I thought it was time for another short story from yours truly. This one was originally published by The Murder Hole, a webzine that featured murder fiction. I thought it was quite cool, but it is no more. At least, if it still exists I can't find it. "Not In My Neighborhood" was actually a contest entry -- it didn't win, but did get published, so that's something. I entered two stories and will reveal the other sometime soon. There was a theme to the contest, but if I told you what is was it would spoil the ending. So, without further ado, I give you my story. Word count ~ 1500. Estimated reading time ~ 8 minutes.
Not In My Neighborhood
George Simpson loved his police scanner. It was always on. Always.
George lived in a tiny two room apartment in the city; a city where crime was no stranger. George set out to end all crime in his neighborhood. That was his self-appointed job. In fact, it was his only job. He was a full-time fighter for virtue in his neighborhood.
Five long years ago George had a normal job. He drove for UPS until stray bullets struck him down. A drive by shooting -- the wrong place at the wrong time. A bullet shattered his hip and left him with a pronounced limp and a life’s work.
George hobbled down the steps of his apartment at 7 a.m. sharp on an already muggy Tuesday. He started his patrol at the same time each day. Today he saw a dirty man resting on his very own stoop. This would not do. Loitering encouraged others to do the same; it attracted the element. Not in my neighborhood, George thought.
“You, clear out you. Scoot. We don’t want your kind, understand?”
The bum slowly looked up at the accosting man. The bum’s coat was too big and his pants too small. He wore a ratty hat askew on his head and a full beard on his face. He clutched a brown paper bag containing a bottle. The bum did not speak, he only pointed to himself and raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah, you. You see anybody else around here? I’m telling you now, I won’t put up with this!” George meant it, too. He’d dealt with this kind before.
Finally, the man on the stoop spoke. “I’m just sitting here, sir.” His voice was clear, seemingly not affected by his paper-bagged liquor.
“Well, you’re just gonna hafta leave, see. That’s all there is to it. Crime is not welcome in this neighborhood. Get along, now,” George said, motioning down the street, maybe to a neighborhood where loiterers were welcome.
“I’m sorry sir, but I’m not doing anything. I’m just going to sit here and mind my business, if you don’t mind.”
“But, I do mind,” George said, pleading with the bum to no avail. George shook his head and said, “I’ll deal with you later.”
George went about his patrol, past the bodega, a trade organization office, and a bank, all part of George’s building. He walked his block and came across no other suspicious activities. George believed that was because of his constant vigil.
He called the police when he returned home to take care of the insolent loiterer on the stoop. The police arrived, talked to the man, and then told George that the bum wasn’t committing a crime, so they couldn’t haul him in as George suggested. George was disappointed, but wouldn’t be daunted.
George positioned himself in his ratty green recliner near the scanner, which sat on a small table directly across from him. From the chair, he had a perfect vantage point of the street, and today, of the vagrant. The scanner came to life.
“. . . Call in from location 26 dash 4 dash 12, possible B and E, over . . . Copy, dispatch . . . check 20 and report back . . . .”
The crackly voice of the scanner brought a certain peace to George. He recognized the location mentioned by dispatch as being a rough part of town several blocks from his neighborhood. His neighborhood was quiet, for now. If only that bum would move on out. Only then would it be locked down.
The setting summer sun came through the window. George tiredly watched the man on the stoop, taking notice of the conversation he was having with nobody. Damn alcoholic, George thought. He wondered if he’d have to rid the neighborhood of the bum like he’d done with others; take steps the cops wouldn’t.
George dozed in his station, the scanner crackling. Always on alert though, George was never completely asleep.
The next day brought more of the same. George noticed the vagrant left the steps for a few hours overnight, but there he was again when George left home for patrol. George would have to be more forceful.
“I thought I told you to get out of here,” George said, standing over the man.
“Yes sir.”
“What are you still doin’ here, then?”
“Sir, it’s okay. I’ll be moving along soon enough. Probably not long, but for now, I need to be here.” Again, the man’s voice was clear -- too clear for a drunk. George figured he’d gone somewhere to sleep off his sins. Obviously, the man had been drunk last night. Nobody sits around and talks to himself without the help of some Old Grandad or Mad Dog.
George had heard bums say they’d be moving along before. They never did. Not without his help. “Don’t you want a job?”
“Sir, I’ll get a job, don’t worry about it.”
“How about food? What do you eat out here?” George asked.
The man’s head swayed back just a little as he looked at George. “What?”
“You heard me. What do you eat?”
“Whatever I can, sir. Whatever I can.”
George left it at that and went about his patrol, stopping briefly at a bodega to get some ammunition for his fight against crime. Right now, that damn bum was the only problem in his neighborhood.
***
As always during the afternoon and evening, George was positioned in his chair by the window. Not as always, though, the scanner crackled his neighborhood’s coordinates. George’s ears perked up.
“ . . . Tramp, this is Lady, do you read me? . . . copy, Lady . . . what’s the situation, over . . . all’s quiet now, over . . . Zero o'clock? . . . affirmative, all quiet . . . any problems? . . . not really . . . stay put and be prepared . . . .”
George welled with pride to hear the cops talk about his neighborhood on the scanner. Sure it was all quiet. His patrols, his relentless pursuit of the wrongdoers of society, his constant hassling of the vagrants to take it somewhere else. Crime was the enemy of civilization. George was civilization’s soldier in the war against the element.
George looked out his window at the vagabond. There he was, talking to himself again. George shook his head, knowing that tomorrow this soldier would have to go into action. He slept restlessly.
***
It was hot the next morning. George had slept in his chair, as he was prone to do, and woke up sweaty and sore, but ready for battle. He looked out into the first light and, sure enough, the man was there. The man just wasn’t going to leave.
He went to the kitchen to prepare a sandwich; a sandwich he’d prepared before. He knew exactly what to add to the mayonnaise, and how much. Then, George walked down the steps of his home to see the bum.
“I guess you’re not going anywhere, are you?” George asked.
The man looked at George, but said nothing.
“Ok, look, I brought you a sandwich. I’m only giving it to you because I know it’s hard to look for work on an empty stomach. Eat this sandwich. It’ll give you strength to look for work.”
The man looked at George with those clear eyes. He started to say something, but didn’t. He took the sandwich. “Thanks, sir. I appreciate it.” The man reached up to shake George’s hand. “The name’s Anton.”
“Uh, good.” George stood over the man shaking his hand. The man released George’s hand and studied the roast beef sandwich dripping with mayonnaise.
“Plenty of mayo, huh, mister?”
George didn’t say anything. He watched the man take a big bite.
“Goodbye, then.” George limped back up his steps to take his position. No patrol this morning. It would have to wait.
George’s beloved scanner came alive soon after he made it back to his station.
“. . . Tramp, this is the Lady, we’ve had a sighting. Do you read? Tramp, do you read? We’ve had a sighting in your location. Tramp, I repeat, do you read? Come in Tramp. Tramp?!. . . ”
George sat raptly at the voice box. Tramp? Lady? Was that his neighborhood?
“. . . We believe the suspect is on your block. Repeat, the suspect is on your block heading toward Zero o'clock. . . .”
George looked out his window. The man on the stoop was lying back on the steps. The half eaten sandwich still clutched in his right hand. A man in a trench coat walked right past George’s stoop and kept walking. A trench coat? In this heat?
“Now, that’s odd,” George said to himself.
“. . . Dammit Tramp! Anton! Answer me! We believe the suspect is on your block!”
George dropped back in his chair. Anton? Could it be? He heard glass shatter and looked down the street in the direction of the noise. An explosion rocked George from his chair. He landed on the small table that held the scanner, knocking it to the floor. George felt the heat, felt the floor give, then felt nothing at all.
The scanner crackled from beneath the rubble: “We have a bombing at the trade organization . . . send all units at once. . . .”
THE END
Wow. Good one. George's dialect matched his thoughts perfectly. Can't believe he killed him.
Posted by: David | April 18, 2005 at 11:09 AM
It’s actually very complex in this active life to listen news on Television, so I just use web for that reason, and take the hottest information.
Posted by: como conquistar a una mujer | February 02, 2012 at 03:00 AM