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Friday, August 12, 2016

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 9th 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.

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