Thursday, October 27, 2005
A Night On The Town
I got out of the subway station. The entire neighborhood smelled like maple syrup.
“You don’t know how lucky you got it,” I thought, as I lit a cigarette.
Wait a minute. POISON. I’ve smelled it before.
Listen, people. I’m a world-class investigative journalist. I’ve seen things that’ll make your heart skip and your legs do a doggie-dance. I’ve seen bad things. Bitch slaps. I’ve seen worse than bitch slaps.
I recalled mid-summer, 1997. Roach traps. Or maybe it was rat poison. It smelled like maple syrup. THE BONDS OF THE MIND REMAIN AS STURDY AS TRUSSES. That was it: someone had poisoned the neighborhood. Al-Qaeda. Or maybe a domestic threat. I lit a second cigarette.
As I walked towards home, towards the river, the smell grew stronger. Sickeningly sweet, like breakfast at an orphanage. These guys were good.
Wait a minute. The 39th Street Syrup Factory. Sure, it didn’t exist, but what if it did? It’s been blown up. Code red. Gotta call for back-up.
At 34th Avenue, a Mercedes almost backed into my leg. Sleek and glossy, it looked like some sort of robotic cockroach. From inside I could see the gentle blue glow of the instrument panel. Poor fuckers. They’re already in such a panic to get out of here. The press must be having a field day with this.
The smell grew worse and I inspected my beard. No traces of stickiness. I mentally reviewed my day’s casework: the case of the Uneaten Waffles had bothered me all morning until I had successfully solved it. I played Aggressive Alpine Skiing online at my desk from noon to nine p.m. After that, I had tackled the case of the Drinkable Whiskey down at Crazy Lou’s. Another case closed. Then I’d opened the file on the case of the Hot Girl Dressed As A Nurse at the Bedford Avenue bus stop before calling it a night. I’d have to work on that one later.
But nowhere had I encountered maple syrup. I was clean. I’ve always been an honest detective.
At Crescent Street, I lit five cigarettes. I had a long night ahead of me. No sleep for the crime-solving. The smell was sustained—pungent and amplified with a slight breeze. I sniffed my shirt collar—professional investigation. You learn these things when you ace the Academy like I did.
I was completely free of maple syrup. This much I knew scientifically. As a renowned scientist, you don’t get too many chances to gum it up.
The smell was getting to me... I reached into my trench coat for my double-bladed scythe. A good scientist always carries one. Time to end it. Ritual suicide. When you can’t take the job anymore, the job takes you.
"NO," screamed a cop. He had been standing next to me all this time.
“I smell it too,” he said. “It’s only a matter of time before the Chief gets word of this. He’ll blow the whole city up.”
I slapped him a couple of times to regain concentration. He was angry, but it subsided as the sweet smell wafted over us.
“This could be the end,” I warned him. “Are you sure you don’t want to turn in your badge?”
He extended his right hand, placing his left protectively over the golden shield pinned to his uniform.
“Let’s end this the professional way,” he said, eyes stony and focused straight ahead.
I nodded.
He handed me his standard-issue Glock pistol as we ran towards the nearest diner. It was a small joint, what you might call a greasy spoon. Within seconds I had kicked in the front door with my knee. The glass was a lot harder than I had expected. Boy, I’m gonna feel that one in the afterlife. Maybe I just don’t have it in me anymore.
I placed the pistol on the counter, turning to the cop.
“I just don’t have the fire in me. I’m gonna retire to Florida, maybe settle down with Susan, build a yacht.” I told him.
He grabbed my shoulder. “Susan doesn’t exist. You just made that name up.”
I screamed at the ceiling, shaking my fists in the air. They’d covered all the bases, hadn’t they.
It was too much to bear. I ran out of the diner, hailing the first cab to pass by.
“Take me anywhere but here,” I told the cabbie. He was an Arab. Good people. “Take me to 32-63 35th Street, between 34th Avenue and Broadway. Make a right at the next light. Go six blocks. Don’t go down 31st. Too many stoplights. Easy. Easy. Too much brake. Pass this guy, he’s too slow.”
At home I collapsed into bed. Through my windows I could smell the faint tinge of syrup. By morning we’d all be dead.
I turned to my bedside table, to the picture of my old dog Nessy. She was hit by a car on my 21st birthday.
“We’ll be playin’ fetch soon, ol’ girl,” I said. Then I punched the glass of the picture frame and sucked the wounds on my knuckles dry. Evenutally, I was asleep.
And thus ended the entire ordeal.
The next morning, I woke up hungover. I retched in the bathroom for a few minutes, and cooked some eggs. I need to drink less.
I got out of the subway station. The entire neighborhood smelled like maple syrup.
“You don’t know how lucky you got it,” I thought, as I lit a cigarette.
Wait a minute. POISON. I’ve smelled it before.
Listen, people. I’m a world-class investigative journalist. I’ve seen things that’ll make your heart skip and your legs do a doggie-dance. I’ve seen bad things. Bitch slaps. I’ve seen worse than bitch slaps.
I recalled mid-summer, 1997. Roach traps. Or maybe it was rat poison. It smelled like maple syrup. THE BONDS OF THE MIND REMAIN AS STURDY AS TRUSSES. That was it: someone had poisoned the neighborhood. Al-Qaeda. Or maybe a domestic threat. I lit a second cigarette.
As I walked towards home, towards the river, the smell grew stronger. Sickeningly sweet, like breakfast at an orphanage. These guys were good.
Wait a minute. The 39th Street Syrup Factory. Sure, it didn’t exist, but what if it did? It’s been blown up. Code red. Gotta call for back-up.
At 34th Avenue, a Mercedes almost backed into my leg. Sleek and glossy, it looked like some sort of robotic cockroach. From inside I could see the gentle blue glow of the instrument panel. Poor fuckers. They’re already in such a panic to get out of here. The press must be having a field day with this.
The smell grew worse and I inspected my beard. No traces of stickiness. I mentally reviewed my day’s casework: the case of the Uneaten Waffles had bothered me all morning until I had successfully solved it. I played Aggressive Alpine Skiing online at my desk from noon to nine p.m. After that, I had tackled the case of the Drinkable Whiskey down at Crazy Lou’s. Another case closed. Then I’d opened the file on the case of the Hot Girl Dressed As A Nurse at the Bedford Avenue bus stop before calling it a night. I’d have to work on that one later.
But nowhere had I encountered maple syrup. I was clean. I’ve always been an honest detective.
At Crescent Street, I lit five cigarettes. I had a long night ahead of me. No sleep for the crime-solving. The smell was sustained—pungent and amplified with a slight breeze. I sniffed my shirt collar—professional investigation. You learn these things when you ace the Academy like I did.
I was completely free of maple syrup. This much I knew scientifically. As a renowned scientist, you don’t get too many chances to gum it up.
The smell was getting to me... I reached into my trench coat for my double-bladed scythe. A good scientist always carries one. Time to end it. Ritual suicide. When you can’t take the job anymore, the job takes you.
"NO," screamed a cop. He had been standing next to me all this time.
“I smell it too,” he said. “It’s only a matter of time before the Chief gets word of this. He’ll blow the whole city up.”
I slapped him a couple of times to regain concentration. He was angry, but it subsided as the sweet smell wafted over us.
“This could be the end,” I warned him. “Are you sure you don’t want to turn in your badge?”
He extended his right hand, placing his left protectively over the golden shield pinned to his uniform.
“Let’s end this the professional way,” he said, eyes stony and focused straight ahead.
I nodded.
He handed me his standard-issue Glock pistol as we ran towards the nearest diner. It was a small joint, what you might call a greasy spoon. Within seconds I had kicked in the front door with my knee. The glass was a lot harder than I had expected. Boy, I’m gonna feel that one in the afterlife. Maybe I just don’t have it in me anymore.
I placed the pistol on the counter, turning to the cop.
“I just don’t have the fire in me. I’m gonna retire to Florida, maybe settle down with Susan, build a yacht.” I told him.
He grabbed my shoulder. “Susan doesn’t exist. You just made that name up.”
I screamed at the ceiling, shaking my fists in the air. They’d covered all the bases, hadn’t they.
It was too much to bear. I ran out of the diner, hailing the first cab to pass by.
“Take me anywhere but here,” I told the cabbie. He was an Arab. Good people. “Take me to 32-63 35th Street, between 34th Avenue and Broadway. Make a right at the next light. Go six blocks. Don’t go down 31st. Too many stoplights. Easy. Easy. Too much brake. Pass this guy, he’s too slow.”
At home I collapsed into bed. Through my windows I could smell the faint tinge of syrup. By morning we’d all be dead.
I turned to my bedside table, to the picture of my old dog Nessy. She was hit by a car on my 21st birthday.
“We’ll be playin’ fetch soon, ol’ girl,” I said. Then I punched the glass of the picture frame and sucked the wounds on my knuckles dry. Evenutally, I was asleep.
And thus ended the entire ordeal.
The next morning, I woke up hungover. I retched in the bathroom for a few minutes, and cooked some eggs. I need to drink less.
