THE BOLAN CHRONICLES; Reading #48

48. Approximate Minutes Reading (AMR): 13

Introduction to Characters

THE BOLAN CHRONICLES

Chapter 4

A Growing Boy

**Books and Music**

Jake Bolan was a happy man when in August he had been promoted to Lieutenant.  And by the opening of the holiday season of that same year, though his enthusiasm and joy had diminished slightly, he was still basking in the platitudes, praise, and significant monetary benefits that came with the promotion. And things at home, though not ideal, were more pleasant. There seemed to be, at least for the time, a kind of calm, as if Jake had taken a very deep breath and had let it out slowly, temporarily disengaging the anxieties that haunted him.

Though he and Donna both feared falling into the trap of believing that it would last, they welcomed it, nonetheless. Dean liked that there were days now when his father would forget to check to see if he had placed his shirts in the right drawer and equally apart, or ask him to recite a line from Napolean Hill or Dale Carnegie, or force him to shine his shoes for the third time. He also enjoyed the freedom of the extra hour or two every evening without his father. 

Since the promotion, Jake had chosen to spend more time in headquarters, always on the hunt for the next big move upward.

Dean had learned to put up with school. His mom had tried hard to encourage him to make friends since he had started school at Columbus Elementary. And she had served as a volunteer on the PTSA throughout Dean’s fourth grade year. Dean, however, hadn’t responded favorably. Since the second grade, he wasn’t interested in other kids. He had no desire to take part in anything other than the required elements that came with the basics of learning, and though his mother and his teachers and many of his peers had tried to change him, he would not change. He spent his recesses alone, and he sat apart from other students during lunch. A few students in his homeroom had tried to befriend him, asking him to join them in games and other activities, but without success.

Dean was a good student, otherwise. Academically, he was considered gifted.  Language and reading was his strongest suit. He thrived on anything related to literature, and when teachers sat in the staff room during lunch and the name ‘Dean Bolan’ came up, every one of them agreed that they’d wished that every student was attracted to literature in the same way. The boy read more than any other student who passed through Columbus. He would read while standing in line. He would read when he’d finished his classwork early, which happened frequently, and he’d read when everyone else around him was playing tetherball or soccer or basketball. He read fiction almost exclusively, with the exception of the occasional biography of a rock-n-roll icon.   

Dean had loved music since he was a toddler. His mother had adored watching him bob up and down when he’d hear the beat of any song. She would play Jungle Boogie and laugh as Dean’s eyes would widen and he’d grin real big and start moving to the tunes. She’d get the camera out and take pictures of him with his hands would move in the air and his little legs in various positions. When the music would stop, Dean would look up at his mom, frozen in place, waiting for the next song.  

She would ask, “More, Dean?” 

He would simply reply, “Uh-huh!” And she would play the next song, and she would clap and pat him gently on the back after he’d finished his show. Dean seemed to never tire, and when his mother would pick him up and take him to his room for a nap or to the table for the next meal, he would simply gaze at her without expression, and she knew this meant that he’d wanted more music, more dance. But his father seemed disinterested.

And by age nine, Dean had come to love popular music.  His mother had encouraged his love of music, in part by giving him the collection of dozens of cassettes that she’d collected since she was a teenager. 

He’d become familiar with so many of her favorites, the artists who made up most of the collection; Jim Croce, Crystal Gayle, Billy Joel, Carole King, Carly Simon, David Cassidy, Jake Taylor, Paul McCartney & Wings. And he’d learned to enjoy these artists, but he’d found a few that he’d somehow related with. He’d found himself playing and returning to the same artists repeatedly; Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, and Machine Head. There were only a handful of these, but Dean had worn them out quickly. At first, his mother had been concerned at his taste in music, but she’d determined that she wouldn’t restrict him from something that he’d loved, considering the strict father-forced discipline that he’d had to succumb.

Three days before Thanksgiving, Dean sat in his favorite spot on the floor of his room, leaning against the side of his bed, facing his window. He was reading the biography of Jim Morrison, No One Here Gets Out Alive. He read about Morrison’s obsession with the arts, including both music and creative writing. He’d stop at certain points in the book and wonder. 

He read about the rocker’s dangerous lifestyle, and though Dean was yet too young to understand the draw of some the more mature elements of living, he knew that they were a part of his future. He felt the stirrings of something in the deepest parts of his being, though he had, at the age of nine, no idea of what those stirrings were.  

His father walked into the room. He stood over Dean and asked, “What’s that?”

“What?” Dean replied.

“The book, Dean. What are you reading?”

Dean held it up, the cover facing his father. “It’s about Jim Morrison.”

Jake grabbed it from his son and read the back of the dustcover.  

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, sir.  I do.”

He tossed the book on Dean’s bed and bent over, now within inches of the nine year-old’s face,, “What is delinquent, Dean?  What does that mean?”

Dean, keeping a locked gaze on his father’s eyes, replied, “I don’t know, father.”

Jake straightened and demanded that Dean stand and his attention.

“Jim Morrison was a confused individual who was born during a time when this country was in the middle of the greatest conflict of its history.”  And he paused then asked, “What conflict was that, Dean?”

Dean replied, “It was World War II.”

“Yep, World War II. And it was a time when this country learned that it had to be ready for anything if it was going to survive. And one of the most important things we learned during that time was that we had to be sober, Dean, if we were to think clearly.  We had to be sober. Do you know what that means?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What does it mean, Dean?”

Dean thought for a moment and remembered a portion of what he had, minutes ago, just read and said, “It means that we didn’t drink?”

Jake rolled his eyes and said, “No, Dean, it doesn’t just mean that we don’t drink.  It also means that we think clearly, not hindered by the distractions of unhealthy influences. And yes, that includes alcohol. But it also includes things like bad people, drugs, laziness, and stupidity.” He waited for Dean to respond. Dean said nothing.

Jake picked up the book once more. Then he read the first line from the back cover, “Here is Jim Morrison in all his complexity,” Jake’s voice as sarcastic and pompous as he could muster, he continued, “Singer, philosopher, poet, DELINQUENT, the brilliant, charismatic, and obsessed seeker who rejected authority in ANY form, the explorer who probed ‘the bounds of reality to see what would happen…’” He closed the book and turned it toward Dean. Jim Morrison’s face and naked upper torso revealed the hardcore rocker at the height of his career. Reaching out and holding the book directly in Dean’s face, he said, “Dean, this is a delinquent. It’s what we who know something about control and self-discipline call trash. It belongs in its appropriate place, and that is not anywhere in this house, so I want you to take it from my hand and walk it over to where it belongs.”

Momentarily, Dean didn’t know what to do beyond taking it from his father, but his mind had been trained to listen carefully, and even metaphors rarely confused him. So he grabbed the book and walked out of his room and into the kitchen. His mother stood at the sink. She hadn’t heard him walk in, and she was startled when he tapped on her shoulder.

“Oh, Dean. Hi Honey.”

“Hi.”

“Whatcha need, Sweetie?”

Dean pointed to the cabinet and said, “Garbage.”

Donna looked at her husband who had followed Dean and was standing next to the stove. She moved away from the sink. Dean opened the cabinet and dropped the book into the large plastic container filled with trash. Donna dared not say a word, though she wondered what might have happened. Instead, she said simply, “There you go, Honey.”

Dean replied, “Thanks.”  And he headed back to his room. 

But his father stopped him before he’d reached the hallway. “Dean!” He called.

Dean turned and faced his father, “Yes.”

“Tell me something. Is that book still in this house?” He looked at Donna then back at Dean. “Doesn’t the cabinet under the sink take up space within this house? Is the garbage can under the sink the only place that we throw our trash, or is there some other place outside of this house where we throw our worthless crap, like Jim the drugmonk Morrison?”

Dean reopened the cabinet, reached into the trashcan and grabbed the book, then he took it out to the large metal can outside and gently placed it on top of a closed cardboard pizza box.

Jake asked Donna, “What do you know about that book?”

She replied, “What book was it, Jake?”

“Jim Morrison, the singer. What do you know about it?”

Donna giggled a bit then said, “Oh, Jake, I haven’t read a thing about Jim Morrison. All I know is that he was a singer and…”  

She hadn’t finished her sentence before Jake interrupted her, “I’m wanting to know what you know about Dean having a book like that, Donna. Where did he get it?”

Nervous, she grabbed the dishtowel next to the toaster oven and began drying her hands. “I gave it to him a few months ago, him liking music so much and all. I found it in one of those boxes with all of my childhood stuff.”  She paused,  “I’ve never read it, so I’m sorry if it was a bad book.”

Dean returned to the kitchen and headed toward his room.  

Jake stopped him in the hallway. With an arrogant smirk on his face he said, “Son, the only good thing about that reprobate was the first letter of his first name.”  

“Yes, sir.” Dean chirped, and he smiled nervously. “He had your first letter.” Then he corrected himself, “I mean, his name started with a ‘J.’  

Jake replied, “So excellent, Dean. Now, go ahead, and let’s see if you can find some literature worth reading.”

Dean nodded, turned, and made his way back into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Jake said, “Donna, why would you let him read something like that? He’s nine, for god’s sakes. Jim Morrison was one of the most prolific losers of his generation, stuck in the mire of drugs and alcohol--a narcissistic, self-destructive loser.”

Donna replied, “My God, that’s sad.” Then she replied with a purposeful edge, “And I had no idea about him, Jake.”

Jake snickered, “Of course you didn’t.” He reached over and straightened the salt and pepper shakers sitting next to the stovetop. “I don’t want shit-lit in my house, Donna, and I certainly don’t want my son reading shit-lit, you got it?” He turned and walked out of the kitchen, mumbling, “Bitch has no idea about anything.”

Jake sat on the couch and turned on the television. 60 Minutes had Mike Wallace interviewing Ronald Regan. Jake turned it up.

Dean opened the door and quietly walked down the hall, stopping at the corner.  His father sat with his back to Dean, eyes glued on the television set. Dean returned to the kitchen and stood next to his mother. He placed his hand on her shoulder. She looked at him and said, “What is it, Honey?”

Dean whispered, “I like that book a lot. I hope I can finish it sometime.” 

Donna leaned over and said quietly, “Honey, your father wants it out of the house, so I have to make sure it’s not here. You understand, right?”

Dean replied, “Uh-huh.” And he thought for a moment then said, “The garage isn’t the house, is it?”

Donna’s eyes widened. She was taken aback at Dean’s courage and impressed with his quick thinking. Smiling at him, she said, “Well, some might say the garage is part of the house,” Then she looked back toward the living room and called out to Jake, “Is that the President talking, Jake?”

Jake shouted back, “It’s a president, Donna, but in case you haven’t heard, we have a new President, and his name is George Bush; remember?”

Donna laughed nervously, “Oh, that’s right.”

She looked at Dean and continued quietly, “Some say the garage is part of the house, but not me.” And she smiled, leaned over, and whispered in his ear, “It’ll be like hide-n-seek. I’ll hide it, and you seek it.”

Dean smiled, “Thanks, Mom.”

“But don’t bring it in the house.”

Dean replied, “Morrison is a delinquent, Mom. He deserves to stay in the garage, and the garage isn’t the house, right?”  

Donna marveled at Dean’s wit. His quick mind will get him somewhere, despite his father, she thought. She smiled at Dean and summoned him to follow her into his room.

“Honey, I just remembered something that I would like to get for you that you might be interested in reading, but I have to have your word that you’ll be really careful to keep it out of sight.”

“Okay,” Dean replied, “What is it?”

“It’s a magazine. It’s about rock and roll singers and things like that.”

Dean thought for a moment then replied, “Is it old, like from when you were a little kid?”

Donna smiled and said, “Hey! Are you callin’ your mom old?”

Dean shrugged.

Donna said, “No Honey. This is a magazine that I browsed through the other day when I was in the grocery store. I think it was called Creem. And I think that it’s something you’d be interested in reading.”

Dean had seen the magazine in the store several times while shopping with his mom, and he too had browsed through it a time or two. “Oh, yeah. I’ve seen that.”

“Well?”

“Well what?” said Dean.

“Well, do you want me to pick it up for you?”

Dean replied, “Of course, Mom. That would be great.”

“I’ll be in the store tomorrow to buy some things for our Thanksgiving dinner, and I’ll be sure to grab it.”

Dean smiled and thanked her.

Donna put her finger to her mouth and said, “And remember…”

Dean simply nodded.

Dean and his mother had never before taken a stand against the offenses of Jake Bolan, and though this was nothing near a hard line rebellion, it was a start. Dean was just sure that it wouldn’t be the last. He sat down in his spot on the floor of his bedroom and began to think. He wondered about the possibility of creating a world of books and music that he could have all to his own; a place where he could visit and not be bothered. 

His young mind created possibilities. He imagined a small, trap door in his closet that led to a tiny room where he’d dug holes into the dirt walls and had placed boards for bookshelves. He imagined himself sitting on a thick blanket, earphones on his head with the other end of the chord plugged into a small cassette player, and he imagined listening to Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin. And he smiled and imagined himself turning up the volume to Light My Fire by the great Jim Morrison of the Doors.  

Then Dean came back to his logical senses and began to wonder if there might actually be a way that he could create some kind of escape. And when he could think of nothing that was sure and safe, he decided that he could at least begin to collect music and books. He’d force himself to create or find a place that he would have to safely store his goods—his sanity.  

His books and music, he decided, would come by means of the combined efforts of he and a friend. Dean had no friends, but he would make a friend. He would carefully find someone with whom he related—someone who was like him—and together they would create worlds of escape.

THE BOLAN CHRONICLES: Reading # 47

47. Approximate Minutes Reading (AMR): 18

Introduction to Characters

THE BOLAN CHRONICLES

Chapter 3
A Real Live Policeman

**Sittin’ Bull**

Jake had been promoted to Sergeant status much to the dismay of many of his fellow officers who had also taken and passed the Police Sergeant’s examination. They had not scored high enough to enjoy promotion quickly and had all assumed that Jake had scored high on the exam, and they were correct in their assumption. However, this was not the primary reason for his rather speedy promotion. In fact, Jake had been sweet-talking his superiors for years, knowing full well that simply passing the exam wasn’t solely sufficient. Job performance was crucial, and he made it a point to render exemplary work all the time, and to make things difficult for other exemplary officers, thereby tainting their records and placing himself that much further ahead in the law enforcement rat race.  

Jake’s exemplary score on the examination had placed him high on the promotion list for lieutenant. And though he had only served for an additional year and a half as sergeant, he was determined to beat the system once again—to become the first sergeant to serve fewer than two years before being promoted. He wanted those bars on his uniform collars more than he wanted anything else, and he would do whatever it took to get them.  

This time the headline read as if it were the title of an ongoing saga: Bold Bolan Saves Another Life!  And although all of the details of the events weren’t included in the article, Jake revealed it to his buddies like he was opening up a book.

It was August, 1989, and the department had received a call regarding a distraught, gun-wielding man threatening suicide. The caller was suspicious that the man may have also have threatened to take the lives of at least one family member.  Jake thought this was an opportunity for more creative heroism and decided that he was the man for the job.  

When he and two of his subordinates had arrived on the scene, the neighbor, a short, chubby, balding middle-aged man who almost seemed giddy over the ordeal, confronted them.  

“Finally gone over the edge, that crazy Injun bastard!” He’d announced. “I call the crazy bastard Sittin’ Bull. He mostly sits. Never comes out except to get his mail. Lazy injun bastard can’t do nothin’ but sit around and drink beer all day, worthless sunuvubitch!”

Dean had looked at the fellow officer standing beside him and had raised his eyebrow then returned his gaze at the neighbor and said, “Tell me what events transpired that caused you to decide to call the police.”

The neighbor nervously rubbed the top of his head as if he were trying to brush away the confusion. “Hell, he just started yellin’ at the top of his lungs! I was sittin’ in my garage, watchin’ the Twins gettin’ an ass whoopin’ by them damned Yankees, and out o’ nowhere comes this crashin’ sound. I look out and see this little television tumblin’ down the neighbor’s driveway! Sunuvubitch scared the bejeezuz outa me!”

Baldy was wound up and had been let loose. He just kept talking. “Soon as I seen that I knew I had to do somethin.’ So that’s when I called ya.”

Dean had grabbed the man gently on the shoulder and said, “Well, you did the right thing. What happened next?”

“Hell, that’s when it got scary! I seen him come outa the garage with a pistol that look like somethin’ you seen on one o’ them Dirty Harry movies! That sunuvubitch musta been over a foot long! Then he starts screamin’ and cryin’ like a baby. Looked real strange, a big man like ‘at.”

“What was he saying?” Jake asked calmly.

The neighbor grabbed the top of his bald head, rolled his eyes up toward the sky and called out, “I told you what would happen! I told you what would happen!”

Jake had then asked, “What are you talking about, sir? You told us what would happen?”

The neighbor looked at Jake as if he were the crazy one and replied, “That’s what he was screamin,’ don’t you get it? He was screamin,’ ‘I told you what would happen!’”

“Okay,” Jake replied, “I gotcha. Then what?”

“Well, right after that, wunna his daughters runs out the garage and tries ta take the gun from him, and that’s when he screams somethin’ about endin’ it all, and then he grabs her by the hair and drags her back.”

  Jake, satisfied that he had all he needed, said, “Okay, great. Now, if you don’t mind, we need to ask you to return to your home for safety’s sake. And thanks for the call.”

“Oh, you can bet I’m gonna be callin’ again, too, if that crazy bastard doesn’t kill hisself.”

“Yes, sir. Okay, let’s take you back to your house, and thanks again.”

Jake had called for backup, and in the meantime had placed his officers in strategic positions outside the house. He then confirmed through the suspect’s wife that he had indeed, holed-up in the basement, and that he had indeed, taken one of his adult daughters with him. 

After Bolan had sent the wife out of the house to safety, he had attempted to negotiate with the man. At first, the man wanted nothing to do with Jake and had even threatened to shoot his own daughter if Jake hadn’t left. But according to the Post article, ‘Sergeant Bolan used psychology to convince the man to allow him to enter the basement.’   

Once Bolan had had the suspect in view and had seen that he indeed did have a firearm, he had convinced the man to set the pistol on the ground next to him so that he could comfortably discuss the matter. Jake had then taken a dangerous risk. He had slowly walked down the stairs to the basement, hands raised. He had then taken a seat at the base of the stairs and had set his firearm on the dilapidated bookshelf sitting against the wall.

The man had tied his daughter’s hands behind her back and had gagged her with a greasy shop towel. She was sitting in the corner of the basement, below the workbench. She sat sobbing through the rag, snot and tears running down her face, her bloodshot eyes wide and fear-filled.

The minute Jake had set down, the man had then started to cry. Jake had asked him what might be going on his life that was so disturbing. 

He’d stopped his crying for a moment. A look of anger preceded his response, “Little sex fiend got to my daughter,” He looked over at her. “And now she’s got a fuckin’ freak growin’ in er! I warned her, I did. I told her this was gonna happen!” The daughter became suddenly silent, and the suicidal man continued, “And she thinks I’m gunna put up with this? Shit, no. Shit no!”

Jake said, “Okay. Okay, can you help me understand who this guy is? I’d like to talk this out with you, if you’d like to talk it out with me.”

“He’s her cousin, that’s who. And her fuckin’ cousin is just that, a piece ‘o shit who likes to fuck, no matter who or what!” Then his voice lowered to almost a whisper, “And she wants to have this freak. She actually wants to give birth to a freak and raise it.”

Jake had then begun to ask the man questions about himself. He’d thought it wise to evade the focus from the man’s daughter back to himself. “Tell me about you.  Tell me where you grew up.”

“What the hell does that have to do with now…with this?”

Jake replied, “Maybe nothing, but it occurred to me that you might just want to have someone to talk to about somethin’ other than the mistake your daughter made.  Let’s just talk, whadaya say?”

The man had then looked over at his daughter, “She don’t need to hear my story again; she don’t fuckin’ care!” He returned his gaze at Jake, “So I won’t be doin’ no more talkin’.”

Jake took advantage of what he’d hoped would happen. He’d asked the man if he’d thought he might consider letting his daughter go. After all, she had lots of time to think about the decision as to whether or not she should keep the baby, and what good would it do if he were dead, anyway. Chances are, Jake had said, she would come to her senses, finally realizing the difficulties that would no doubt accompany the raising of a child under these circumstances.

The man had finally succumbed to Jake’s reasoning. He’d agreed to let his daughter go, so long as she stayed home and wasn’t allowed to go to the police.

Of course, Jake had known that this was something that wasn’t going to happen, but he’d given the man his promise nonetheless. So the man allowed Jake to untie her and the greasy towel he’d used for a gag, and after having done some screaming at her father, the girl had finally walked up the stairs, out of the dingy basement and into the house. She’d then walked out where she’d fallen to the ground just beyond the front porch. Jake’s subordinates had then gathered her up and had placed her gently into the back of the squad car, where she had, within minutes, fallen fast asleep.

The suicidal man had then begun to tell Jake his story. It was as if he’d been waiting for someone to listen to him all of his life. He’d been born and raised on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota. “It’s the eighth largest reservation in the country,” He’d said, “And a goddamned Wounded Knee shit hole. The end of the fuckin’ farce we call the Western Frontier happened in the mud hole I grew up in.” 

And then he’d gone into a long dissertation about the history of his birthplace and the tragedies that had occurred long before he was born.

“Tell me about your family.  I mean, your parents and your siblings, if you have any.” Dean had asked.

“Well, first of all,” And he’d then looked over at the corner where his daughter had been sitting, “My brothers and sisters all come from the same set of parents; my father and mother, who weren’t related before they met, GODDAMNIT!” And he had looked over at the place where his daughter had earlier been sitting.

Jake said, “Okay, well, how many brothers and sisters do you have?” He was doing everything he could to keep the man from losing control.

“I have three sisters and two brothers, one of ‘em dead from the drink.”

“What was your childhood like? I mean, do you think it was good, bad, what?”

And the man began to tell Bolan all about his childhood, how his mother had been a drunk and had abused him by never paying attention to his schooling or physical wellbeing. He’d had what he’d considered to be a wonderful father who’d taught him self-discipline and respect. And in the end, any good that might be in him he believed to have come straight from his father.

The suicidal man went on about his life, and he’d gone into great detail about the intricacies of growing up on a poor reservation with no hope and a drunken mother who had treated him like the dog shit she’d forced him to pick up off of the dirt floor of the house every day.  

And he told Jake of the deaths that he had witnessed on the reservation and of the life expectancy, which was shorter than 50 years, and about how seven out of ten kids dropped out of school before completing their 9^th year, and about the drunks and the long treks they took by foot just to buy beer, since it wasn’t sold on the reservation, and lastly, about how he was just sure that almost all of his psychological problems today were a result of his own exposure to alcohol as he grew in his momma’s belly.

According to the Post article, Jake had listened with great patience. He had, indeed, been a saving force for the man—a virtuous listener with the heart of the Pope. It had reported that the man had then done more talking to Jake, and that Jake had been patient, willing to hear him out, and that all of a sudden, the man had announced to Jake that he’d wanted to start over now; that he’d never had anyone who had listened to him like that, and that he just wanted to pretend that this day had never happened.

Jake had told him that he was willing to allow him to go back up to the ground floor and that there wouldn’t be any harm that would come to him, and that he’d make sure that the man wasn’t bothered by the police or his neighbor or anyone else. And the man had agreed that he would do just that if Jake would allow him to walk behind him.  He hadn’t felt comfortable taking the lead. He’d wanted Jake to take the lead so that he might feel safe and not threatened.  

The Post recorded the heroic decision as, “Though highly unusual, one of the most courageous acts that an officer might be expected to perform.” This is one line that Jake wished hadn’t been printed, since it’s from where the ‘Courageous Jake’ title came.

Jake had begun the ascent to the house followed closely behind by the man. He had, unbeknownst to Jake, grabbed his pistol. And just as they were about to exit the basement, the man had mumbled something under his breath. Jake had looked back at him and asked, “What was that, partner?” And he had seen then that the man had raised his firearm and had aimed it at Jake’s chest. Jake had raised his hands and said, “Whoa, now, my friend. What’s the problem here?”

The look on the man’s face had revealed anyone but a dejected and sorrowful soul. He’d said, “Maybe I am a dumbass Indian. I can’t believe I fell for that. I can’t believe I let you make me believe that you’d just let me go.”

“You’re gonna have to choose to believe me, my friend.” Jake replied.

“I believe you as much as I believe that pregnant little whore out there!” And then he’d grabbed Jake by the shirt and had tossed him down the stairs as if he were a rag doll. According to the Post, Jake had landed next to the bookshelf. He had landed hard on his side and had fractured his clavicle. But, according to the paper, his collarbone was the least of his worries, as the crazed man had then reached Jake and had stood over him and placed the barrel of the gun on his temple. 

The Post had reported that, “Bolan’s quick thinking saved his life.” 

Jake had turned his head toward the man, had looked over his shoulder and had called out to his partner, though absolutely nobody was there, “Smith! Take cover!” 

And the man had turned and looked up the stairwell. Jake then booted the man hard between the legs, and he’d crumbled like a windblown house of cards. Jake had reached over and had grabbed his gun. While the man lie on the ground, mouth hanging open with drool from one side, Jake had radio’d his subordinates, and they had entered the basement, guns drawn, and had then handcuffed the man and dragged him up the stairs and into the house.

But that’s not exactly how the events had played out.

--------------------

Up until the man’s daughter had exited the basement, everything had happened exactly as the paper had reported and as Bolan had relayed to his colleagues and friends. But after that, almost nothing was the same.

The man had indeed talked more at Jake, but Jake wasn’t pleased with the conversation. The man had begun to tell Jake his life’s story, and he had indeed been born and raised on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota, and he had indeed lived amongst squalor and drunkenness, but the story of his parents was quite the opposite of what Jake had reported to friends.  

“My father was a poor excuse for a pile o’ shit,” He had said to Jake. “And I can’t remember once him tellin’ me anything good about me, and I can’t remember him tellin’ me that he loved me.” The man continued, “I don’t even think the man liked me.”

Jake replied, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

The man continued, “I can’t get the beatings he gave my mom out of my head. I have nightmares about it, and I wake up sweating and panting like a fuckin’ puppy dog who’s lost its mother.”  Here he’d become animated, raising his hands and slamming his fists against his chest. “That rotten son of a bitch made me do things a little boy shouldn’t be forced to do!”

Here, Jake had begun to feel a bit uncomfortable. So he’d asked about the man’s mother, “How about your mom, partner? I’m guessin’ she was an alcoholic and less than favorable as a caregiver, huh?”

“My mother was the only reason I didn’t kill myself a long time ago. She was a drinker, yeah, but she took care of me, and she saved me from my father. I hated his guts!”

Without thinking, Jake had then said, “We all make mistakes, right?”

The man had then looked deeply into Bolan’s eyes. “That man made mistakes all his life. He was a lying, cheating son of a bitch, and he made me do almost everything he was supposed to do himself. He was my fuckin’ slavedriver, and I dreaded every waking moment he was around.”

Jake had tried to redirect the conversation, but the man would have nothing to do with it.  

“The only good thing that I can say about my father is that he’s lying in his grave as cold as a turkey in November. That dumbass played his last card with a big ole’ Indian named Eyanoso.  Eyanoso means ‘big both ways,’ and he was, too.” 

The man began to cry uncontrollably, and said, “That big ole’ man came crawling to me on his hands and knees, cryin’ harder ‘n anything and sayin’ he was sorry over and over. But he’ll never know he’s been my hero from the day he made my father pay with his life.”

“Where is he now?” Jake asked.

The man began to sob uncontrollably, and Jake at first thought this a perfect opportunity to attempt the apprehension, but just before he’d acted, the man had looked up, tears running down his cheeks, and he’d said, “He shot himself in the head…he…”  The man broke down again, then he grabbed his pistol and quickly lifted it, holding the barrel under his chin. “He killed himself cause he thought he’d fucked me all up!  He thought he’d fucked me all up, and he’d not fucked me all up, he’d fixed things…he’d…”  

Jake put his hands up in front of him and said, “Whoa, whoa, now, hold on. Let’s talk this out, now. I’m willing to sit here and listen. That’s what you need, now, for someone to listen.”

The man slowly lowered the pistol and set it back on the floor. 

Jake waited a moment then asked, “Why did he kill him?”

The man coughed, inhaled the snot and saliva that filled his throat, and replied, “He found my father with his wife. They were havin’ sex in a filthy abandoned port-a-potty next to the ole’ jewelry shop. Eyanoso told me that son of a bitch didn’t even have the decency to close the door. He was poundin’ away on that woman when the big ole’ Indian came around the corner. He told me he lost control, didn’t even know what happened by the time he’d killed the bastard.”

The man suddenly smiled, “And I gotta tell ya how he killed him. He’d come around the corner and had seen him humpin’ his wife, and he’d grabbed him by the ankles and just pulled back as hard as he could. My father didn’t even have a chance to look back, he just landed face first on that woman’s belly, and his face dragged through all her privates and then landed on the filthy, splintered floor of that shit-hole. And when that wife o’ his had seen that it was her husband who caught her, she ran, naked down the dirt path and into the jewelry store.”

“My god,” Jake replied. “That’s somethin’.”

“Yeah, and then Eyanoso dragged him back to the toilet seat, and he lifted the seat and put my father’s head on the rim and then he dropped the seat on his head and started crushing his head. Eyanoso was a strong man. He was a strong man, and he was out of control, and my father began to bleed from his ear, and the big Indian just kept crushing until my father was silent.”

Neither said anything for a minute, then the man continued, “And then he’d looked around and he’d seen that no one was watchin,’ so he stuffed my father, head first, into that hole, and then he backed out and shut the door.”

By now, Jake had become bothered and annoyed at the story, and he’d begun to think hard about what he might say in order to speed up the process and the plan.  Finally, he said, “That’s too bad, but why focus on the bad stuff, huh? What do you say we just call this thing done. We’ll just walk up and out of here, free and clear. You can start all over, consider all of this behind you, huh?”  

When the man hadn’t responded, Jake continued, “And not a word from me. I’ll simply tell them that you came to your senses and that you deserve to be left alone. I’ll even waive the report, how’s that sound? It won’t even be on your record…like nothin’ happened at all.”

The man had looked down at the floor and began to cry again. He’d then told Jake that he would agree to call it done. And he’d placed his hand on his pistol and slid it toward Jake, then he’d smiled slightly and said, “Thanks for listenin.’”

Jake picked up the pistol and slid it between his pants and his belt. His own pistol sat on the old bookshelf. He retrieved it, placed it back in his holster, and invited the man to walk up the stairs.  

The man slowly came to his feet and started the slow ascent, Jake following directly behind. When they had reached the top of the stairwell and the man had begun reaching for the door handle, Jake had spoken up, 

“Hey!”

The man had looked down at Jake and said, “Huh?”

“You ready to roll?”

The man assumed that Jake was referring to a new start, a new look at life, and he said, “Yeah, I’m gonna do the best I can.”

Jake had responded, “Good thing, Dumb-ass Injun, cause it’s gonna be a real rough roll.”  And he’d then grabbed the man by the belt and had pulled him hard. The man had tumbled down the stairs and had stopped half way. Jake had taken the few steps down and then had shoved him hard with his foot, and the man had completed the whole of the stairwell, landing with a thud on the concrete floor. 

He lay there in pain, with one hand holding the top of his head like it might come off, and with the other hand pulling his knees up to his chest.

When Jake had reached him, he’d straddled him and staring down with a look of disgust. 

“Quite the cry-baby story, you big, dumb injun!”

The man had slowly looked back up at Jake and had begun to sob like a child. 

Annoyed, Jake said, “You know something, big dumb injun, I can’t stand little pussies like you. You think the whole fuckin’ world owes you for your poor, pitiful childhood, but the world doesn’t owe you squat.”

The man continued his sobbing.

“And to make sure you don’t try anything funny, I’m gonna put these handcuffs on you.” And Jake had done just that.

“And now I’m gonna have a little fun,” Jake had begun to raise his voice, then quickly lowered it, but kept his sarcastic edge, “And you’re gonna like it, ‘cause you know you’ve deserved this since you were a dumb little injun, whoopin’ and hollerin’ like the crazy fuck you turned out to be.”

Jake had then grabbed a long board that was leaning against the wall. He’d raised it high over his head and had brought it down hard on the man’s ribcage. The man screamed. Jake had then leaned over and had said, “Quiet down, big man, I don’t think I’m finished yet.” And then Jake had raised the board again and had come down as hard, this time on the man’s thigh. Jake said, “Well, well, well, injun man, a roll down the steps make wompum big bruises!”  

The man lay there in pain, moaning and crying, begging Jake to stop.

 “Relax, Tonto, I’m done with you, but I’m not done with the job.” And Jake had then walked to the back of the basement and had begun running toward the opposite side of the room. He’d run straight into the concrete wall, shoulder first, and then he’d fallen to the floor.  

He lay there, holding his shoulder and moaning in pain, “Holy shit! Holy shit, that was worse than I expected!” He lay there in pain for a minute, then forced himself to stand, holding his shoulder, breathing deeply, and had then walked past the handcuffed man and up the stairs, into the house and finally out the door to the front porch. He’d then called his partners over, and they had then dragged the man up the stairs and into a second squad car. 

Jake’s clavicle had broken in only one place, and though it immobilized him for a few days, he was back to work within two weeks, mostly desk work. After three months, he was fully capable of all of his former required duties. He gladly endured the inconvenience, knowing full well that his heroism would more than pay for it.

THE BOLAN CHRONICLES: Reading # 46

46. Approximate Minutes Reading (AMR): 6

Introduction to Characters

THE BOLAN CHRONICLES

Chapter 3
A Real Live Policeman

**Narcissistic Rot**

Six months later, in January of 1988, Jake further substantiated his hero status.  This time, it was the headline in the Saturday edition of the Post. ‘Officer Bolan As Hero…Again!’  Jake had responded to interviews with such a breathtaking and rare combination of humbleness and charisma. He had stated, of course, that it was nothing; that any God-fearing, community-loving police officer would do what he had done. That he was simply doing his job and was just thrilled that no innocent life had been lost and that he was humbled that he again had been in a position within which he could save lives and that this is what he lived for, and…blah, blah, blah.  

But folks fell for it. They had now become so familiar with Bolan that his was a name of common discussion throughout town. Ordinary folks everywhere recognized him, especially while on duty.  His fellow officers began referring to him as ‘Courageous Jake.’  Though Bolan wasn’t particularly thrilled about this, he considered it a small price for the future benefits. He’d a plan, and it was coming together well.

According to the article, Jake had been off duty and alone. He had changed into his civilian clothes after a workout at the gym, and he had been taking care of paper work at a local coffee shop when a burly, middle-aged man had walked in and ordered a coffee. His hair was long and disheveled. He wore a green stocking cap with a large “Don’t Get God Started” button on the back. His off-white trousers—at least two sizes too small—were wrought with yellowish-brown stains and clung tightly to his legs. The holes at the tips of his Converse shoes revealed his dirty toes.  

He’d looked around the shop, scoping it out, but he’d failed to notice Jake in the corner, directly behind him. Jake had been sitting at the very end of the large oak table located in the back. He had noticed, while the man was giving his order, that something was stuffed down the back of his pants. He had watched him carefully, mentally preparing for what he considered inevitable. By the time the man had pulled his gun and had pointed it at the young lady taking his order, Jake had pulled his own gun and had ordered the vagrant to drop his weapon. From his position under the table, Jake had pushed it over and had used it as a shield. The man had turned to face Jake and had shot at him. Then he had made his way to the area behind the register.

All the while, the three employees who had been working behind the counter had rushed to the storage room and had locked the door behind them. Two young female employees between the ages of 20 and 25 and one male, about the same age, were crouched together under a metal prepping table. They’d surrounded themselves with boxes. One of the girls was crying while the other two employees were trying desperately to calm her, hoping that the shooter had not already heard her sobs.

The vagrant had managed to plow through a large stack of boxes and then had begun screaming from his location around the corner of a dividing wall. He’d loudly informed Jake that he wanted Jake to leave the store--to let him do what God had asked him to do. He had been asked by God to do his part in ridding the world of two more selfish sinners, those ‘young sons-of-bitches who were only interested in their own selfish pursuits.’  According to the man, it made no difference who he killed, only that they were not children and that they were younger than forty.  It had been, according to the vagrant, this generation of humans who had infected the country with their “narcissistic rot.”  And he had, according to the story, repeated the phrase, “narcissistic rot” several times, loudly, as if he had wanted to ensure that the individuals in the storeroom would hear him.  

Jake had then begun to negotiate with the man. He had asked him how in the world he could know that these people were the right age, and wouldn’t he have to be sure of the right age, and if he were not sure, wouldn’t he be accountable to God for having not obeyed him completely? And he added, “You are to complete your mission across the street at the St. Vincent’s College bookstore. You’ll see the narcissistic rot as soon as you walk in.” Then he had finished by saying, “I am the servant of god who has been sent to give you his message.”

The man had suddenly become silent. He finally spoke, acknowledging Jake’s logic. And amazingly, he had then agreed to leave the store with the promise from Jake that he would not be harmed. Jake had then promised the man that he would let him go, that he, in fact, had been sent by God to advise him of his mistake. When Jake had said this, the man had come out from behind the wall and had, without pause, begun the slow limp out of the coffee shop, drops of blood left in his path. And just before he had reached the door, he had turned toward Jake and said, “Thank you so much.” And then he had started to sob quietly as he reached for the door.

When Jake had seen that the vagrant had returned his gun to the back of his pants, he had crawled out from behind the table and had then slipped through a side door exit. He had carefully reached the front of the shop and had jumped the suspect just as he was about to cross the street. He had pinned and eventually apprehended him and had waited for backup to arrive.

--------------------

The true story was only similar. When Jake had entered the coffee shop, it was not to buy a cup of coffee and then to do paperwork.  In fact, it was the second time in the past 15 minutes that he had gone in.  

The first time Jake had entered, he had ordered a cup of coffee.  \He had noticed, prior to entering the shop, that the patio area heat lamps were turned off, and he’d asked if it might be possible that they be turned on so that he could sit outside he did his work. The twenty-something male employee, Jonathan, knew officer Bolan well, as a regular customer and of course, as an up and coming sort of local super-hero. 

Jonathan had smiled and replied, “Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Bolan. It’s been so slow. Of course, we’ll get them turned on for you right away.”  

Jake had returned to the patio area and had begun to get his materials ready for work when he noticed a vagrant sitting on the ground in the far corner. He hadn’t been writing for more than a minute or two when the vagrant had walked over and asked if he had a few spare minutes to talk. At first, Jake told him no, that he was sorry, but he was very busy. But when the man informed Jake that he had information from God that was going to cause some degree of drama in the next few minutes, Jake had told him that he would listen. He asked the man if he might like a cup of coffee, but the man refused.  Then Jake asked him about the information. The man informed him that God had specifically told him that he was to rid the world of two more people on that day.  \He was to waste no time in finding two individuals between the ages of 18 and 40. Then the vagrant asked Jake his age.  

Jake had smiled at that point and had replied, “Well, I’m not fond of giving my age. How old do you think I am?”

The man had carefully looked Jake up and down and finally responded, “Oh, I think you are one of the narcissistic rot that God wants gone, that’s what I think.”

Jake had then said, “Nope. In fact, my daddy’s genes done been good to me.  I’m 42, and lucky at that, huh?”

Here, Jake formulated a plan. He knew it was a long shot, but he was willing to take the chance.

“How you gonna do it, partner?” He’d asked.

The man smiled, showing what brown teeth remained, “I got myself a piece.”

Jake returned the smile, “Ah, I see. And is it gonna do the trick? I mean, you got it with you, right?”

“Yeah, I got it right here.” And he pulled the 357-caliber pistol from the back of his tight-fitting pants.

“Geez! You are ready, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh.”

Jake then took the plunge, counting on his natural judgment.

He looked around and leaned over then said softly, “Well, I got some inside information from the big man, myself, that you just might be interested in hearing.”

The vagrant suddenly became excited, “You do? What? Tell me!”

“Now, hold on, my friend. You’ve got to be patient.”

Jake then informed the man that God had told him, just this morning, that he was going to meet a man at the coffee shop and that he was to inform that man that this was indeed the area in which he would find his two narcissistic rots, but that he was only to hold up the place, take a hostage, and wait for a message from the servant of God.

After a moment, the man smiled. He shook his head slowly then said to Jake, “I’ll follow those directions! Then he announced, “Like Isaiah of old, ‘Here am I, send me’!”

The man had immediately left that spot and walked into the coffee shop, intent on doing the work of God. Jake had followed him, and he’d then taken his seat at the large oak table at the back of the shop. Before the vagrant had pulled his gun, he had looked around the shop then at Jake and smiled; the plan was taking shape.  

From this point on, the story had happened just as the paper had reported, and Jake Bolan had proven to be, once again, the mastermind at police trickery.

THE BOLAN CHRONICLES: Reading #45

45. Approximate Minutes Reading (AMR): 5

Introduction to Characters

THE BOLAN CHRONICLES

Chapter 3
A Real Live Policeman

**The Birdseye Fire**

In March of 1987, just two days before Dean’s eighth birthday, the Post published a second Bolan story, this time longer and more detailed, characterizing him as even more of a hero than in the first. This time they’d included a photo of Jake. He was smiling—an attractive photo.

Jake and his partner had been on duty late one Saturday night. They’d driven by the Birdseye Apartment Complex just northeast of downtown Bridgeport and had noticed smoke coming from the second floor. According to the article, Jake had pulled into the complex parking lot. He’d had his partner alert dispatch. He’d entered the lobby and found the flight of stairs just behind the desk. Before the young man sitting behind the desk had had time to ask what had happened, Bolan had reached the second floor.  He’d seen smoke coming from under the door of room 202 and had heard screams coming from the room. After having found it locked, he had kicked it open. A picture of horror greeted him. A smoldering body lay just beyond the open door, Jake not knowing for sure if it had been that of a child or of an adult. He'd then seen two children curled in the corner, where the living room met the kitchen, the older of them holding tightly onto the younger screaming child. He had sped through the smoke and flames and gathered the two in his arms. He had to pull the older child from her grip on one of the kitchen cabinet handles. She had badly lacerated one of her fingers as a result. As he'd pulled her away, she had screamed frantically, seemingly refusing to take her eyes off the cabinet. And when he had finally pulled hard enough to break her grip, she had pointed at the cabinet as he'd stood up and headed toward their escape.  

Jake had carried the two victims back down the stairs and out the lobby door to safety. The older of the children, after having overcome the shock, had begun to cry out, "Boo!  Boo!  Oh, Boo!"  At first, Jake’s partner had thought that the little girl had been referring to a lost pet, or a toy, but he had soon learned otherwise. The two victims had actually been three. A baby brother, referred to by the family as Boo, was still in the apartment. When his partner had informed Jake of the baby, Jake at first assumed that the burning corpse that he had seen had been Boo. When he had asked the little girl about Boo, she had simply replied, "In the kitchen. With the dishes...with the...the dishes." Initially, Jake hadn't understood, but he'd then realized why she'd held so tightly to the kitchen cabinet handle.  

He had then returned to the apartment. By then it had become almost completely engulfed in flames, and the smoke had become so thick that nothing could be seen. By the time he had reached the door once again, he had reached down blindly and grabbed the lump that he had seen earlier and had pulled it out from the apartment and into the hallway. When he'd finally seen it clearly, he'd realized that it was the family pet, as it turned out, a five-year old Collie named Roofer.  

He'd then returned to the kitchen, and blindly feeling his way around the cabinets, had eventually found the right one. He'd felt what he'd thought was a cotton blanket, and he'd then pulled it from its safe place and had then, holding the little body closely to his own, run out the apartment, back down the steps, and out the door to safety. Jake had then fallen to the ground, exhausted, coughing, and nearly out of breath.

--------------------

The actual events had not occurred exactly this way. Jake and his partner had indeed noticed smoke coming from the second floor of the Birdseye apartments, and Jake had been the one to make the rescue attempt, but it hadn’t happened exactly as the paper had reported.   

Jake had found the door open when he had reached the second floor hallway.  He’d looked in and had seen that smoke had begun to fill the room, but he had been able to clearly see the entire contents of the apartment:  A small child, two to three years of age, was sitting next to his sister on a couch, she being about six or seven years-old.  They were both scared and sobbing, but unhurt.  A medium-sized dog stood in the center of the kitchen, barking loudly.  In the corner of the living room, an infant lay in its crib, crying and moving its tiny legs and arms to-and-fro. Half of a pink and yellow blanket covered the baby’s lower torso while the other half swung between two of the crib’s wooden dowels. And In the kitchen, a very large fry pan sat on a stove and emitted flames and smoke. The smell of bacon filled the room.    

Jake had, within seconds, created a plan that might well lead to his eventual promotion.  

He had quickly walked to the stove and grabbed a towel that was sitting on the counter next to the sink and had used it as an insulator as he picked up the hot, smoking pan. Jake had seen the dog as a possible hindrance, so he had walked over to the dog and had cornered it then had poured the hot grease from the pan all over its back. It had yelped loudly, and Jake had grabbed the dog and had raised it high over his head. It hadn’t a chance. With it no longer moving, Jake had thrown it out of the apartment and into the hall.  

Seeing all of this, the two young children on the couch had begun to cry loudly.  Jake had screamed at them, and they had then become scared and quiet. Next, he had taken both children in his arms and had attempted to include the small infant, but when it had fallen from his grip once, and then a second time, and become suddenly quiet and still, he had decided that he would simply leave it in the apartment. 

Knowing that it wouldn’t be long before fire fighters would be making their way up the stairs and into the apartment, he’d set the two children on the floor, quickly wrapped the baby in its blanket, and using the kitchen sink faucet, soaked it completely. He’d then placed the infant in the kitchen cabinet. He’d looked around and decided that the smoke in the room was thinning, and if this was going to be convincing, a real fire had to occur.  

He’d walked back to the kitchen and grabbed an envelope and had slid it into the gas flame on the stove until it had ignited, then he had lit the kitchen and living room curtains on fire. Certain that they would eventually become fully engulfed, he had then retrieved the children and had made his way out of the apartment and back to the squad cars.  

His partner had relieved him of the two kids and had asked if they had needed to return. Jake had told him that there was now no reason to return, as he saw no others in the room. And the oldest of the children had then begun to cry and to ask about the baby, "Boo!  Boo!  Oh, Boo!" Jake had gone in and had fetched the infant, and had returned with it to safety. Seeing that by then the fire fighters had arrived, he had then fallen to the ground in a heap, knowing that his story would be more firmly substantiated given the observation of so many others.

THE BOLAN CHRONICLES: Reading #44

44. Approximate Minutes Reading (AMR): 2

Introduction to Characters
Mrs. Kilner: Dean's 2nd Grade Teacher

THE BOLAN CHRONICLES

Chapter 3
A Real Live Policeman

**Second Grade**

However optimistic over the past couple of years Donna had been about a stable and happy family life, she had found it more and more difficult to believe in a future that looked to be anything better than what she had experienced throughout her own childhood. She refused to let go of hope.

Dean did well in the first grade. Once again, his teacher adored him. And second grade was no different. Mrs. Kilner was a veteran educator. She started teaching late into her twenties, and now at age 58, the skill with which she worked in the classroom was apparent from day one. 

On the evening of open house, Mothers, grandparents, and a few fathers walked into the 1st grade classroom, hands held tightly by their wide-eyed six-year-olds. Donna and little Dean were no different. 

After the teacher had introduced herself to a few of the others, she made her way over to them and held her hand out to Dean. “Good morning, young man! I’m Mrs. Kilner.” She was a tall woman with long, slender arms. Her face was creased with lines, all the more accentuated with a grin. The green sweater she wore seemed to blend seamlessly into her pleated skirt.

Dean looked up at his mother. She smiled and nodded. Dean replied, “I’m Dean. Dean Bolan.” Her hand completely surrounded Dean’s. 

“Dean Bolan. It’s very nice to meet you, and welcome to the second grade!” Then she turned her attention to Donna, “And I’m sure that I don’t need to ask. The eyes, the chin…this has to be Mom.” And she shook her hand.

Smiling, Donna replied, “Yes ma’am. I’m Donna. It’s very nice to meet you.”

Mrs. Kilner cocked her head and said, “Did you say that your last name was Bolan?”

“Well,” Donna looked down at Dean, “Dean did, yes.”

Her forefinger covered her lips. “I”m just sure that I’ve heard or seen that name somewhere.”

Donna said, “Maybe a student from the past?”

“Mmm. Not sure about that. I don’t recall having a Bolan before.” She shook her head, “Can’t think of it. Well, welcome to the second grade, Mr. Bolan.” She smiled and turned to greet the family standing next to Donna.

After they had spent several minutes perusing the room, Donna and Dean bid Mrs. Kilner goodbye. They were half way to the car when they heard her calling them from the classroom door. Donna turned and saw her briskly walking toward them. 

“I remembered!” She announced. “I read an article in The Post about a police officer named Bolan.”

“Yes,” Donna replied. “That’s my husband, Jake.”

“My goodness, Mrs. Bolan! What a wonderful story about your husband!” 

She looked down at Dean. “Your daddy is a police officer! That’s pretty neat!” 

Dean grinned slightly but said nothing.

“Well, we’ve solved the mystery, haven’t we! You two have a nice evening, and I’ll look forward to seeing you for our first full day tomorrow!”

On the way back home, Donna asked Dean what he thought about his new teacher. 

“She seems nice,” He said. “She’s really tall.”

Donna smiled, “Yes, she is honey. She’s really tall.”

THE BOLAN CHRONICLES: Reading #43

43. Approximate Minutes Reading (AMR): 4

Introduction to Characters

THE BOLAN CHRONICLES

Chapter 3
A Real Live Policeman

**Hero Officer Jake Bolan**

Thelma Thomas

The first of the Connecticut Post ‘Hero Officer Jake Bolan’ stories took place just after Dean had entered the first-grade in September of 1986. 

Thelma Thomas had fallen from the step of her front porch after her miniature poodle had darted out in front of her. She’d come down rather hard upon the wooden border that outlined a narrow strip of Jasmine. Next thing Thelma knew, she was staring into the face of her son, and lying in a hospital bed, first floor, Hospital of Central Connecticut. Within a period of three days, Thelma’s mind had deteriorated.  By the end of day one, she had begun to treat otherwise familiar visitors as strangers. By the end of day two, the plastic water container had become her best friend. And by the close of day three, Thelma had begun accusing the doctors and nurses of plotting to kidnap her.

She’d been threatening to plan an escape, and the staff had been alerted of her possible attempt. They were to check on her regularly. It seems that regularly had not proven sufficient. On the morning of the fourth day of her stay, Thelma had crawled out of her bed and had managed to eek past the nurses without being seen. She’d somehow made her way to Spring Lake, six blocks northeast of the Hospital, before anyone had noticed her absence. After feeble attempts to find her had been exhausted by Hospital Security, the Bridgeport Police Department had begun their search. And that’s where Officer Jake Bolan had come onto the scene.  

Bolan had been dispatched and advised of the Thomas situation, all of its dull intricacies and typical details, and though he’d at first been none too happy about it, he’d quickly devised a very possible and advantageous scenario. If he found her, he had thought, he would certainly make the most of the situation. And if he hadn’t, at least he would have made the most of the attempt.  

Bolan had come upon Thelma as he’d been searching Spring Lake, a small body of water surrounded by a very posh community setting, called Spring Lake Village. It had been early—still dark out—and quite brisk.  He had, according to the newspaper report, found her in the freezing-cold lake, hanging on to a buoy for dear life, shivering and moaning. According to the article, Officer Bolan had done a heroic deed, and parents and teachers alike would do well to use his example as a standard for heroism. Had Officer Bolan not jumped in and pulled her to shore, Thelma Thomas certainly would have lost her life that night.

--------------------

In truth, this is not exactly what had happened. Knowing that Thelma was suffering from dementia, Jake had known that whatever happened, she had not the mental capacity to be taken seriously, and that opened a myriad of possibilities, all in his favor. So Jake had found Mrs. Thomas at the edge of the lake rather than in the lake, and he’d carefully approached her.  

“Mrs. Thomas?” He’d called out.

She had slowly turned toward him, shivering with cold, and confused. She’d replied, “Oh…oh…oh…I…I…” That was the extent of her communicative abilities.  

“Mrs. Thomas, I’ve come to help you. Please stay right there.”

“I…well I…”  

He’d slowly drawn closer, careful not to frighten her more, “Just stay right there, Mrs. Thomas. You’re safe, now.”

Jake had reached Thelma, and instead of simply walking her back to his car, he had walked her down to the small dock that stretched out into the lake. When they’d finally come to the far end of it, Thelma had looked up at the officer and had finally found enough words to put together a thought, “Those bad…people…kidnappers.”  Then she’d followed this with, “Why…why, you look like my son.” And she’d reached up to touch his face.

Jake had swept her hand aside, smiled cruelly and replied, “That’s right, honey, I’m your son.” And he shoved her into the water.   

He’d waited a few seconds before jumping into the lake. After having dragged her out, soaking wet and shivering like a leaf in the wind, Thelma had by then begun making a low sobbing sound. Jake had said, “Come now, Mrs. Thomas, it isn’t all that bad.” He had managed to get her to her feet. “I’ve saved you, haven’t I?”

Thelma had stared blankly at Jake who had by then determined that it was one of the best strategic moves he had ever made. This was certainly going to get some print, and in the end, he had been certain that the title ‘Officer’ would soon become the title ‘Detective,’ thanks, in part, to a little old lady whose best friend was a Tupperware container.

THE BOLAN CHRONICLES: Reading #42

42. Approximate Minutes Reading (AMR): 15

Introduction to Characters

THE BOLAN CHRONICLES

Chapter 3
A Real Live Policeman

**The Stomp**

She entered their room. Jake was shirtless. His pants were still on, and he had put his black leather shoes—the ones that Dean had shined—back on. Donna closed the door behind her then walked to the foot of the bed. Her long, v-shaped face, however unusual, was stunning. Her tiny cleft chin was perfectly accentuated by her appealing, bow-like lips. Her button nose small under a pair of huge, beautiful green eyes. Her wide forehead was framed by silky, straight brown hair that fell to the middle of her back.

“Are you still changing the boy’s shitty diaper, too?” asked Jake.  

Donna said nothing.

“Why do you think that boy needs a baby’s treatment?” Jake asked.

Donna knew that any answer she gave would be the wrong answer. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want him to end up, Donna, like another dumb fucker out on the street?”

Donna repeated, “I don’t know.”

Jake paused then replied, “That’s the story of your life, isn’t it? What exactly do you know, Donna?  Do you know that I work my ass off every day and expect that when I get home my wife will have taken care of the simple things that I ask her to take care of? “

Donna looked down.

“And do you know that every man who sees a curvy ass would give his fucking eye-teeth (and here he began to get loud) to get to that curvy ass…huh? Do you know that, Donna?” After no reply, he said, “Apparently not, cause you went out today like a whore and made that curvy little ass a billboard, once again, didn’t you?”

Donna quickly replied, “No, I just went to pick Dean up at….”

Jake threw his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. He reached under the mattress and produced a bottle of port wine. “Gee, sweetheart, I didn’t see this in the cupboard last night when I was getting my drink.”

Donna froze for a moment, not knowing how to respond. Indeed, she had purchased the bottle today, but there must be some way of getting around the truth. She quickly changed her mind. “Oh, I forgot about that. I’m sorry. It slipped my mind. I was so busy today with things in the house that I forgot that I had stopped off at the market.”

“Oh, Yeah.” Jake said. “I know, I know.” He suddenly lowered his volume, “You work so hard, don’t you?” The sarcasm was now reaching its height, “I mean, I come home every day and see the fruits of your fucking labor all over this dump-hole.”

Donna began to sob quietly, hoping for some sympathy, though she knew that the chances of it were small.

“Let me ask you one more time. Did you not go out and make that curvy little ass a billboard? I suppose there was absolutely nobody in the market. Maybe the only soul there was the checker. And let me guess, Donna, she was a little old lady, right?”

Donna managed a short reply, “I wasn’t there for long, and I…”

Jake began to raise his voice, “It’s a rhetorical question, woman. I know the answer and don’t want to hear your poor excuses for a lie.” He threw the covers off of the bed and screamed, “Get your whore ass over here and take care of me!”

Through the tears, Donna managed a slight grin, hoping to evade the inevitable.  She reached Jake, placed her hands on his knees and slowly crouched until she was positioned between his legs. Jake reached up and put his hand on the top of her head. He then reached into her blouse with his other hand, grabbing one of her breasts. He began rubbing her nipple. Donna’s eyes met her husband’s, and Jake said, “You like that?” Donna nodded. Then his tone changed, “Lying, fucking whore.” Then he grabbed a handful of her hair and quickly wrenched her backwards, holding onto her locks so that she couldn’t drop to the floor. He stood up, still holding her hair tightly, forcing her to follow him upwards. She continued to stare at him, tears streaming from her eyes.

She begged quietly, “Jake. Please, please don’t be loud. Dean might hear us.”  She began to sob, “Don’t be loud.”

Though Donna had been married to Jake for five years, she still made the occasional mistake of giving a command. And though she didn’t see it that way, Jake was very sensitive to commands. He hated them from anyone, but commands from women, and especially from his wife, was too much to take. 

He leaned into Donna’s face until their noses thouched, then he said, “Are you telling me what to do?” Without a moment for her to respond, he continued, “I think you are.” Then he placed his mouth on her ear and whispered, “And did you lie to me again, Donna? Answer the Goddamned question honestly.” The two of them stood, the husband, towering over the wife, his handful of her hair raised high enough above her head to get her to her toes.

Donna paused then replied, “Yes.”

Jake slowly relaxed his arm and let loose. He then grabbed her chin and pulled it upward, her eyes now facing his. “It’s really not a difficult fix, dear.” Then he raised his right foot until his knee nearly reached his stomach, and he brought it down as quickly as he could, landing it squarely on her foot. Donna gasped and fell to the floor. The pain surged through her foot and up her leg. She moaned loudly then began to cry.

Jake stepped away and said, “See, I’m sure you won’t be doing much street walking now…at least not for a while.”

Donna continued to sob, trying to hold back the screams, mindful of their little boy just down the hall. Jake leaned over and looked her in the eye, “Now come on, Donna, try to pipe down. We don’t want poor Dean to get too upset.”

Donna’s moans subsided, and she suddenly gave her husband a look of disgust, then said, “You’re an animal.”

“Ooh,” Jake replied. “So very mean.” Then he walked toward the door. He looked back at his wife curled up and in pain and said, “Guess I can wait until tomorrow for that bit of lovin’ you owe me.” Then he smiled, “It’s okay, I’m patient.” And he stepped out of the room.

*********

Dean pressed his fingers deeply into his ears and began to hum. He first hummed the song that his teacher taught the class on the opening day of school then he began to sing it quietly, “I like to eat, eat, eat apples and bananas.  I like to eat, eat, eat apples and bananas.”  

He completed the song and unplugged his ears. It was quiet, and he waited a few moments. Silence was often the boogieman, hiding in the corner, waiting to jump out and scare. When he heard mumbling, then a loud thump, he began to sing the same tune, over and over, going through the vowels, “I like to oot, oot, oot ooples oond boonoonoos. I like to oot, oot, oot ooples oond boonoonoos.”  

When he unplugged his ears this time, he heard his father’s footsteps coming down the hall.  Now he began to sing faster. “Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb, Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow.” He listened again. The boogie-man seemed to have fallen asleep. This time, he simply hummed; no tune in particular. He simply hummed. And he hummed until he found himself in a vast darkness, and he was swinging from a rope. And his arms ached. He was so scared to let go, so he held tightly onto the rope, all the while, swaying in the absolute quiet, scaring him to a point of breathlessness.  

When Dean awoke, he looked over at the sunlight piercing the white curtain sheers. He was relieved to be awake. The dream that haunted him every night made the morning so welcomed. It was his favorite time of day, except on the weekends, when his father was home. But the weekday mornings were the only time when Dean felt any degree of safety.  

He slipped from his bed and walked to the nearby bathroom. When he’d finished using the toilet, he washed and dried his hands then he dragged a stool from beside the door, climbed up, opened the cabinet just above the sink, and pulled down a small stack of 20 or so index cards. He sat down on the stool and read through each carefully. He paused and thought for a moment, then he returned the cards with equal care.

Dean walked into the kitchen and looked around. His mother was not there. As he turned to walk down the hallway to the master room, he noticed his mom asleep in the easy chair. It was fully reclined. He quietly walked over and stood at the foot of the chair. Her head was slightly turned, and she was breathing heavily. A bit of drool had escaped the corner of her mouth. The blanket that covered her had fallen slightly off and now was mostly draped over one side of the chair. Dean slowly pulled it back over her.  She stirred a bit but didn’t wake.  

He walked back into the kitchen and picked up the small stool that sat next to the front door, stepped up and grabbed a bowl of cereal from the cupboard. When he finished his breakfast he walked to the counter next to the sink and set the bowl there. He walked back to his chair and sat, waiting for his mom to wake up, though he hoped that she wouldn’t for a while. He hoped that she would sleep so long that he would miss school, and he could spend the whole day with her instead of with a bunch of kids who he didn’t seem to understand and who didn’t seem to understand him.  

He heard the sound of the squeaking brakes coming from the school bus and then realized that he would be spending his day at home. He smiled. He glanced over at his mother. Even with the sound from the bus, she didn’t stir. Dean slid off of the chair and walked back over to his mother. He stood by her again, looking at her face. He leaned over and gave her a soft kiss on her cheek. Then he walked back to his room, keeping the door opened so as to not wake her. He grabbed a Dr. Seuss book from the top of his dresser and climbed back into bed. It was his favorite of the many Seuss books that his mom had given him. He opened it. Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now! Throughout the story, Marvin K. Mooney was being asked to “Go!” Dean didn’t know where Marvin was being asked to go, but he liked the story. He became Marvin every time he read it.

After Dean had looked through one after another of his Seuss books, he walked out of his own and into his parent’s bedroom. He thought about the sounds that he had heard from here the night before, and he wondered what might have happened. His imagination created possibilities, and he only hoped that they weren’t true.  

Dean heard his mom’s voice from the living room, “Dean, Honey, are you awake?” He walked into the living room and to his mom. She reached out to him, “Come here, Honey.” She grabbed him around the waist and pulled him into her, “Honey, today you aren’t going to school, okay?”  

Dean replied immediately, “Okay.”

“Mom isn’t feeling well today, and I think it’s going to be really hard for her to do anything.” She paused, “You think you can help me today?”

Dean smiled, “Yeah. I can help you, Mom.”

Donna smiled at Dean and gave him a hug. “Good, Honey. How about you start by getting yourself some breakfast. There’s some cereal in the cupboard, and I think if you use the little stool by the door there, you can reach it.” Then she paused, “Wait, how did that stool get over there?” 

“I had cereal, Mom.”

Donna looked confused, “What do you mean, Honey.”

“I had cereal. I had Cheerios.”

Donna asked, “When?”

“When you were sleeping.”

Donna noticed the empty bowl on the counter. She suddenly felt sad. She never wanted to be the kind of mother who neglected her child. She looked at Dean, “You are such a big boy. I’m proud of you, Honey.”

Dean stood, expressionless.

“I hurt my foot last night, Sweetie. Do you think you can turn the television on for me?”

Dean nodded then turned on the set and sat down on the small couch. ‘Good Morning America’ was on. Linda Blair and Charlton Heston were re-united to celebrate the 10^th anniversary of the film, “Airport 1975.”   

Without looking away from the screen, Donna said, “You see that lady right there, Dean. I watched her in a movie when she was a little girl. She was born at about the same time that I was born.”

Dean looked at the lady on the screen and said nothing at first. After some thought he looked back at his mom and asked, “What movie, Mom?”

Donna wondered how to answer. She finally replied, “It was a movie about a little girl who wasn’t very happy, Honey.”

“Why?” Dean asked.

“Well, she just wasn’t happy with her life. She didn’t like the kind of…the kind of people who visited her.”

Dean thought for a moment. “Who were the people that she didn’t like?”

“They were people who visited her at night, but she didn’t want them to visit her.  They were just scary people, Honey. It was one of those scary movies that your uncle Ted likes to watch.”

“Did you like the movie, Mommy?”

Donna now realized that she had said too much. “No, Honey, I didn’t like it. It scared me, and when I see her, I still get a little bit of that scared feeling in my stomach.“

Dean stood silent for a moment. He was thinking about his dream; the dream that haunted him nearly every night. He thought about how much he hated that dream and about how even the thought of it, day or night, scared him. And he thought about how he sometimes tried to stay awake at night so that he wouldn’t have to face the scary dream when he fell asleep, but when he heard the fighting sounds coming from his dad and mom’s room, he wanted to fall asleep, even if he did have to face the dream.

“What are you thinking about, Sweetie?” his mom asked.

“Nothing.” Dean replied shyly.  

Donna slowly stood from the chair, quietly moaning when she stepped using her injured foot. Dean noticed this, but he said nothing. He was used to seeing his mom in some kind of pain, though he rarely saw evidence of it.

Donna looked out the living room window. For November, it was an unusually nice day. She thought about the previous night and how horrible it had been, and yet she still had hope. She still believed that this family could work. She believed that someday her husband would change. But until then, she was willing to put up with whatever he dealt her. Someday things would be better.  

She looked back at her son then hobbled over and put her arms around him. She kissed him on the top of his head and pulled him into her.  “Mommy loves you so much, sweetie.”

Dean looked up at her and smiled. He was glad to be with his mother, and he was glad that his father was at work. Then Dean had a thought and asked, “Can we go to Lancer’s for lunch today, Mom?”  

Donna almost immediately replied in the affirmative immediately, but on second thought, she considered her condition. How would she look, limping along with her son.  Then again, she thought, I have to take advantage of my precious time with Dean.  

“I think that’s a great idea, sweetie. But first I need to clean up and change into my regular clothes.” She looked down at little Dean, “Can you just imagine Mommy walking into Lancer’s looking like this!”  

Dean smiled and replied, “That would be funny.”  

Donna stared at Dean. His cute little mouth, the pudgy little nose, the innocent eyes. She kissed him again then she made her way to her bedroom. Before she entered, she paused. Her heart began to race, and her first thought was of that half-empty bottle of port in the cupboard, but she resisted.  

The drive to Lancer’s was a quiet one. Dean said almost nothing. He looked out the passenger side window at the passing houses and trees. When they came to the stop sign just across the street from the café, he noticed a scrawny little dog crouched alongside a bank of shrubs next to a large concrete wall. Dean looked back at his mom and pulled on her shirtsleeve. “Yes, Honey.”  

Dean pointed to the dog. “Look at the little dog.”

“Ah. It looks sad and lonely, Honey.”

Dean thought of how fun it might be to have a dog at home. It could play with him and sleep in his room. It could be his buddy. “Could we take that dog home, Mom?”

Though Donna would love to have a dog at home, she knew full well that her husband wouldn’t approve. “Oh, Honey. I would love to have a puppy at home, but your father only likes police dogs. He’s not really a dog kind of person.”

Dean looked at the dog again, and he thought that it was looking back at him. Its eyes were sad, and it was shaking. He kept his eyes locked on the dog as they drove off. ‘Goodbye, Carl.’ He said under his breath. They turned into the parking lot at Lancer’s. “Ready, Honey?” Without a word, Dean looked back at his mom then grabbed the door handle and stepped out.

They entered the café and immediately saw Sherry, a part-time waitress who also attended the University of Bridgeport as an English major. When she saw Dean, Sherry stopped collecting the dirty dishes on the table, set them down, and swiftly walked over to greet the two of them.  

Sherry treated Dean like the smart little boy that he was, and Dean liked that.  Donna smiled, “Good morning.”

“Morning!” Sherry replied.  

“Dean, I haven’t seen you in weeks. I was wondering if maybe you had moved or something. I’m glad you’re still here!” Dean grabbed his mom’s hand and smiled.  Sherry directed her attention to Donna. “How are you doing?”

Donna smiled and replied, “We’re doing fine, thanks.” Then she looked down at Dean. “We’re ready for some yummy breakfast!”

“Alright!” said Sherry.  “Let’s see what we can do.”

She seated the two then pulled out her pen and pad. “Are you limping?  Are you okay?” She asked.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just a sore foot.”  Donna replied.

Dean ordered pancakes and Donna ordered coffee and two slices of toast.  Sherry brought the food and set it down on the table. She looked at Dean. “No school today?”

Dean looked at his mom then back at Sherry. “No.” He paused then looked at his mom as if he expected a rescue. When she said nothing, he continued, “I had a stomach ache last night, and I didn’t sleep very good.”

A concerned look came over Sherry’s face, “Oh, Dean, I’m sorry.  Do you feel better now?”

“Yes.”

“That’s’ good. Maybe it was something you ate, right? Dean shrugged. “Well, from what I hear, pancakes do a belly a lot of good, so let’s hope they help out!”

Dean replied simply. “Yeah.”

When they finished eating, Sherry grabbed the plates and silverware and asked if everything was tasty. Dean looked up and smiled, “Yes. It was really good. Thank you.”

“You are such a fine young man, Dean. Someone has taught you well.”  And she looked at Donna and smiled. “Are you sure you don’t want anything more?” She looked behind her toward the kitchen then turned back toward Donna, winked, and whispered,  “I’m sure I can find some stray bacon back there.”  

“Oh, you’re sweet, but no thank you. Maybe next time.”

“Okay,” replied Sherry.  “The deal stands for next time.” And she looked back toward the kitchen again. “It’s a special…just for you two.”

They began walking out of the diner, and Sherry called out, “Take care of your foot, Donna.”

Donna smiled and said, “Oh, thank you. I will.”

“And don’t be a stranger, Dean. I hope I get to see you more often!”

Dean looked back at Sherry. “Me too. Bye!”