That's Life

A sharp hard staccato knocking emanated from the door. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat. She could hear the sound echo down the hallway outside through the open transom above the door. Mumbled conversation. Men. Another door down the hallway opened. Mrs Portman. Roz tapped the ash from her cigarette into a gold ashtray shaped like an apple and narrowed her eyes at the door.

—NYPD. Open up.

Reality became instantly sharper. Harder. Clearer. A quick mental calculation of her current supply. Roz’s eyes flashed on the open film cannister of amphetamine sitting on the end table beside her. Picking it up, she approached the door.

—All the time that one making trouble in there, she heard Mrs Portman say. When I call the police, nobody comes, so this… I would like to know what this call was about.

—Ma’am, just step back inside your apartment, alright? came a rough deep rumbling voice.

—Loud music at all hours. Some of it I can stand, I like a good tune, but most of it… feh… at all hours. And suspicious characters? Don’t ask. Coming and going at all hours of the day and the night. I said to Sal, I said you gotta get that Pepper girl out of that apartment, because—

—Ma’am, we’re taking care of it. Ok? Then another rapping on the door. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat. —Open the door, this is NYPD.

Roz slapped the lid onto the film cannister, then tossed it frisbee-style out the open window directly beside the door. It landed on the roof of the Bowery Savings Bank next door, 40 feet below, exploding open upon impact and spilling A in a cascading arc across the loose gravel. Her stomach dropped at the sight. It pays to save at the Bowery. She pulled back the chain, turned both deadbolts, then opened the door. Two officers stood in the doorway in their short blue sleeves: one wide and round with an expression which combined anger and confusion, as if everything in the world was utterly infuriating, yet lay just outside his realm of comprehension; the other tall and sallow with greying hair, his eyes heavily lidded and somewhat sad, as if the hardest part of his job was simply remaining awake and enduring the ongoing trauma of life itself. Mrs Portman was still visible poking from her doorway, pink plastic rollers crowning her head. Roz leaned against the door jam and smiled, first at Mrs Portman, and then at the police. —Howdy-do, officers, how might I be of assistance? she asked.

—Rosalind Pepper? asked the taller officer. His voice fluttered slightly and matched his weary expression.

—She is. That’s her, officer. said Mrs Portman, stepping out into the hall.

The round officer turned toward her. —Ma’am. was all he said. There was a tone there. He sweated excessively, a dark shadow running from each armpit of his pale blue shirt.

—I musta really hit the bigtime if autograph seekers are comin right to my door. Roz said, winking at Mrs Portman.

—That’s obstruction. said Mrs Portman, stepping out in to the hallway. —Obstruction of justice. 

The round cop turned toward the woman in rollers. —What’re you, a troublemaker? Get the fuck back inside before I book you. The old woman blanched and retreated back inside her apartment. Door still not closed though. Old bat is listening.

The taller officer placed his hand on the door to Roz’s pad and pushed it open. —Miss Pepper, you’re under arrest for the assault of Leland Walker.

—Figures. said Roz.

The round officer turned back toward Roz and pulled out a pair of cuffs. —You got the right to remain silent, he said. The taller officer stepped into her pad and looked around at the surroundings. The round officer snapped the cuffs on Roz’s extended wrists. Their game; their rules. Play the game. —Anything you say can be used in court. You got the right to a lawyer. If you can’t afford a lawyer, one’ll be appointed for ya. 

The other officer patted her down briefly, her ass, then down her legs. Goosebumps stood up on her arms. —My record is still playin. she said.

—Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.

—Let’s go, said the taller officer, with his hand on her back. He pushed her out in to the hallway. She heard Mrs Portman’s door click closed as they passed by to the elevator.

Their 1968 Plymouth Fury patrol car was parked on 47th Street. One of the officers placed a hand on top of her head then pushed her in to the back seat and slammed the door. As they began to drive downtown the round one looked back at Roz in the rearview mirror. —What this guy do to ya, huh? 

—O, I was just practicing my moves. She mimicked Smokin Joe Frazier with her cuffed dukes and sang —That’s life … that’s what the people say. Riding high in April … shot down in May. But I know … I’m gonna change that tune ... when I’m back … on top in June. Said that’s life, ungh, funky as it may seem … some people get their kicks from steppin on a dream. But I don’t let it get me down, cause this whole world keeps goin round