CHAPTER 25
It’s just after noon the next day, and Joe’s indulging in a fourth Guinness at Sullivan’s. Two men and Kerry Perry are drinking bottles of Bud at the bar by the front window, arguing about the Bruins. The guys are Townies for sure, regulars, Joe surmises by the familiar ease they have with Jack, the owner, but Joe doesn’t know them. They’re younger, probably started high school well after Joe graduated. Kerry is Joe’s age. She was one of the “hot” girls, a cheerleader whom every guy had a thing for at some point. Joe had an unrequited crush on her just before he started seeing Rosie. She’s twice divorced, had kids with both dads. She still looks all right, but there’s a coarse edge to her once sweet, soft, girly features and a belligerence in her stance, as if she’s been cheated out of something life once promised her. Kerry catches Joe’s gaze, and her severely made-up eyes flirt with him, inviting him over. Joe tosses her a brief smile and, uninterested in Kerry or the Bruins, quickly makes his way to the empty back of the pub.
He tucks himself inside a dimly lit booth against the brick wall below the 2004 World Champions Red Sox poster. He’d hoped Varitek and Foulke would improve his foul mood, and they might’ve lifted his spirit for that hair-thin moment when he first sat down three beers ago, but the boost didn’t stick. He can’t relate to feeling like a champion or to the unparalleled joy in that beloved memory today. He sucks the dense, foamy head off the top of his Guinness, a sublime moment he typically savors, but, as with the three beers before, it gives him no pleasure.
The dispute about the Bruins is getting boisterous, more passionate than violent. Kerry chimes in, her voice a screeching, whiny alto. Joe sips his Guinness and wishes they’d all shut the fuck up.
Only Donny knows he’s here. Rosie thinks he went to work. He hasn’t told her what’s going on. Tommy knows and Donny knows. Hell, all of A1 and A15 probably know. Bunch of friggin’ drama queens. But Rosie doesn’t know a thing. He can’t bring himself to tell her.
Rick gave him time off until the department physician reviews Joe’s medical records, released yesterday from Dr. Hag-ler. Joe’s got an unshakable, bad feeling about what is to come. Joe tips back several gulps of Guinness, aiming for numbness.
First off, there’s the Seroquel and Tetrabenezine. According to department policies and procedures, Joe’s supposed to report in writing any and all prescription medications he’s taking. So he’s in violation there, but punishment, if any, would be a slap on the wrist at most. It’s the thought of this doc reading the dirty laundry list of HD symptoms, symptoms he’ll easily match up with Joe’s behavior, that feels like raw meat rotting in Joe’s stomach.
Loss of balance, reduced dexterity, chorea. What if Joe needs to use his gun and his hand involuntarily contracts, squeezing the trigger, killing a civilian or fellow officer? What if he loses control of his cruiser by suddenly giving it gas or turning without intention and runs down a pedestrian? Impulsivity, dysexecutive syndrome, which means he gets stymied by complex problem solving and reasoning, and extreme mood swings, what Rosie still refers to as his “weird temper.” Can they trust Joe to stay in complete control, to remain levelheaded, to follow precise procedure, to protect the people of this city and have the backs of his fellow officers?
No, no they can’t. Joe’s queasy stomach tightens. He takes another swig of Guinness. It doesn’t help.
So what will this mean? Best-case scenario, the doc will probably recommend to the commissioner that they take away Joe’s department-issued gun. He’ll be relegated to desk duty. He won’t be allowed to deal with prisoners or the public. He’ll be banned from overtime and detail work. He’ll be answering phones and shuffling paperwork. He’ll be a friggin’ secretary. Desk jobs are typically reserved for officers coming back from an injury. It’s a temporary post, a transition back to real duty. For Joe, it’ll be a transition out of duty.
And desk duty is his best-case scenario, what will happen if he’s lucky. Worst case, they’ll ask him to turn in his badge immediately. That possibility churns the contents of Joe’s stomach, and he swallows several times, fighting the sudden, embarrassing urge to vomit. Losing his service weapon and badge now. That’ll kill him faster than HD will.
Joe downs the rest of his Guinness, despite roiling protests from his stomach. He walks back to the bar, ignores the stares of Kerry Perry and her goony friends, and orders a Glenfiddich, no ice. Back in his seat, Joe brings the glass to his nose, then his lips. The buttery smell. The clean, peaty taste. Still, no joy.
Donny shows up and slides into the booth facing Joe. An EMT, his brother in brown, Donny’s dressed for duty.
“You comin’ or goin’?” asks Joe.
Donny checks his watch.
“I’m on for shift three, but I gotta check on my mum before. I got some time. You see Kerry Perry out front?”
“Yeah.”
“She still looks good.”
“Eh.”
“So what’s happenin’ here?”
“Just havin’ a coupla drinks.”
“You’re a friggin’ lightweight. You’ve had more than a couple.”
“So what?”
Joe’s tired of trying to control everything, of staying in the fight. Fuck it. He tips his head back, drains the Glenfiddich, and slams the empty glass down on the table as if he’s John Wayne. It takes about a second for him to register the singeing pain tearing down the length of his throat. He grinds his teeth, biting the burn, determined not to sputter or gasp.
“Okay, tough guy. You don’t think Rosie has it hard enough dealing with your anger and your breakin’ shit and worryin’ about her future and your kids without you comin’ home shitfaced in the middle of the day on top of it all?”
Joe hears him, but he doesn’t want to. Donny’s words float in and out of Joe’s head, which is now hovering above him, a balloon on a string.
“I get it, OB,” says Donny. “I’d do the same thing. And you’d be here talkin’ sense into me. Arm-curl therapy can’t be your plan. Whatever decision comes down at the station, you’re not drinkin’ your face off in Sully’s every day.”
“This is just one day, for cripes sake.”
“Good. Go nuts today. But that’s it. I’m just callin’ it now. This isn’t your plan. I’m not carryin’ your sorry drunk ass outta here every day.”
Joe laughs, but then he can’t remember what was so funny, and he feels like crying. He rubs his face with his hands and exhales, trying to regroup. Donny waits.
Joe looks across the booth, intent on being pissed at Donny for bossing him, but he can’t do it. The bald guy across from him with the busted-up nose and the BEMS uniform is also the kid from kindergarten with the wiffle haircut and the Incredible Hulk T-shirt. He’s the loyal pal who played shortstop in Little League, point guard in basketball, and left wing in hockey, who hopped the church fence with Joe and skipped out on confession on Saturdays, who also liked Rosie in high school but stepped aside so Joe could have a shot. Joe looks at Donny, a serious, respectable grown man sitting across from him in Sully’s, and he remembers spaghetti and meatballs at Donny’s house on Wednesday nights for years, too many blind-drunk Bunker Hill Day parades, standing beside him on his wedding day and through his divorce, watching their kids grow up together.
“What do you think I’m lookin’ at?” asks Joe.
“Aside from my handsome face? Desk job for now, probably. I don’t think they’ll terminate you right off.”
Joe nods, appreciating his friend for not pulling any punches, still wishing for some other possibility.
“How much sick time you got?” asks Donny.
“About ten months.”
“How many years of service you at now?” Donny counts on his fingers. “Twenty-four?”
“Almost twenty-five.”
“How much pension would you be entitled to?”
“I dunno.”
“If they put you on desk, can you go out on disability?”
“I dunno.”
“Okay, man. You need to look into this shit. Now. It’s time for a plan. You gotta make one before they make it for you.”
Joe nods.