“And this definitely ain’t the plan,” says Donny, pointing to Joe’s empty glass.
“All right, all right. The friggin’ horse is dead.”
“You wanna talk to my boy, Chris?”
“The lawyer?”
“Yeah.”
Joe nods. “Yeah. Text me his number.”
Donny checks his watch. “I gotta go.” He sighs. “This time of year is brutal. Yesterday we had three suicides. You wanna ride home?”
“Nah, I’m gonna hang out for a few, then I’ll go.”
“Lemme take you home.”
“Go. I’m fine.”
“If I come back and you’re still here, I’m gonna kick your skinny ass.”
Joe laughs. “I can still take you.”
Donny stands and slaps Joe’s shoulder. “Go home to Rosie. I’ll come by in the mornin’.”
“I will. See ya, man.”
Donny leaves and Joe is alone again. Although Donny’s company was comforting, he also confirmed Joe’s worst fears. They’re going to take away Joe’s gun. Eventually, if not straightaway, they’re going to take away his badge. Joe touches the glock on his hip with the heel of his right hand and then places the same hand over his chest against his civilian shirt, where his badge would be if he were in uniform. The thought of losing either is like facing the surgical removal of a vital organ. Taking his gun is cutting off his balls. Losing his badge is excising his heart.
He thinks about what he’s missing on patrol duty today, what he’ll be missing tomorrow, next week, next year. Standing on his feet for eight hours outside in freezing or sweltering temperatures, getting shot at, missing the final championship games of his beloved sports teams, missing holidays with his family, dealing with lying druggies and murderers and all kinds of crazy shit, being despised by the very people he’s risking his own well-being to protect. Who wouldn’t want to be done with that? Joe. Joe wouldn’t. If he wanted a safe, temperature-regulated desk job, he would’ve been an accountant.
He’s a police officer. Never give up. Stay in the fight. The Boston Police Academy beat those tenets into every fiber of his being. Turning in his gun and badge is giving up, turning his back on who he is. Joe closes his eyes, and every thought in his head finds a seat next to the word failure. He’s failing his fellow officers, his city, his wife, his kids, himself. Without his gun and badge, he’ll just be taking up space, a sack of stumbling skin and bones causing everyone a whole lot of heartache until he’s rotting in a box.
This was never his plan. His plan was to work for thirty-five years and retire at the young age of fifty-five, to live the good life he earned with Rosie, to enjoy their grandkids, to earn a full pension that would take care of both of them and then Rosie through old age after he’s gone. He can’t make it to fifty-five. Not even close. He’ll get a partial pension, maybe some disability. Maybe not. He’ll use up his sick time and whatever time his fellow officers might generously donate to him. And then what? Rosie will still be a young woman with no one providing for her. And Joe’s future medical expenses could cost them everything.
He doesn’t want to go home and tell Rosie what’s going on. He doesn’t want to deliver one more piece of bad news to her world. He can’t stand being the source of her pain. And their kids are going through a perverse and unimaginable hell over this. He’s spent his life protecting the city of Boston, and his very existence has put his own children in harm’s way. Unless medical science comes up with something fast, JJ and Meghan are going to die young because of him. The light in Joe’s soul dims every time this reality enters his consciousness, killing him a little every day.
This time of year is brutal. Joe knows exactly what Donny’s referring to. It’s January, just after the holiday season, a time for family and gift giving and celebration for most, a time of unbearable depression for others. The days are cold and dark by four thirty. Joe and Donny have responded to a lot of suicides over the years, and winter is sadly the most popular season. Joe won’t miss that part of his job. Discovering the bodies. Sometimes the body parts. A teenager overdoses on heroin. A mother swallows a bottle of prescription pills. A father leaps off the Tobin. A cop eats his gun.
That last one is how he’d do it, if suicide were his plan.