1.

The Mexican takeout/eat-in was the neighbourhood’s last diner, and Margaret’s favourite place, narrow with two side tables along a wall, a long formica counter, stools covered in faux red leather, the countermen wearing crisp white shirts and pants, and sporting the feel of old New York, or America in a different time, not more innocent just not her time.

Margaret ordered her usual cheese enchilada. A rosy-cheeked, freshly-shaved cop took the stool next to hers. His gun belt protruded from his waist. Corseted in a tight jacket, bullet-proof vest, he looked like a stuffed animal.

Margaret felt uncomfortable close to him but their silence was awkward. She asked if he’d seen any crossbow and arrow murders lately. The cop looked at her, the way cops look at civilians who aren’t perceived as immediate threats, the way experts look at amateurs, and responded not to her question, too silly for him to consider. She saw his frustration, his pink cheeks colored pinker.

— Bow and arrow, yeah, a novelty. Most murders aren’t committed with legal firearms, murderers don’t use legal guns, and don’t get me started.

Margaret didn’t say a word.

— I’m not murdering anybody. I don’t want to kill people. There are bad guys out there. I’m not doing anything, I’m not hurting anyone. You know. No one’s got morals anymore.

The cop rested his elbows on the counter, opened his hands wide, his palms soft and fleshy. She looked for his fate line, and didn’t see it. He inhaled and exhaled hard, but his vest didn’t move. His rice, beans, and beef taco arrived. 

—What about people who don’t have homes. Who are on the street.

— A lot of them have substance abuse issues, the cop said. He was chewing.

— Can you help them?

— If I take them to the hospital, or a shelter, they get out.

— They need treatment.

— You can’t force them, unless they’re dangerous to other people or to themselves. Usually they’re
not dangerous.

The cop was perplexed or frustrated.

— Believe me. Us cops . . . I’ve seen things that’d make your stomach turn. Believe me.

He was hungry and stared at his half-finished plate.

—I believe you, Margaret said.

—Thanks, the cop said.

 It was strange, a cop thanking her.

The deaf tenant, Herbert, walked in. Margaret wanted to keep the cop talking, gain his trust, reach out to him, and have him unfold like a clean sheet or a dirty one. She’d see the scars, and he’d reveal secrets he’d never told anyone. She lusted for cop secrets, or any secrets, but didn’t know how far she could go, so she told him her name, and he told her his, Ernest. Ernest the cop.

With fellow tenant Herbert there, though he was very deaf – they mouthed hello –  Margaret felt uneasier. She was white, Ernest was white, Herbert was Black, and what would Herbert think, not that he’d hear; for all he knew she could be cursing the rookie, calling the pink-faced cop a pig. She liked pigs and wouldn’t ever.

 Herbert’s placid face betrayed nothing. He was a calm guy, and he calmly sat down on the other side of the cop. His deafness kept him separate, maybe. Herbert said hello to her and to Ernest the cop, and ordered oatmeal. Maybe they knew each other from the neighbourhood. The diner was a friendly place.

2.

—Herbert, we’ve got to talk about our situation, Margaret said.

She mouthed the words and put her hand to her ear.

— OK, he shouted, and added a thumb’s up.

— Our building has no services.

Herbert nodded.

Ernest the cop didn’t pay attention, shoveling the salty food into his mouth. The food was too salty, Mexicans know how to survive in a hot climate, and sometimes it was very hot here. Not today.

The cop was driven to do what he was doing, who he was. Ever since he was a kid, Ernest must’ve wanted to be a cop, his father was a cop, his brothers. He tells Margaret his job is trying to stop someone from making other people crazy when they find their car stolen or smashed and have to spend days talking to the insurance company.

 — The city doesn’t need more crazy people, he said.

— Damn right, Margaret said.

 — Their insurance goes up. Who needs that, no fault of theirs.

Ernest was determined to make the world better. Cops never make the world better, she thought, cops need criminals to be heroes, social workers need underdogs to feel worthy. The city was one big symbiotic relationship.

Margaret ate the cheese enchilada slowly, savouring her position. She wished she could ask Ernest for his badge number or last name, then in an emergency she could phone him at the station in the middle of the night.

Stations never pick up. One time she called after hearing howls of pain and screams coming from the street; the precinct phone rang and rang. It was so wrong, so much was wrong.

When she thought about how many Americans had guns, she dallied with the idea of getting a license and buying a little one for her purse. She certainly couldn’t knife someone, or use a heavy frying pan to hit someone over the head. What if he grabbed it...

The cop ate looking straight ahead, Ernest was done with her, probably.

There was nothing really huge between her and the cop, he was a person, she was, he wore one kind of uniform, she wore another. She didn’t carry a gun, but that could be remedied. There was nothing much between them, he was an arm of the law. His arms were muscular, hers weren’t. 

There was her impulse to reach for his gun, his duty to stop her, even shoot her in the head or chest, nothing much between her resentment of authority, his need to be an authority, her need for help, his need to help, and her desire for protection, his to protect her, maybe. Maybe not after this encounter.

Ernest needed to be a hero, to be heroic. A family thing and the comic books he read as a child, and this divided them. She didn’t need heroes, just people who were reasonable, except she would want someone who needed to be selfless, a hero to rush her to a hospital or save her from a rapist.

The gap could be breached by whispering, Let me touch your gun.

The cop ordered black coffee.

— No donut, Margaret said.

Herbert glanced her way.

— Not funny, Ernest the cop said. Seriously.

— If I were to touch your gun, what would you do?

— Shoot you, not to kill, he said. That’s how we’re trained, though.

He looked at his empty plate.

— You know, Margaret, you’re a little crazy.

She was touched he used her name. It was intimate.

— This city makes anyone nuts, she said.

Lines crisscrossed his face when he was serious, and what if anything would make her cross an unmarked border, an illicit border. There are always borders not to cross.

3.

The Mexican takeout/eat-in was the neighbourhood’s last diner, and Margaret’s favourite place, narrow with two side tables along a wall, a long formica counter, stools covered in faux red leather, the countermen wearing crisp white shirts and pants, and sporting the feel of old New York, or America in a different time, not more innocent just not her time.

Margaret ordered her usual cheese enchilada. A rosy-cheeked, freshly-shaved cop took the stool next to hers. His gun belt protruded from his waist. Corseted in a tight jacket, bullet-proof vest, he looked like a stuffed animal.

Margaret felt uncomfortable close to him but their silence was awkward. She asked if he’d seen any crossbow and arrow murders lately. The cop looked at her, the way cops look at civilians who aren’t perceived as immediate threats, the way experts look at amateurs, and responded not to her question, too silly for him to consider. She saw his frustration, his pink cheeks colored pinker.

— Bow and arrow, yeah, a novelty. Most murders aren’t committed with legal firearms, murderers don’t use legal guns, and don’t get me started.

Margaret didn’t say a word.

— I’m not murdering anybody. I don’t want to kill people. There are bad guys out there. I’m not doing anything, I’m not hurting anyone. You know. No one’s got morals anymore.

The cop rested his elbows on the counter, opened his hands wide, his palms soft and fleshy. She looked for his fate line, and didn’t see it. He inhaled and exhaled hard, but his vest didn’t move. His rice, beans, and beef taco arrived. 

—What about people who don’t have homes. Who are on the street.

— A lot of them have substance abuse issues, the cop said. He was chewing.

— Can you help them?

— If I take them to the hospital, or a shelter, they get out.

— They need treatment.

— You can’t force them, unless they’re dangerous to other people or to themselves. Usually they’re
not dangerous.

The cop was perplexed or frustrated.

— Believe me. Us cops . . . I’ve seen things that’d make your stomach turn. Believe me.

He was hungry and stared at his half-finished plate.

—I believe you, Margaret said.

—Thanks, the cop said.

 It was strange, a cop thanking her.

The deaf tenant, Herbert, walked in. Margaret wanted to keep the cop talking, gain his trust, reach out to him, and have him unfold like a clean sheet or a dirty one. She’d see the scars, and he’d reveal secrets he’d never told anyone. She lusted for cop secrets, or any secrets, but didn’t know how far she could go, so she told him her name, and he told her his, Ernest. Ernest the cop.

With fellow tenant Herbert there, though he was very deaf – they mouthed hello –  Margaret felt uneasier. She was white, Ernest was white, Herbert was Black, and what would Herbert think, not that he’d hear; for all he knew she could be cursing the rookie, calling the pink-faced cop a pig. She liked pigs and wouldn’t ever.

 Herbert’s placid face betrayed nothing. He was a calm guy, and he calmly sat down on the other side of the cop. His deafness kept him separate, maybe. Herbert said hello to her and to Ernest the cop, and ordered oatmeal. Maybe they knew each other from the neighbourhood. The diner was a friendly place.