Generations

Generations Part 1, Chapter 3

Emit slumped over the greasy table of the takeout place next to his apartment. His chicken strip basket sat untouched, a bottle sweating at its side.

Emit mumbled violently to no one, leaving tiny circles of spittle on the tabletop. "How could that bitch disappoint Nate like that, turning him away when I've been planning this trip for weeks? Pop would have her hide," he spat to himself.

Emit saw a corner of brown hair peak around the wall as the gangly woman at the front register leaned forward to investigate. Emit was alone in the small dining room.

Emit was used to ignoring stares. He continued his speech a bit louder. "A grown man can't have a drink once in a while? Who the hell raised her, anyway? Pop would have a fit if he knew she'd burned me like that."

He remembered the birdhouse he'd made with his father when he was seventeen. Pop hadn't disappeared or gotten arrested for over a year, and he and Emit had grown closer over shared vices. The birdhouse was part of an art kit Emit had bought him for some long-past Father's Day. It had miniature stained glass windows, an inch-high stone chimney, even a built-in birdfeeder. It had sat forgotten at the top of the closet until Pop, spitting a little from the Jameson, demanded that Emit pull it down.

The two had stayed up all night gluing the parts together on top of the card table in the living room.

They'd talked in endless loops about nothing, mixing more Jameson with bumps of cheap coke to maintain the perfect state of wakefulness and lubrication. The closeness of that moment was something Emit had never been able to get back when Pop died. Without a family of his own, it had never been further away.

"I never get to spend time with that kid. She's always getting something up her ass about—

"Sir?"

Emit jolted, his back stiffening like an ornery cat. A tall Hispanic man stood at Emit's side wearing a full-length apron and plastic nametag that read "Manager."

"Shit! You are one sneaky fucker."

"Excuse me, sir?"

"What do you want go away," Emit said in one continuous breath.

"We're closing the dining room for the custodial staff. I can help you outside if you need."

"I can't finish my meal so you can clean?" Emit's voice echoed in the empty room. "How about I just leave when I'm ready to leave, big guy? I'll clean up after myself and everything."

The manager looked nervously to the six-pack on the floor, empty save for the bottle next to Emit's food. Only now did Emit notice that the heavy smoke from the spliff he had in the car had soaked into his coat. "I'm sorry, sir," the manager pushed on. "I really need you to leave. You're making our staff uncomfortable."

Emit looked for the woman at the register from before, but he couldn't see her. "I don't see any staff. Am I hurting anybody? You're a dick, you know that?"

Emit rose to his feet. The room moved slightly with him and he squared his feet, steadying himself with a boxer's stance. He gave the man a jab to the chest with one hand, fast like a snake bite.

The manager fell backward into the table of ketchups and napkins with a yipping shout. The thin legs of the collapsible card table snapped under his weight and crashed to the ground. The bottles shattered on the linoleum.

"Yeah," Emit shouted. "You don't feel so big on the floor, do you?"

Three cars passed in the street outside while the man looked up at Emit without a word. His arms trembled as he finally lifted himself up from the mess on the floor. His apron was covered in ketchup and the broken glass left a gash on his forearm, small but deep.

The shrill voice of the woman from the register piped from the kitchen, full of panic. "Should I call an ambulance?"

"Just stay in the kitchen," the manager called back to her.

Emit liked easy victories. "Well, you going to take a swing, asshole?"

"Just...just stay where you are," the manager stammered. "You...you come near me or Jadie and I'll take you down."

Emit let the manager back his way into the kitchen and sat down again at the table. There was a flutter in his chest, adrenaline mixing with spliff and beer. He let out a long breath that felt like it rattled but sounded normal. He took up his last beer and sipped, waiting for his heartbeat to slow down.

There weren't many places in his neighborhood that sold take-out beer, and he was running out of regular spots to relax. He'd gotten into too many fights lately and there was still at least a month before any of his bars might let him back. As his pulse relaxed, Emit's body got heavy and slack, his head spinning like he'd held his breath for too long. He put his elbows on the table so he could prop his head up with his fists and took in the scene around him. The splatters of ketchup and glass shards spread out from the collapsed table like a bloody Rorschach test. He let his eyes unfocus to see what shapes it might make.

Before he could decide if the ketchup was a moth or a jet plane, the bell attached to the swinging glass door of the restaurant brought him out of his thoughts. Two police officers walked in with wide strides. Both were at least ten years younger than him, one with boyish blond hair, and Emit seethed at the thought of being judged by such childlike men. Their eyes moved from Emit to the broken table and the mess on the ground, immediately taking in damage and framing the scene. Everything in Emit sank. The blond officer stepped toward him, one hand reaching for something at the back of his belt.

The manager appeared again behind the register, a towel now pressed tight to the wound on his arm.

The darker haired officer addressed the manager in a voice that sounded stern and official, like he was forcing it low. "Mr. Campos? You called nine-one-one about an assault by a possible vagrant?"

The manager was breathless, but confirmed with a faint nod. His face was tight and hard as he glared at Emit.

"Are you kidding me?" Emit broke in. "You called the cops? You pussy!"

Neither officer acknowledged his words, their faces holding an implacable expression of authority. "Are you safe now, sir?"

"Fine. But I need him out of here."

The blond officer stepped toward Emit, quickly closing the space between them with long, policeman strides. The image of the blue uniform moving toward him, metal cuffs glinting in one hand, was a familiar one. He knew better than to fight or resist the man, but this did nothing to prevent his muscles going rigid, tightening his hands into fists.

"I know my fucking rights," Emit spat. "I didn't do shit!"

The pinch on his wrists as his arms were forced behind his back came so fast Emit couldn't see the mechanics of the motion. Blood pounded in his ears, a thudding waterfall. The officer read off a list in monotone that Emit didn't listen to.