“So am I as the rich, whose blessed key
Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,
The which he will not every hour survey,
For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
...
By new unfolding his imprison'd pride.
Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.”
~William Shakespeare, Sonnet 52
The cool atmosphere reaches the point in the night where there is nothing to be seen, and not a soul is around. Tonight there is, however, someone lurking on the streets. The man, masked in black, with muffled steps, creeps up the narrow alleyway. From a thick pouch, in his back pocket, he retrieves a key. He fumbles with it, ever so quietly, for he is performing a major heist. He slips through the now opened door and spots the desk where he knows his prize awaits. As he turns to go, the cold glint of metal catches his eye. A smile grows under his mask as he grabs the goods and exits.
“Eric! Get your cadeting butt over here!” The eternally peevish police Sergeant had never seemed quite this gruff with the station’s favorite cadet.
Eric stood and walked confidently to the sergeant. “Yes, Sarge?”
“Mr. Strickland.” The Sergeant said, scowling. “I need the keys to the jail cells that I left you in charge of.”
“Oh, right.” Eric said, smiling. “I got ‘em.”
He walked to the tiny desk that cadets had, and put his hand where the keys lay. But the keys weren’t there. He glanced down at the wood fully covered in carvings done by previous bored cadets. He frantically dug through the tiny drawers. The keys were gone.
“Your BROTHER IS CALLING! Your BROTHER IS CALLING!” ’ A phone screamed. The man to whom it belonged rolled his eyes at the goofy ringtone and flipped it up to his ear.
“Wayne!” Eric cried frantically as if he were face to face with the man on the other phone. “Someone stole some money-and-the keys to the jail... They were on my desk... And-” Wayne heard his easygoing, calm brother sobbing across miles of cellular signals.
“Woah, Eric. Calm down-” Wayne started.
“THEY’RE STOLEN!” Eric yelled cutting him off. “I’m handcuffed, ready to go to jail, and I can’t be bailed, I need to be proven innocent so I have a clear record. Cops have to have clean records.”
“Oh, man.” Wayne raised his eyebrows. “I’ll be right there. Should I call mom?”
“Yes-No-I don’t know-” Eric sighed, confused, “I guess, Wayne. Just get over here. Please.” Eric had hung up first, having no doubt in his brother. Turning the ignition on, Wayne drove a few miles per hour over the speed limit. Turning his scruffy Toyota toward the police station, he reached for his phone and dialed the familiar number. The dial tone beeped for a few long seconds before Mrs. Strickland picked up.
“Wayne! How nice of you to call. What do you need?” Mrs. Strickland's ever-cheery and motherly voice reminded Wayne f home and cookies.
“Eric’s in jail.” Wayne said, no tone in his voice. A moment of silence dropped on the other end. “He's innocent, but in he's in jail.”
“How terrible!” Mrs. Strickland exclaimed. “Oh, poor baby.”
Leave it to mothers to call twenty-six-year-old men ‘poor babies’.
“I’m on my way to the police station. I'll tell you about it al later. Love you, bye.” Wayne hung up before his mother could. Pulling into the driveway, he passed and recognized his brother’s new prius. Opening the door, the cool October air rushed past his overgrown, choppy hair. He patted it down, wanting to make a good impression as he walked through the police station doors.
“Breathe in, breathe out.” Eric repeated to himself. "You'll be okay."
Seeing his brother sitting in the corner with his hands cuffed behind his back, Wayne quickened his pace. He closed his eyes and whispered something to himself under his breath.
“Man, I’m sorry. I got here as fast as I could.” Wayne said to Eric. He noticed that Eric must have gotten a recent haircut. It made him look smarter. Wayne sat next to Eric awkwardly.
“Maybe I’m a somnambulist. I could have stolen them in my sleep-” Eric thought aloud.
“Hey! Ericson! How in the living heck did you get out of those handcuffs- wait... There are two of you...” The disgruntled Sergeant narrowed his eyes. “I see you have a twin brother, Mr. Strickland. Don’t tell me he’s the one who stole the keys!”
“Guilty as charged, sir.” Wayne deadpanned.
“Be serious...” Eric mumbled. His heart seemed to be magnetically attached to his throat.
“Well- I’m sure you’ll be thrilled to know that the trial will be postponed for two months. This case is about as opened as an airtight jar,” The Sergeant said. "You'll be kept here, Strickland."
“WHAT?!” Eric exclaimed, his heart thumping harder and his ears ringing. “But this is a major crime- and I’m innocent!”
“Well, you’ll deal with it. In jail.” The Sergeant marched away, barking orders.
Eric, dizzy with his head between his knees, dimly heard Wayne say something about leaving to conduct research. The word ‘jail’ echoed in Eric’s head.
Jail. Eric had been in cells, but now that the door was locked- he’d never been claustrophobic before. The dim light sputtered every so often and the low-budget whitewash on the walls crumbled as he stared. The bench was hard and poked slightly, but he didn’t want to sit on the floor.
He thought about the night before. He’d stayed late at the station, gone to the store, and driven home. A normal day.
He hadn’t kept the receipt from his local grocer- a conservationist, he called himself. Nausea rose in his chest and came into his throat, but he had an empty stomach.
Wayne sat on his bed, head in hands. His apartment was so dingy-looking, especially after seeing Eric’s larger and more modern one when he dropped off his incarcerated brother’s Prius.
Eric had so much. A+ to Wayne’s C-, neat room to Wayne’s nest of dirty laundry. Even as adults: A conservationist police cadet to a struggling cartoonist who sometimes wasted paper. A lot, actually, as he was practicing his art style.
Still, Wayne wanted to do something for Eric. Something special.
But first, he desperately needed a haircut.
It was the break of dawn, even though Eric couldn’t tell from the nonexistent light coming through his nonexistent window. He stood up as if in a dream, his eyes stiff with dried tears, a victim of nausea, fatigue, and deceit. He faced the bars of his cell and felt the cold emanating from them. The grey air made everything seem like a dream.
Eric looked through the bars in an almost bewitched haze to see himself as if, in a mirror. He saw his hands raise up but felt them motionless at his sides, a quick glance confirmed that they were stationary. He looked up in time to wonder at why ‘his’ arms grasped his throat. It was upon this contact that he realized everything. Everything fit into place. In a way, he did commit a crime. A crime of trust in an underhanded brother. A brother whose thumbs were pressing against his throat.
A brother from whose belt dangled a very familiar key.
