3. Libby
Libby
I Was A Short Little Fat Girl Once
I was nine years old when I witnessed my father try to murder a boy.
I always knew he was a bad man, a bad cop, but I was never privy to how truly crooked he was.
I always assumed; it was like an oily sheen coating my life the way oil coated Jude Donohue’s hair.
But it wasn’t until that boy ran out of Abel Hayes’ office on that windy day and toppled down the stairs that I knew it.
Gunner Bishop was tall, so insanely tall, with long arms and legs.
He reminded me of a baby chimpanzee. A baby giraffe.
A baby anything in the wild. With too-long limbs and uncoordinated movements.
I cried out when he tripped and toppled down the stairs.
I was so scared he’d broken a bone and would need to go to the hospital for a cast, but then he jumped up again and kept going.
My true horror didn’t begin until bullets zinged by his head. Until I turned to find that the man holding the gun was my father. Then I screamed. And screamed. And screamed.
I screamed so much that my father hit me and I went to sleep. I woke again with a bruised jaw and a plane ticket back to school.
And school is where I remained for the next nine years until I graduated and ran.
I ran to the police station, not to report a crime, but to ask about joining.
How could I become a cop? How can I undo the things my father did?
How can I help the boys of today, when I couldn’t help that boy of yesterday?
Sighing, I let myself into my cramped apartment and toss my keys onto the counter just inside the door.
My apartment was advertised as open-plan living.
What it actually is, is a tiny box apartment that lacks enough room not to be open.
My kitchen, dining, and living area are one space.
Open living, yes, but in reality, it’s literally just one small room.
My kitchen is galley-style and ends with a tiny gas stove.
My counter serves as divider and eating space.
I have two stools on the other side. Two, because they were sold in a pack.
And the backs of those brush the back of my couch.
I went out and bought a cute little round table when I was approved for my apartment.
It was a café type table, barely enough room for two regular-sized adults to sit around without bumping into each other.
I just wanted a table to celebrate my emancipation, but even a two-foot round table was two feet too big.
It lasted one night, one breakfast, and one stubbed toe before I tossed it to the curb and awaited collection.
Now I eat at the counter when I want to feel fancy, or on the couch when I don’t care enough to not be a slob.
It’s just me here. I have no one to impress. No one to answer to. When I’m off-shift, I’m a loner, and I like it that way.
My galley kitchen is enough to cook a good meal in. My plates are chipped, but still hold a meal. My silverware isn’t real silver, unlike the kind I ate with as a child, but a fork is a fork, and I will never eat with real silver again if I can help it.
I was raised with money. None of it was ours, and none of it was promised for tomorrow.
But money abounded, nonetheless, and my father became a prisoner to the very thing he thought he wanted.
He thought Colum Bishop – the man I only knew as ‘Uncle’ for the longest time – was his savior.
In reality, Colum was his warden. He thought money would solve his problems, but really, it created many more.
Now, Colum is dead, and I sat in the back row of the courtroom the day they sentenced Raymond Tate to life without parole.
I’m the new Officer Tate, and every day that I pin my tag onto my chest and read it in the mirror, I force myself to be proud of who I am.
My father and I are not the same person, we’re not the same cop. I shouldn’t let the actions of another man dictate how I feel about myself.
Often, I’m able to do that. I can let it go and know that I’m making a positive difference in my world. But other times, times like today when the memories of a boy haunt me, I can’t seem to separate one Tate from another.
Maybe I should have changed my name. It could have been symbolic, and the beginning of my own new and improved history.
Stopping by my fridge, I take out a bottle of water and a plate of chicken breast that I began defrosting before shift last night.
I was supposed to clock off from work twelve hours ago.
I ended up staying on three hours longer than I was supposed to because of Jude Donohue and his need for cigarettes, and after that, I drove myself into the city an hour away and paid a visit to my father at the prison.
I don’t visit because I love him. I don’t miss him.
I feel no loyalty to him. I visit because I need the visual proof that he’s still locked away.
I need to see his pasty skin and unshaved face.
I need to see the baggy jumpsuit and ugly shoes.
I need to see the way his fingernails carry the white lines from lack of nutrition and sunlight. I need to see his sunken chest.
I need to see proof of his incarceration, and I need to know he’s not enjoying his time locked away.
Almost every single time I visit, he gets worked up and lands himself in trouble. Thirty days in segregation? Yes, please.
Many prisons have moved on from in-person visits, and instead provide the inmates with screen time. Seven dollars for ten minutes of video calling is the best they get these days. But I’m a cop, so when I visit, I get concessions that standard visitors don’t.
Sipping my water, I walk around my counter and snatch up the remote for my TV, flick it on, and toss the remote back to my couch. I live alone, and I’m totally fine with that, but I still like the noise. I like feeling like someone is here, even if they’re not talking to me.
The screen flickers on to the nine o’clock news roundup of the day.
Highlights catch me up on anything I’ve missed, which is basically nothing.
The local news speaks of an attempted robbery at the gas station.
The sports section talks of local fighters and an upcoming bout.
And then the national highlights come up, and the lion logo we all know makes me pause.
“ Griffin Industries has made shockwaves today as they sell their shares in an international tech company coming out of China, despite predictions stock values are set to rise. When requested, Mr. Griffin declined to speak with us, citing scheduling conflicts and personal travel. Stock market insiders are claiming Mr. Griffin’s constant demand for seclusion might have finally caught up with his mental well-being.
” The camera pans away from the anchor in a studio, and instead stops on a younger man standing in front of the high-rise building known as Griffin Plaza. “What do you think, Garry? ”
“ I say he’s a freak !” The young man being interviewed throws his hands in the air with exasperation.
“ He sold twelve million in shares today, which is great and all for those of us who gobbled them up, but this time next week, that twelve million will be worth fifty, easily! I’m certain of it.
I don’t know what he’s smoking, but it got into his brains and jumbled things up. The dude has more money than sense. ”
“ And now he has thirty-eight million less than he could have. ”
“ Right !” Garry rolls his eyes. “ If he doesn’t like money, I’ll take it. That’s all I’m saying. ”
“ Did you buy some of the shares while they were going cheap, Garry? As our financial expert, would you suggest regular moms and dads should take a look at dipping into the stock market? ”
“ I can’t tell the good folks at home what to do with their money…” He pauses and stares right into the camera. “But I bought stock. ”
The news program runs through a montage of everything Griffin.
I’ve seen it all before, because the company isn’t exactly low-key, though it’s possibly not something you’d notice if you weren’t into the new technology hitting the market.
Many folks in the street know the brand the way we know Kleenex is a tissue, and Pepsi is a drink.
They know their laptops have that lion logo on the front, and their phones have the lion insignia on the back.
But beyond that, it’s doubtful they think about it.
It’s just there . We’ve been conditioned for more than a decade to know that brand, so although everyone spends their money on Griffin tech the way they used to automatically spend their money at Apple, most don’t care enough to know who sits behind the helm.
Today wasn’t the first time Theodore Griffin has been asked for an interview.
And it’s not the first time he’s declined.
His reputation is based upon being unseen.
If you Google “Griffin Industries,” you’ll see the logos, but you won’t see Theodore himself.
If you ask around, many will say they’ve met him, but none will produce photographic evidence of such a meet.
If you spoke to a Griffin employee, they will almost exclusively wax on about how wonderful it is – strict, hard work, but rewarding – and how they never intend to leave.
The common belief is that Griffin is good to people, but he doesn’t do press. He doesn’t do events. He doesn’t do TV. He doesn’t do any of the things the world expects of him.
And I guess I can respect that about him.
My job can often become synonymous with the press and relations with the community, but I’ll be the first to run away and hide when asked for an interview.
Alex spoke to the local news anchor today about the gas station burglary.
Oz claimed he was off-duty, and I hid in the bathroom, but Alex is our chief, so he was suckered into stepping in front of the camera, where he questioned his ability to be a people person . His snapped answers made me smile.
None of us want to dance for the circus, so I can respect Griffin’s need to stay away.
I don’t deal with the stock market. I don’t do tech. I hardly upgrade my phone, and only when I absolutely must because the operating systems have been updated so much that my phone becomes a brick in my pocket.
I live a humble life and do nothing that would ever appear to be connected to my father’s world.
Big houses, nope . Fancy cars, nope . Next year’s devices, nope .
I cook at home and eat in six nights out of seven, and almost never order takeout.
I accept no free coffee at the local fast food restaurant, despite their pledge to feed the town’s first responders for free.
And every year when we run the cops-versus-firemen charity baseball game, a game played to raise funds for the children’s ward in the local hospital, I make my donations anonymously, and play the game with the men.
Because I can hit a home run with the best of them.
Turning my TV to the music channel, I toss the remote down and walk back to the kitchen to get started on my dinner.
It’s late, I haven’t slept in almost forty hours, I’m spending another Friday night in.
I intend to cook chicken and rice, land in bed forty-five minutes from now, and tomorrow afternoon, I’ll hit the gym like I do most other days.
I was a short little fat girl once, who was picked on by skinny bitches with attitudes far bigger than their muscles.
Now I’m average height and don’t have fat dimples anywhere. I never wear Mary Janes, I never wear dresses, I never glut on complex carbs, even after a forty-hour sleep famine, and when I get to the gym, I don’t let the offered excuse of ‘ You’re a woman, you don’t have to lift that much ’ deter me.