn't taken a bath in awhile either. Her face was covered in months of dirt along with a fresh streak of Red Splash. Officer Wilson, shook his head as Vera stumbled on down the street.
He watched as another of New York's homeless bag ladies, got up off a street bench, and came over to see her. "Hey Vera, whacha got there?" Corbie Wells had known Vera a long time. They had slept in boxes together last winter, and had both shared soup at the local church kitchen. Now they walked off together, while Corbie was being nosey with Vera's cart.
Robby Wilson had seen Corbie before. He'd remembered her standing outside the soup kitchen, on several occasions. He sometimes passed the kitchen when he felt like walking home from work. Another person tried to sneak past Officer Wilson, and the old bag lady quickly was gone from his wandering thoughts.
By Terri Campbell Copyrite June 2001
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