"Want a slice?"
The flat cardboard box with tomato sauce and oil stains was flipped open to present two Margarita pieces sliding around with the steps of the Latino man, who respectfully held his arms out and maintained a cautious distance. The not really a square but a big space of concrete between the three busy lanes of Houston Street that funneled pedestrians into the subway entrance had a sphere of emptiness around Jackson. The aura of his uniform - not really much of a uniform if you looked closely it was an old t-shirt with the NYPD logo printed on it and dark shorts - gave Jackson and his partner Allan a bubble around them. Whenever someone stepped into the bubble, Jackson had to pull himself out of his daydreams.
"Yeah, sure, why not!"
Jackson pulled himself a slice off the pizza box. The super thing slice was so flexible that it wanted to escape his big fingers, but like a real New York, he simply folded the slice and solved that problem. The Latino man grinned really big like he had caught a coup for feeding the police officer. The grin was a mixture of public service pride to support and a gangster grin for having been brave enough to go up to the cop.
"Hey, that game was something special, right? Those Yankee boys wouldn't give up. They kept swinging until they turned it around."
The little interactions with civilians always came with talk. Jackson had learned that he could keep staring straight ahead. That was a relief because paying attention to them was tiring. The civilians probably didn't really expect a cop to have time to talk or to be too above it all to respond at all. They seemed happy enough to simply stand next to him and yap.
"Who's your favorite player, buddy?"
"Oh, man! Mariano Rivera of course! He closes game after game. He's like me. Fucks up a lot, but always comes through in the end!"
That was the other thing about the civilians who approached him. They were usually living half on the street. They were somewhere keenly aware of their shortcomings but had an ironclad belief that was tied to some kind of idea about why they were the coolest cat that walked the NYC streets. The Latino man's clothes were plain, poorly fitted, and worn to the point of showing their age. He was one of the harmless ones who might pass a tip about a serious crime. It was good to keep them entertained and comfortable to hang out.
The Latino man wandered off into the crowd. A swarm of Asian college students migrated downtown from NYU to cheap housing in the Lower East Side. A couple dressed up with a sports jacket on him and knee-high leather boot stilettos sauntered to a social restaurant meeting in the East Village. A group of black kids on bikes careened out of Alphabet City, popping wheelies, hollering, screaming, and swerving across multiple lanes going the wrong way. An old man, his chin bowed forward to his knees, pushed a dilapidated wheelchair backwards and asked every passer in a tone that was so weak and poorly enunciated that one couldn't tell what he said but knew it to be: "Spare a dollar? Spare a dollar? Spare a dollar?"
Jackson ignored the petty things. A bright white flash indicated another car ran the red light. An unmistakable bang of metal crunching. Jackson didn't move. An irate driver ran up to him. "Is anybody hurt? No? Call the insurance! No, not our problem. Call the insurance!"
A sudden running right where the stairs spilled the subway riders onto the sidewalk followed by a chubby woman coming up to Jackson. "Sorry to hear that about your purse, ma'am. You can file a police report at the station. Go up to Fifth Street and make a right."
A sneaky, lanky guy mumbling "blow, blow, blow" in fast succession like he was putting out a deal shocked himself when he noticed Jackson standing there. He apologized profusely that it was all a misunderstanding and that he was only singing a song that was in his head. When Jackson didn't react, the guy started singing a song. The guy was really tall. His arms and legs kept moving and swaying constantly like someone really uncomfortable and really sketchy as well as very unpredictable. When Jackson still didn't react, the guy drew closer and whispered with subterfuge, "I give you a cop discount!" To that Jackson looked straight at him and barked, "If you show me that shit, I have to confiscate it! Move on!" The guy ran away until the other side of the street where he turned around and loved uncontrollably unable to believe his luck of having gotten away with dealing drugs in front of a cop.
People in the street were unbelievably filthy: drugged and drunk; unwashed and nasty; sick and infectious; torn rags and clothes found in the streets; stealing and cheating; unreasonable and quick to fight. Jackson always had his gloves at the ready to not have to touch them. He knew to grab for his nightstick to beat them back before they could stab him with a knife. However, for days on end, all of that stayed outside the bubble that Jackson and Allan had around themselves. Mostly, it was waiting, shining the presence of the police so that the tough guys would move a few blocks deeper into the rougher parts, and being okay with coming close to it all. If you tightened up, you only antagonized them. As much as they were animals and like rats constantly testing boundaries, they had a very keen sense of where real boundaries light. That's what allowed them to survive to teeter on the edge of society - half on the street and half in some temporary housing. NYC with its expenses is savage in how it pushes people to the edge and to fight to hang on.
Right at the edge of their bubble was a young woman, maybe twenty-five years old. She was small. Her curly hair was matted together. She wore cheap clothes from one of those guys that sells them spread out on the sidewalk - $5 a top, $3 a pair of shoes, and $1 a scarf. The way she stood was very much pulled into herself - a figure that stood motionless: no expression on the face, and no signs on her clothes to tell what kind of person she was. Jackson was trained to be cautious about the people that stood at the edge of the bubble. There usually was a reason. Either they were trying to work up the nerve to do something or they were seeking protection from somebody. These figures could sometimes be stationary for hours and in a split second burst into wild action. They could mean a car speeding down the street for a crazy shootout. As harmless and quiet as that little, young woman appeared, he knew he had to watch her and anyone coming towards her with the utmost care.
A loud, shrill voice cut from the distance: "Bitch! I fuck your man any time I please! His cock was in my ass. Yeah! My middle name is liberty! Fuck you! I love cock! I love cock white, black, brown, and yellow!" It sounded like a woman having a heated phone conversation. However, the way how the conversation never had a change in mood or tone, it appeared more and more like a crazy person talking to herself pretending to hold a phone to her ear. And then she came around the corner: Orange construction cone on her head, a black bra on her chest, a short skirt, and black stripper heels. She looked very sexy the way how her boob cleavage was round and yummy. She oozed sexuality out of ever pore. Her feet were succulent black feet. Her eyes were full of youth. However, she also had a dangerous crazy aura around her like she might stab you the next moment or turned a trick in a doorway without protection.
She passed the cops. The back of her skirt was stuck in the waistband. Her panties were deeply wedged between her butt cheeks. For all to see, it looked like her butt was completely bare and in the open. It was a really beautiful one, ripe, full, and round with skin that was chocolatey dark and smooth. The particular shape cried use and sexuality. After she had given the cops a chance to watch her backside, she stopped and turned around. "Frank! You like what you see?" She had decided a few months ago that Jackson's name was Frank.
Frank smirked. He couldn't help the sexual aura that she oozed, but he knew better. She sauntered up to Jackson. She came so close that it would have seemed that she'd caress his chest, but she was cautious about touching police. Too close for polite conversation, she let the deep eye contact linger. "You like me, Frank! I can see it in your eyes!" He did indeed feel the irresistible sexual attraction that she exuded, but he knew too much about where any response would lead. "You look so sad, Frank! Let me take away your sadness! I'll be real good to you!" She looked worried at him in such a convincing and deeply felt way that only a con artist could have perfected the pouting look with the big eyes and tenderly held emotions.
"Frank, I'll make you a deal. Twenty and you can put it in me!"
