Chapter One from "Eyes of God"
Colorful lights of red and blue, flashed in Stephen’s rearview.
“Such pretty lights of red and blue,” Stephen said, and smiled. “They could all fade together into purple if I look at them the right way.” He squinted, trying to see them melt into purple, but they refused to merge. A shrill wail cut through Eddie Van Halen’s guitar solo. Stephen shut off the radio.
“Guess it’s the cops,” he sighed. “Are they after me or someone in the back seat?” He checked over his shoulder. “Nope, I’m alone.”
Stephen was always alone, even when surrounded by friends.
“Moment of truth, moment of truth,” he muttered as the ancient Matador eased to a stop next to a fire hydrant on the Albany street. His words meant nothing, only something said to set his mind at ease. Stephen had more drugs running through his system than nourishment, and the world was both spinning and falling. He reached for the dime bag on the passenger seat and tried to think of somewhere to hide it but those pretty red and blue lights, still refusing to turn purple, stole his thoughts. He carelessly flung the bag of weed into the back seat.
“Moment of truth, moment of truth,” he repeated, louder this time, and giggled. The fifty-two year old man didn’t worry as much as he should have. He had been through this many times before: A few days in jail, a possessions charge followed by Narcotics Anonymous. This time he was in the driver’s seat. That would change things. Suddenly a lump formed in Stephen’s throat. Where had that dime bag landed? He couldn’t see it, only those colorful flashing lights and a dark blue uniform stepping up to the window. Soon there followed the bright light from a long flashlight and a rap on the closed window. Stephen rolled it down. A grim-faced young policeman looked in.
“License and registration,” the man in blue said.
Stephen fished in his pocket as the policeman studied the car’s interior. The dashboard was of peeling fabric and cracked vinyl, cream-colored and stained by years of cigarette smoke.
“Out kind of late for a Monday,” the policeman said accusingly, and Stephen noted the name on his pocket: “Applebee.” Suddenly he had an attack of the munchies, but he remained silent with no desire to slur his words. He found his wallet, pulled out the two forms of ID, and handed them over to Officer Applebee.
Applebee checked the cards as the November wind picked up behind him. “Is this your present address?”
“No sir. I’ve been living on a friend’s couch.”
The policeman gave him a quizzical look, “Don’t you mean sleeping?” But he let it go. “Are you aware that you were going fifty in a thirty-five zone?”
“Yes, officer. I’m sorry.”
“That’s sergeant, Stephen Van… How do you pronounce your last name?”
“Van Shake, Sergeant. Stephen Van Shake. Like hippy hippy shake.”
Sergeant Applebee frowned. He noticed something he didn’t much like in the back seat, or so Stephen thought. If he really had seen the dime bag he didn’t let on. “Wait here,” the policeman said, and started back for his vehicle.
Stephen sat in silence for a good five minutes, turning over worst-case scenarios in his head. He had left a wild pre-Election Day party that had quickly petered out once the cops started banging on the door. There were drugs, crazy election-style games like pin the tail on the politico, and gallons of alcohol. Stephen considered it a very brainless affair but the aftereffects still stung his brain. He now banged out Alex Van Halen’s drum accompaniment to his brother’s guitar solo, which still burned in Stephen’s mind, even with the radio off. “Running with the Devil,” he sang. Those red and blue lights still spun through the rear window, like a rock concert light show.
“Sometimes the simple life, ain’t so simple…”
“Get out of the car!” The policeman’s suddenly loud, on-edge voice invaded Stephen’s song. “Get, out, of, the, car, now!” he ordered in clipped, authoritative words.
Stephen dutifully reached for the door handle but a firm hand grabbed his arm. “No sudden moves!” Sergeant Applebee ordered. He reached in and grabbed Stephen’s other arm tight. The guilty man was suddenly aware of running feet, then another policeman.. no, policewoman in his peripheral vision.
“Get out of the car!” she barked like a chihuahu, rapid-fire.
“How can I…” Stephen began, but couldn’t finish.
Applebee let go of his arms as the female officer expertly grabbed them from behind, yanked open the car door, and forced him out and onto the ground. Stephen hit the pavement face-first, with an “Uhh!” Was this police brutality? The red and blue lights didn’t seem so pretty anymore. They blurred in his vision, turning purple.
“What did I do?” Stephen stammered as his hands were pinned behind his back. Applebee’s knees dug into his calves and plastic zippercords drew tight around his wrists. “All this for speeding?”
“Don’t joke about this!” came the woman’s voice from above. “There’s a warrant out for your arrest, Stephen Van Skayik. You’re wanted for the rape of a minor. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”
“The rape of a minor?” Stephen shrieked and tried to roll over, but the sergeant’s knees now dug into his back. “I never…”
The butt end of the flashlight smacked against his skull. Stephen passed out.
“Such pretty lights of red and blue,” Stephen said, and smiled. “They could all fade together into purple if I look at them the right way.” He squinted, trying to see them melt into purple, but they refused to merge. A shrill wail cut through Eddie Van Halen’s guitar solo. Stephen shut off the radio.
“Guess it’s the cops,” he sighed. “Are they after me or someone in the back seat?” He checked over his shoulder. “Nope, I’m alone.”
Stephen was always alone, even when surrounded by friends.
“Moment of truth, moment of truth,” he muttered as the ancient Matador eased to a stop next to a fire hydrant on the Albany street. His words meant nothing, only something said to set his mind at ease. Stephen had more drugs running through his system than nourishment, and the world was both spinning and falling. He reached for the dime bag on the passenger seat and tried to think of somewhere to hide it but those pretty red and blue lights, still refusing to turn purple, stole his thoughts. He carelessly flung the bag of weed into the back seat.
“Moment of truth, moment of truth,” he repeated, louder this time, and giggled. The fifty-two year old man didn’t worry as much as he should have. He had been through this many times before: A few days in jail, a possessions charge followed by Narcotics Anonymous. This time he was in the driver’s seat. That would change things. Suddenly a lump formed in Stephen’s throat. Where had that dime bag landed? He couldn’t see it, only those colorful flashing lights and a dark blue uniform stepping up to the window. Soon there followed the bright light from a long flashlight and a rap on the closed window. Stephen rolled it down. A grim-faced young policeman looked in.
“License and registration,” the man in blue said.
Stephen fished in his pocket as the policeman studied the car’s interior. The dashboard was of peeling fabric and cracked vinyl, cream-colored and stained by years of cigarette smoke.
“Out kind of late for a Monday,” the policeman said accusingly, and Stephen noted the name on his pocket: “Applebee.” Suddenly he had an attack of the munchies, but he remained silent with no desire to slur his words. He found his wallet, pulled out the two forms of ID, and handed them over to Officer Applebee.
Applebee checked the cards as the November wind picked up behind him. “Is this your present address?”
“No sir. I’ve been living on a friend’s couch.”
The policeman gave him a quizzical look, “Don’t you mean sleeping?” But he let it go. “Are you aware that you were going fifty in a thirty-five zone?”
“Yes, officer. I’m sorry.”
“That’s sergeant, Stephen Van… How do you pronounce your last name?”
“Van Shake, Sergeant. Stephen Van Shake. Like hippy hippy shake.”
Sergeant Applebee frowned. He noticed something he didn’t much like in the back seat, or so Stephen thought. If he really had seen the dime bag he didn’t let on. “Wait here,” the policeman said, and started back for his vehicle.
Stephen sat in silence for a good five minutes, turning over worst-case scenarios in his head. He had left a wild pre-Election Day party that had quickly petered out once the cops started banging on the door. There were drugs, crazy election-style games like pin the tail on the politico, and gallons of alcohol. Stephen considered it a very brainless affair but the aftereffects still stung his brain. He now banged out Alex Van Halen’s drum accompaniment to his brother’s guitar solo, which still burned in Stephen’s mind, even with the radio off. “Running with the Devil,” he sang. Those red and blue lights still spun through the rear window, like a rock concert light show.
“Sometimes the simple life, ain’t so simple…”
“Get out of the car!” The policeman’s suddenly loud, on-edge voice invaded Stephen’s song. “Get, out, of, the, car, now!” he ordered in clipped, authoritative words.
Stephen dutifully reached for the door handle but a firm hand grabbed his arm. “No sudden moves!” Sergeant Applebee ordered. He reached in and grabbed Stephen’s other arm tight. The guilty man was suddenly aware of running feet, then another policeman.. no, policewoman in his peripheral vision.
“Get out of the car!” she barked like a chihuahu, rapid-fire.
“How can I…” Stephen began, but couldn’t finish.
Applebee let go of his arms as the female officer expertly grabbed them from behind, yanked open the car door, and forced him out and onto the ground. Stephen hit the pavement face-first, with an “Uhh!” Was this police brutality? The red and blue lights didn’t seem so pretty anymore. They blurred in his vision, turning purple.
“What did I do?” Stephen stammered as his hands were pinned behind his back. Applebee’s knees dug into his calves and plastic zippercords drew tight around his wrists. “All this for speeding?”
“Don’t joke about this!” came the woman’s voice from above. “There’s a warrant out for your arrest, Stephen Van Skayik. You’re wanted for the rape of a minor. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”
“The rape of a minor?” Stephen shrieked and tried to roll over, but the sergeant’s knees now dug into his back. “I never…”
The butt end of the flashlight smacked against his skull. Stephen passed out.