Monsters

Jim Silver stood there with his hands at his sides, nervously wringing the inside of his  pockets like a soggy shirt. His feet squirmed back and forth. They had a million miles to walk; they had no idea where to go. The baggy form of a trench coat  draped over him; his bones jutted out beneath it. Strange angles gave the appearance of a sheet over a piece of furniture, a beaten-up, ugly piece of  furniture that no one wanted to see.

His tight, gaunt face, weathered with too many days in the sun, twitched slightly and his teeth chattered. The peppered stubble of a beard wormed over his features,  disguising his jaw line in a scraggy forest of black and gray. With his mouth slowly chewing the inside of his cheeks, his eyes spun nervously, watching the second hand of the clock. Things like this made him jumpy. Who could blame him? His sorry excuse for a stepfather treated it like a part-time job, a job that  gave him a license to be an asshole.

As a medic in  ‘Nam he wasn't called on to shoot anyone. Hadn't fired a weapon since basic.  Never cleaned his .45, didn't like touching it. Certainly never planned on using it. Probably the only soldier to win the Silver Star without firing a weapon. That was a long time ago. At one time those days were clear. Then they were  remembered. Then they were forgotten.

His right hand plunged into his pocket. A toothpick lodged inside bit into his palm. A warm trickle of blood ran down his fingers. He didn't flinch. The cold steel of the  gun numbed the pain. The same gun that he never planned on firing.

The moment was not real. Falling fast, he was lost in a dream. The last few months blurred. He  tried to retrace the steps, tried to make it fit. He was in front ofFirst American Savings and Loan Bank with a gun in his pocket and  couldn't remember why. All that was left, his heart galloping, was a number:  thirteen thousand, four hundred thirty-eight dollars, and thirteen cents. His  brain squeezed it like a lifeline that tied him to sanity.

As armed robberies go, it went smoothly. It was over in twelve minutes and forty-seven  seconds. There were four people inside; no one felt threatened. He walked out  holding fourteen thousand dollars. The guard held the door as he left politely saying, "Thank you, thank you for not hurting me . . . I'm so sorry. I don't want to be . . . I don't want this." Beneath the ski mask, behind the gun,  something beaten and wounded crawled out of the bank that day.

Even a small town can have a smart cop. It didn't take Detective Young a long time. He was at the bank by 9:37 a.m., twenty-five minutes after the robbery. Fourteen minutes  later he was looking through recent foreclosures and final notices. He paused on  one: Betty Silver, eighty-three year old widow. She owed thirteen thousand, four  hundred thirty-eight dollars. It was her final notice. She was going to lose her home, a home that she'd been in for twenty-eight years.

Young lost himself in the records. For nearly three decades Mrs. Silver paid her mortgage on the fifth of every month. She wrote a check for three hundred twelve dollars  and seventy-five cents to National American Bank. Three months ago that changed. Her account was sold toFirst American Savings and Loan Bank.  During the switch, an error was discovered in her original paper work. Zeros  were brought forward, interest added on, and penalties applied. The end-result: she now owed thirteen thousand, four hundred thirty-eight dollars, and thirteen  cents. It smelled like a scam. A lawyer would have had a field day with it.  Apparently Betty Silver didn't know any.

That didn't  matter. That wasn't his job. That's what he told himself. That's what he had to do. His job was to catch bank robbers. And he had a pretty good idea who would  have walked into First American Savings and Loan to ask for fourteen thousand dollars with a gun in his hand.

Detective  Young's fat potbelly rolled over his belt as he stuffed himself behind the wheel  of the squad. A long time ago he was thin. A lot had changed. He looked in the  mirror, saw the round, heavy face of indecision. Where did that face come from? He was so sure of everything twenty-five years ago.

He was rich. His whole damn family was stinking rich. They owned a large paint factory. None  of them ever had to work. He'd gone away to the best prep schools, an ivy-league  college. He got a fancy degree, a lot of clever friends. Protested his ass off in the sixties, in addition to doing every psychedelic imaginable. He hated the  government, hated the war in those days. At least that was what he convinced himself of. He had to believe in something other than the truth.

Because the  truth was that deep inside he was afraid. He'd been afraid of the war, afraid of  dying. And somewhere in there he couldn't stand the fact he was a coward. His values, beliefs, and goals had always taken a back seat to self-interest and self-preservation. That's probably why he became a cop, to find something he was  missing. He never found it and there was still some part trying to forgive  himself for not finding it.

Now twenty some years later he was a different man. A lot fatter, a lot balder, and a lot less sure of what he really cared about. Maybe he was wiser and a little more honest with himself, trying to accept and make peace with who he'd been, or hadn't been.

Fifty-two  Midland Court wasn't much to look at. Detective Young arrived there at 11:50  a.m. about two hours after Jim Silver. Young walked up to the small, white, ranch-style home. Jim pushed open the screen door as Young approached and came  out.

Jim had  shaven, put on a clean shirt. There was a quiet dignity to his body, his  posture. He was tan and muscular though thin. Jim moved slowly and gracefully  giving the impression that he once may have been something spectacular. But he  had either lost or never found something. He spoke softly in an empty way. It sounded more like a shadow than a man.

"Hello,  officer. Can I help you?"

"Hello, Jim."  Young's voice was gruff. He knew Jim although they had never met. The newspaper reported how brave Jim Silver was in the war, how many lives he saved. It was only Vietnam so it was on the last page. But Young had read it and it had felt  like a piece of sandpaper going over his skull. "Why don't we sit down?" he continued.

Young took a seat at the small round table on the patio. They sat there in silence for a few  seconds, Jim looking at Young and then looking off into the sky. To Detective Young he looked more ashamed than afraid. That amazed him. But then he realized, Jim Silver probably hadn't been afraid a day in his life. They eased back. Jim  seemed unaffected by the silence.

Young looked around for his backup. They hadn't arrived. He waited a few more seconds and then he blurted something. "Jim . . . what do you think about rules?" It surprised him.

Jim looked down. The question seemed to strike a nerve. He stared at the ground for a long  time then closed his eyes as he spoke.

"Rules." There was a long pause, "I used to believe that, I used to think that they were real.  I used to care about them. They were a part of me." Jim looked like a man who had done something unthinkable but couldn't imagine why.

"And now?" Young asked, becoming more involved in the conversation.

Jim sat there  his elbow resting on the table with his hand on his chin. Speaking now seemed difficult. "I guess they got broken. And they broke me with them." Another long  silence and then he continued speaking, unbelievably slow, pausing between each  few words. "You know something . . . if I would have seen . . . who I was going  to become . . . I would have thought, ‘It must be hell to be that guy!’ But the reality is . . . that's not the bad part. It's the journey . . . becoming that guy. That's the nightmare. Holding on to each piece of yourself . . . having them ripped away: one by one. When you're finally left holding nothing . . . it’s almost a relief."

That was the most Jim Silver had said to anyone at once in four years. Now, curiously numb, both elbows resting on the table and chin resting on his hands, he said, "Why  ask?"

Now Young had  forgotten about his backup, forgotten about the robbery. He was somewhere else, somewhere inside. And he was speaking to himself even though he spoke to Jim.  "Jim, do you remember the parade the town had for vets? The welcome home  parade?"

"Of course. I  was in it."

"Well I  wasn't," Young snapped. Jim had just scratched some sore on his soul. "I wasn't in it . . . But . . . But I was there." Now it was Young who paused long as his  eyes no longer focused on the moment. "I was there that day Jim. There with all  my hippie friends, doing all my hippie drugs. We were laughing, having a good time, and talking about how important it is to love each other." There was another awkward silence. "Anyway along comes the parade and the vets and there  was this young private marching right up in front." Young paused again. It was  getting more difficult for him to speak. His lips quivered as he admitted  something to himself. "I spit in his face Jim."

By this point  Jim had regained his calm, numb demeanor. Sitting back, he vacantly replied, "I wouldn't be so hard on yourself. There were a lot of people spitting that

day . . . It was fashionable." Jim just sat now, empty face, looking out over the driveway.

In the distance the sirens could be heard coming toward them. Young turned, snapping  out of a daze. It didn't seem to phase Jim; he was more ashamed than afraid. Jim  spoke again into the empty air, "I don't know what's worse: going through life  and allowing yourself to break . . . more . . . and more rules . . . Or going through life and finding out how many you've already broken . . . Is it easier  to become a monster or find out that you were one?"

Young thought  for several seconds before answering, "I suppose that's like asking whether it's  easier to change or forget . . . both are pretty damn hard."

Jim's eyes welled up as he looked inside of himself for the first time in almost twenty years. "I'd like to change."

Young nodded slowly, "I'd like to forget."

The squad cars rolled up into the long driveway and the flashing red lights danced like a carnival all over the front yard. Jim stood there stoic, unafraid, and ready to  pay for the man he had become.

"Hello, Sir,"  a young rookie addressed Young, "Sorry took so long, we got lost."

Young stood  there, still as an arrow, thinking about a lot more than the moment, weighing a world inside his mind. His heavy-set, double chin hung over his collar like an  anvil. His eyes closed. His stomach churned. He hated himself and what he had to do. Then he realized that sometimes monsters have to pay for what they've done,  even if the price is high.

"Officer Wills. I've interviewed and eliminated this suspect. Sorry for the false alarm." Then Young turned to Jim. "And I'm sorry we disrupted you, Mr. Silver, I hope  you can forgive us."

Jim looked Young in the eyes and said very slowly, "Please . . . I'd like you to forget it." He emphasized the word "forget."

Young turned to the other five officers, who made up the bulk of the town's police force. "OK, men. Follow me! There is a second suspect we have to interview. Don't  worry. We'll catch this guy. Unless he makes some big changes, this monster is going to get caught. Now . . . uh . . . don't get lost this time." Young left  and Jim was standing alone on his porch, watching them drive away.

The running  circus of sirens and lights pulled out and wound through the city. Time suddenly  seemed quiet, calm and serene. A rainbow of flashing red was cast over the hills in long shadows. Two giant monsters looked down from the surrounding mountains, lazily following the prismatic display. For the first time in twenty years they yawned. Their eyes felt very heavy. The color and music was a lullaby. And the monsters slept.

John Grace, M.D.

Class of 2000