Sunday, November 28, 2010

The Request: Mr. Jones

  By James Farnworth
  It was Monday and Jones didn't want to be at work. He had other things on his mind that was interfering with his job. He felt the letter buried in his pocket. The traffic was miserable on the freeway. Even though he was a detective for the Seattle police department, he got no salvation from the noon rush. His partner once again wanted to stop at a taco truck on the way to their destination.  He didn’t feel hungry.

  "You go'n to eat that taco, bro," asked Omar his partner, pointing to the brown bag.
  "No, go ahead," he whispered. He didn’t feel like talking, he was sure Omar wouldn’t noticed.
  "Why did you want to come way out here? It is a bit out of the way, mon."
  The brown unmarked patrol car stopped at a pull out just a few feet from the tall bridge. He wasn’t sure it had a name, it was more about the place than anything else.
  "I'll be right back," he whispered slipping from the unmarked patrol car.

He stepped out on the walkway onto the paved deck of the bridge. The road was slipper with rain that refused to mix with oil. He had been here once before. It was night then and the rain poured down like God was trying to kill him. It wasn't God that tried to kill himself that night, it wasn’t God that cause the school bus to slip off the road and roll over. He knew he was a good man. But that didn't stop his baby girl from passing away.
  He looked back and at his partner who seemed to be taking a nap. His head leaned back into the head rest and the man’s short unshaven neck was exposed. Jones stepped to the edge of the bridge and thought how easy it would have been to have jumped that night. If it wasn’t for Markus he would have jumped.
  He looked down into the Abyss and spat. The drop fell for at least Ten seconds before slipping though the layer of fog and into the water below.
  "Don't do it man, it is not worth it," said Markus.
  Flashing back twenty years it was night and the rain fell on the man’s face.
  "How do you know?”
  "My father jumped, from right over there"
  "How do you know how he felt?"
  "Because I was here the night and he told me so on the way down."
  Jones heard the car door on the cruiser open. He reached into his pocket and pulled the crumpled letter from its hiding place, the letter that informed Mr. William Jones that his friend had died. The man that saved him, that showed him there was another way. He named him as his pallbearer. He hardly knew the man these days.
  It had been years since they had broke bread together but he had made the arrangement just a few weeks ago. He read it once more, even though there wasn't reason to he was a cop and over the years he had gain the ability to memorize the details. He had become a detective piggy backing that skill.
  "You okay, amigo," whispered Omar.
  "Yeah, sure."
  "Cause you look like you are planning somethin' and I don't want to have to do the paper work, you know what I'm saying."
  "Yeah and no I just needed a few seconds to decide something,” answered Jones holding the crumpled letter out in front of him.
  "As long as you aren’t planning a swan dive."
  Omar's foot steps faded once he neared the car. Jones noted his partner didn't get in to the car. Over the breeze he could smell the cigarette, the man always smoked when he was nervous.
  The funeral was Saturday. He had no family. But Markus did.
  "He had six grown kids, why didn't he pick one of them," he yelled into the breeze.
  He turned and Omar had risen off the car and was slowing move back to his side on the bridge. Jones raised his hand and told him to wait. Crumpling the letter once again and tossing it from the bridge. Only Omar watched it disappear into the fog. He walked back to the car getting in without a word.
  "Where to boss?" asked his partner, starting the car.
  "The airport."
  “You goin’ to tell me what this was all about?”
  “Honor,” whispered Jones, watching out the window as the Pine trees became a continuous blur of green.
  “Okay the airport, what should I tell the station?” asked Omar.
  “I’ll be back in a week,” answered Jones, pulling his cellular to call the airport.

To be continued next week. Please comment.

The above short story is to be considered copyrighted. I am the author and kept all rights to the above story. Unlike most of the material on my blog it a fabrication of Fiction. I wasn’t told the story. It is not meant to be about anyone in particular and should be considered a product of my imagination. The author doesn’t not smoke or drink in excess. He has also held the same job for 20 years. So if you like fiction and want to read more of my works of fiction you can go to read the posts from the beginning and you should be able to figure out the storyline.  You can also catch me on Facebook, under the name, Letters from the Verse.
  Thank you,
  James Farnworth.

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