Always Run From the Police

Although they were poor, the six of them packed into that tiny apartment along the polluted river, none of the children ever went without proper running shoes. Trainers, as they called them.
"Lace your shoes tight," he told his four boys. "But not too tight. A good snug fit is all you need."

A healthy fear of law enforcement was in their blood. Somewhere in the past, a few rungs below them on the family tree, someone had received an especially brutal assault at the hands of a police officer, back when unpainted batons still hung loosely from waistbands and could be wielded with generous discretion. These days, of course, the police all carried guns, making the age old wisdom, perhaps initially misguided, seem now to be a matter of deathly importance.

"Always run from the police," he told them. "They might catch you, they might not. But always run."

___

Behind him he saw only the glare of their plastic helmets. He did not see their furrowed brows, nor hear their strained grunts--his mind filled these in. They were only a few paces back.

One kilometer later he was stopped by a rubber bullet, shot from a police car that had pulled in front of him. Officers swarmed.

In the back of the police car, with a fresh bruise stretching across his forehead, he determined that he must have at least one child.

I will buy him a motorcycle.

Don't Let Him In

Although she could not see him, she knew exactly how he looked just then. His eyes were squinted, his nose scrunched up tight. It was the expression he took on when he was angry. Over the years she had only really seen him angry a few times. This was the first time it was directed at her.

"Let me in."
No.
He pounded on the door, first with his fist, and then a moment later, his elbow.
"Listen, do you realize what this looks like right now? Do you realize what we're doing?"
...
"You can't keep this up forever." He kicked at the door. A moment later it was silent. He was sulking.

She stepped back into the living room and sat down on the couch, her head in her hands. The night could only get worse from here. Was he mad enough to break a window in his own house?

The Great Fake

The only people who remained were small children, the sick, and the elderly. The rest met at eight o'clock in the morning in front of city hall, boarding buses charted for Reno. Nearly the entire town fit on six buses, with extra spaces allotted for a few of the more obese citizens (one of whom is a dear friend of mine.) The holiday would last for four days. In the meantime city business would be suspended. In houses and apartments, fish were given slow release food packets, DVRs recorded TV shows, and silence settled in.

Thirty minutes into the ride I tapped the bus driver on the shoulder. I apologized, told him I was feeling sick, and apologized again. He pulled over the bus and I got off. The walk home would take several hours; it would be well into the afternoon before I arrived. Back in our row, my sister was asleep, having taken a heavy dosage of medication shortly before departure. She would wake in Reno, surprised and alone. Around the same time I would be in her bedroom, rummaging through her belongings.