“Are you Mr. Méndez?”
“Yes, I’m.”
“Sorry to call so late. I have a few questions about Angel for a report. What school does he go to? How tall is he? How much does he weigh? What race is he?”
He’s six-years-old. The sign said “PULL.” He pulled it. He pulled the fire alarm this afternoon. It’s midnight. Police officer Sloan wants to complete his report. Aaron is dead. Police killed him last year. July 3rd they shot him. The police missed three times, but their bullets hit him eight times.
I’m trying to hold myself together. Pop a cop. Hold back. Hold on. Keep my sanity. I’m on the edge between sanity and insanity. It wouldn’t take much to push me over the edge, to the point of no return. Why do I hold myself together? I want to let loose. Pop a cop.
They cuffed Aaron. Hands behind his back. The call came in the middle of the night. They had Aaron at the station in a holding cell sitting on a wooden chair with a bunch of men around him. He was eleven. Angel is six. Angel’s sleeping. Aaron’s dead.
I’d tell you, but I don’t think you want to hear about it. It hurts to talk. Do you want to hear about the jail time? Chino, Folsom, Vacaville. No, this is a bad story. You don’t want to hear about it. Juvenile hall, the drugs… that’s the easy stuff. It’s the other stuff I can’t talk about. Not yet. I’ve got to say something good or we’ll get so deep in so much slime that you won’t believe there ever was any good. There was good. He was such a good boy. No, really, he was. He was always good, until the last moment. No, even then, he was good, but it was hard to see the good in him.
I can’t link Adam with this. Adam is my youngest of six children. Five sons, one daughter. Yet tonight, when that cop called at midnight the story went full circle. I’m dying inside. I can’t sleep. I’m at a restaurant drinking coffee, and in working out the knots in my soul.
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