Omission （n.） – Olivia
OMISSION (N.):
FAILURE TO PERFORM AN ACT AGREED TO, WHERE THERE IS A DUTY TO AN INDIVIDUAL OR THE PUBLIC TO ACT (INCLUDING OMITTING TO TAKE CARE) OR WHERE IT IS REQUIRED BY LAW.
OLIVIA
“And the final winning lottery numbers for the latest Powerball are…” The man onscreen was pausing far too long, as if he didn’t have my life hanging in his hands. “Seven, eighteen, twenty-five, thirty-seven, sixty-four, and three. And the lucky Powerball number is forty-three!”
“Ugh!” I tore up my ticket. “Who the hell picks these types of numbers?”
“Thank you to everyone who purchases tickets for the lottery,” the man continued, “Because of your tickets, we are able to donate a big chunk of proceeds toward ending poverty nationwide.”
“Why haven’t I received a check then?” I turned off the television because he could launch into all the other “amazing” things the lottery did for people.
Amazing things that never seemed to trickle down toward me.
Between all the ‘lucky’ tickets, scratch-offs, and pick-style games I’d played, the most I’d won was five dollars.
Well, that and a handful of free losing tickets.
Still, for some odd reason, I couldn’t stop playing; I honestly believed that my life had swung so far into suckage territory that the universe was bound to start making things better soon.
At least, I needed it to…
“Yo, Olivia?” Sam, my roommate’s on-and-off boyfriend called from down the hall. “You still out there?”
Nope… I bit my tongue and grabbed my jacket.
“Olivia, you out there or did you already leave for work?” He tried again. “I’ll give you ten dollars if you give me and Lindsay a ride to work today!”
You still owe me money for all the rides before.
I tiptoed backwards, making sure my feet didn’t hit the floorboards too hard. Then I grabbed my favorite flats and slipped out of the apartment.
Rushing down the hall, I pushed my way into the emergency stairwell and ran down all fifteen flights.
Making my way to the parking lot, I noticed a bright pink “parking violation” sticker stuck under my windshield wipers.
Tearing it off, I folded it in half and tucked it into my glovebox with all the others.
I pulled onto the street and headed out of New Jersey and into Manhattan.
With every mile, my heart beat a little bit heavier and tears pricked my eyes.
I’d mastered the art of not letting them fall, though. It’d taken me three years to learn that crying over things I couldn’t control didn’t earn me anything except red puffy eyes and a migraine.
Still, no matter how many times I neared the bridge, memories of my life before a certain incident crashed into my mind.
Back when newspaper editors were clamoring for my words, when “layoffs” were a cruel word I wrote about without having any idea what it meant, and back when I could wear my heart on my sleeve without worrying about someone snatching it away for spiteful slaughter.
“Deep breaths, Liv,” I muttered as I coasted under the steel towers. “Focus on the river, focus on the river…”
I was halfway across when the images from my past began to shift from full, vivid color to monochromatic gray.
“Weeeee—ooooo! Weeee—oooo!”
A loud siren suddenly snapped me out of my thoughts. I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw blue and white lights flashing right behind me.
Ugh. Not today.
Hoping the cop wasn’t following me, I switched lanes, but then he switched, too.
Shit…
Sighing, I pulled into the emergency lane and rolled down my window.
I slid a hand under my seat, reaching for the fake pregnancy bump that Lindsay used to get out of a stop last week, but it wasn’t there.
I hoped for a warning and stared straight ahead until the officer moved right next to my car.
“Good afternoon, Miss.” He waited for me to look at him. “Do you have any idea why I pulled you over this morning?”
“To let me off with a very nice warning?”
“No.” His voice was terse. “You were going twenty miles over the speed limit.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was honestly deep in thought…I had no idea.”
“Your tags are also expired.”
“Not by long, right?” I asked. “I meant to get those handled last month, but I got distracted.”
“They’re expired by six months.” He held out his hand. “I need your license and registration, please.”
I held back a groan and reached in the backseat for my purse, but it wasn’t there. I gasped and felt under the seat, but it wasn’t there either.
Oh my god… I’d been too focused on escaping my apartment that I forgot to grab it.
“Officer,” I said, trying to stay calm, “I forgot my purse at home.”
“Interesting.” He lifted his shades, revealing a stern set of green eyes. “Do you have any form of identification on you?”
“I have some receipts in my glovebox.”
“Do they have your picture on them?”
“No, but…My signature is very distinct.”
He gave me a blank stare.
“I can also phone a friend,” I said. “Or I can call my mom.”
“That’s not how this works.” He shook his head. “What’s your date of birth and social?”
“My social?”
“Yes, your social, Miss. As in your social security number.”
“I can show you my Instagram page.” I picked up my phone. “I just posted on it last night.”
“My demands of what I need from you were very clear…”
“I have Facebook as well,” I said. “Oh, and I can ask my roommate to take a picture of my license and text it to me in like five minutes if you’re willing to wait.”
He pulled a notepad from his pocket, looking as if he wasn’t listening to a single word I was saying.
“I swear I’m not trying to be difficult,” I said. “I just—I watch a lot of true crime and giving out social security numbers always leads to someone being scammed.”
“You think a police officer is going to scam you?” he asked. “With his body camera rolling?”
“Dirty cops are a real thing, you know…”
“Ma’am—” He rolled his eyes and clicked his pen. “Give me your goddamn date of birth and your social. Now.”
“555-09-0978” I gave up the fight.
“Thank you. I’ll be right back.”
I watched him return to his car through my rearview mirror, and I tried to mentally calculate just how many extra hours at work this ticket would cost me.
Four hours at each job, minimum…Maybe six?
The officer slammed the door to his car shut and strolled back to my driver’s side window.
“Miss Spencer,” he said, “Are you aware that there’s a bench warrant out for your arrest?”
“A what?”
“A bench warrant from three months ago,” he said. “You failed to report to court on a series of violations.”
What violations?
“Um, no…” I shook my head. “You must have me confused with another Olivia Spencer.”
“So, you’re not the same Olivia Spencer with six outstanding parking tickets?”
“Uh…” It was actually eight, but I wasn’t going to admit to that.
“I need you to grab your personal belongings and step out of the vehicle, Miss Spencer.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re officially under arrest.”
“For what?”
“You have the right to remain silent.” He pulled a set of handcuffs from his belt loop. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”
His words went over my head, and I was tempted to run away in hopes of ending what had to be a nightmare.
“I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head. “What exactly did I do?”
“I’ll explain it on the drive to the jail.” He opened my door. “Don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be.”
Jail? I froze, completely stunned by what was happening.
“I’m legally required to take you into custody,” he said, as if he could read my mind. “It’s still early morning, so with luck, you can get through central booking and see a judge for your arraignment by lunch.”
“But I’m not a criminal…”
“Right now, technically you are.” He motioned for me to step out. “Grab your things.”
My heart raced as I turned off the engine and pulled out the keys. I grabbed my phone and joined the officer in the rain.
“Turn around so I can place you in handcuffs,” he said.
“I’m not going to run.” I could barely hear myself. “I swear.”
“You’d be surprised how many times I hear that.” He gently spun me around, and the next thing I felt was cold metal clamping down on my wrists.
“Alright, step toward my patrol car, please.”
“Wait a minute.” I looked over my shoulder. “What happens to my car?”
“Nothing to worry about.” He shrugged. “It’ll be towed to the impound lot and you can pay to get it out.”
“Okay, please wait.” I stopped walking and turned around to face him. “Can you not do this?”
“Not do my job?”
“Not arrest me for traffic tickets.” I pleaded. “Like, they’re just meter maids and parking stuff, right?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Turn around and keep walking.”
“What about a trade?” I asked, trying one last time. “I’m a really good writer and I can—”
“If you don’t turn around right now and start walking to my car, I’m going to add ‘resisting arrest’ to your charges.”
I immediately turned around.
“Save whatever you have to say for the judge,” he said. “He’s the one who can give you mercy.”
My fingers trembled as I walked down a long gray hallway at Central Booking.
The officer who arrested me was long gone now, leaving me with a new female officer who’d simply demanded that I “keep walking forward.”
We stopped in front of a door where the words “INMATE INTAKE” screamed in bright red.
“Spread your legs for me, please,” she said from behind. “I need to pat you down one final time for any contraband.”
“But...” I slowly moved. “They searched at the doors when I arrived already.”
“Well, now I’m going to do it again.”
“I’m writing a letter to all of your managers whenever I get out of here…”
She ignored my comment and gently slid her hands along the outside of my pants. Then she moved her hands up my sides before patting down my head.
“All clear.” She yelled out. “Open the door.”
Beep!
The door opened, revealing a room of women sitting in white and blue plastic chairs. Only a few of them looked as terrified as I felt.
“You picked one of the worst days to mess up.” The officer unlocked my handcuffs. “Move toward the desk station on your left for your fingerprints and your photo.”