THE BOLAN CHRONICLES: Reading #38

38. Approximate Minutes Reading (AMR): 3

Introduction to Characters

THE BOLAN CHRONICLES

Chapter 3
A Real Live Policeman

**Officer Jake Bolan**

Bolan’s first year on the force was somewhat smooth. He generally kept clean, kept his mouth shut, and did as he was told. When he was given what he considered to be a shitty schedule, he took it with a smile, and he didn’t hesitate to work beyond expectations, whether that meant more hours or extra effort. 

All of his fellow officers considered him an all-around good guy, and there wasn’t any who didn’t want to share a shift with the witty Bolan. He’d treat citizens just exactly as expected, following protocol to the letter, then he and his partner would return to the squad car, and Jake would turn and say something like, “I ain’t neva’ seen dumb like ‘at bufow!”  Or he would pull out his ledger and say, “I’m sorry, was that dip-shit or dumb-shit? I done forgot the first name.”  And the fellow officer would laugh. Jake loved and thrived on it. 

But he was careful. He knew when to be serious. He always finished his paperwork in a timely manner, unlike so many of the other newbies that he’d worked with. More than anything, he showed the utmost respect to any of higher rank than himself. Even the detectives enjoyed the pronounced admiration from Bolan. In time, Jake enjoyed the same in return. 

He was an up-and-coming, to be sure. Jake Bolan was gradually becoming the Lieutenant Dan “Hondo” Harrelson of the 80’s, but Jake had dreams beyond Lieutenant.

As for Donna, adjusting to the changes that came with being a police officer’s wife was relatively easy. She rarely complained about his long shifts and late nights. She occasionally preoccupied her thoughts with his safety, but she was certain that Jake’s natural abilities and intuition would serve to bring him home safe and sound every night.  

Donna found motherhood to be a kind combatant to the occasional fear that most police wives experience. Little Dean was a bit quieter than the average toddler, but his frequent silence was balanced by his perceptible curiosity with the world around him. He would stare at common objects for unusually long periods of time. And he pointed often, something that both his mother, but mostly his father, attributed to a kind of natural curiosity and  higher than average intellect.

Donna once had come out from the kitchen and into the living room and seen Dean on his hands and knees, completely still. Just before her hands reached to pick him up, she noticed that he had been staring at a white patch of something on the carpet. When she realized that he had regurgitated the bottle of milk that he’d finished a few minutes prior, she drew her hands back and put one of them over her mouth. Eyes wide open, she mumbled, “Oh, my goodness.”  Little Dean looked up at her then immediately back at the white puddle before him. He pointed his pudgy little finger at it. Donna watched him for a moment longer then finally picked him up. She said sweetly, “You made a little mess there, Dean.”  Dean stared back, transfixed at the white remains. “It’s okay, Sweetie.  Mommy will take care of it.”

Jake wasn’t as interested in the intricacies of Dean’s personality traits as he was in bragging to his buddies and colleagues about the brilliance of his son. He’d take an event that Donna had described and turn it into the most amazing kid-story ever. His first chance to tell his fellow officers about the regurgitated milk incident revealed a toddler with the vocabulary of a child twice its age. Jake’s version of the story included Dean looking up at his mom and pointing to his stomach then back at the white puddle. “That little guy’s got somethin’ special, I’m tellin’ ya!” They believed his every word. Jake was an expert at re-molding the truth.  

He experienced more pleasant than poor days on the job, so life at home, for the first year was generally good. If a day on the job went poorly, Jake would simply walk into the house, greet Donna with an, “I’m home,” then make his way down to his Peace Room.

By the end of the third year of marriage, Donna had learned to carefully choose both what and how she said things around Jake. She knew to be careful when he was quiet. When he would look up at her coldly after having been asked a simple question, then look away, she knew not to ask again.

One Friday evening, Jake returned home after a rather long and discouraging day on street patrol, and Donna, in a particularly giddy mood, greeted him with a big smile, arms open wide, and an attempted hug. Jake lifted his hands and said, “Not now, Donna. Just give me some space.”

“Okay, Honey. Tough day?”

Jake glanced at her briefly as he walked past and headed for the bathroom.

Donna continued, “Well, you’re home now, and…”

Before she could finish, Jake turned and grabbed the first thing he saw, an ivory bookend, and threw it on the ground. He was shaking, and a bead of sweat made its way down his right temple. Eerily calm, he said, “By give me my space, Donna, I meant for you to shut the fuck up.” Then he looked down and pointed at the bookend, “Now, why don’t you take care of that.” It wasn’t a request.