At last the box had been opened.
Joy Ride peeked his head out to see police and post people staring down from below white iridescent lights and powder blue walls. Starkly contrasting dark blue uniforms reached with latex hands and picked the 2-year-old boy out of his cardboard coffin.
“You can’t just do that,” said one of the older postal workers. “You can’t just mail a baby. It doesn’t make sense. What kind of people…”
He was cut off when the officer whispered to his female colleague, “It reeks!” As if Joy Ride we’re even a person!
I am not an it! Joy Ride said. No one seemed to pay attention to his remark, however.
“What’s going to happen to… um… him? Her?” a postal employee asked an officer.
“We’re going to take him down to the station and fingerprint him before child services takes him into custody,” He replied, handing the infant to another officer. “Now did you hear the baby from the box? How could you tell it was a living creature?”
“It was the nature of the order,” replied a postal worker, Greg as described by his nametag. “There was no return address on a 25-pound package. Twenty ‘fragile’ labels adorned the box and, when I called the delivering post office, they said the suspect was wearing a mask when he…” Greg looked at the child, again. “…Or she mailed it.”
“A mask?” asked the officer. ‘Connelly’ glimmered golden from his nametag. “What kind of mask?”
“It was a Ronald Reagan mask, sir; like from that one movie, with Keanu Reeves in it…” his speech trailed off as he looked to the other postal workers for an answer. “Speed?”
“No, that wasn’t it,” replied a Horatio, another male postal worker, as he looked in the box for other clues.
“The Matrix?” asked the other officer. Both Horatio and Greg looked at him. Janice was pinching clear packaging tape between her thumb and forefinger from behind her two male postal-workers.
“No, that’s not it,” she said.
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to stop that,” said Officer Connelly.
“It was about extreme sports,” said officer Williams, with a smile on his face, glad to be helping in the conversation. “They jumped from an airplane!”
Greg, Horatio, and Janice all looked at each other in realization of the asinine turn of the conversation. Officer William and Officer Connelly, in reaction to USPS’s finest, grunted and then cleared their throats. Officer Williams took out a pad of paper and a pen. “Can you tell me what time of day this happened?” he asked.
“It was about noon, sir,” said Janice. “I talked to the other office, they said it was about noon.”
She hesitated for a moment.
“…sir,” she finished.
“Is there any security footage from the other post office?” asked Officer Williams.
USPS all nodded to each other and then to Officer Williams and Connelly.
“There should be,” said Greg.
“There always is,” said Horatio.
“At least, there’s supposed to be,” said Janice.
Joy Ride farted. Everyone winced.
“It’s not…” asked Janice
“It doesn’t appear to be,” replied Officer Connelly.
“It only came from the other side of town,” said Greg.
“What’s the address on the packed?” asked Officer Williams, in a deep tone, with authority, “Where’s it, uh… sent… to…”
Officer William’s voice trailed off as Joy Ride rubbed his eye with one fist.
“Wow, it is alive,” said Janice.
“There’s no…” said Greg.
“Let’s get it down to the station. Right now,” said Officer Connelly, with authority. “This child needs food and water.”
“And a bath!” said Janice.
The group made awkward faces and each turned it’s head as Officer Connelly continued to hold the baby with straight arms. He gagged.
“Zero-Six-Niner-Niner we’re bringing in a… um… two-year-old Caucasian male, no identification,” Officer Williams talked into his shoulder.
“Roger that,” replied.
“I’m not cleaning out the backseat,” said Officer Williams, taking a turn on Clifton Avenue.
“Neither am I!” said Officer Williams.
They looked at each other and threw their fists out.
Uhn, Uhn, Uhn.
“Ah! Rock beats paper!” said Officer Williams.
“No it doesn’t,” replied Officer Connelly. “Scissors beats paper.”
“Oh yeah. Rock beats scissors,” said Officer Williams.
“Best two out of three?”
“No dynamite.”
“No dynamite.”
Uhn, Uhn, Uhn.
“You’re cleaning out the back, bitch!” said Officer Connelly.
“Not in front of the kid!” said Officer Williams.
Inside Car number 22 in the Denver City Police Department, a dispatch radio buzzed, sending sounds to the backseat, where Joy Ride has his first ride in a police car, staring out the window to the white street lights that rushed past.
Ten years later, Joy Ride was kicking the back seat of a police car, his hands cuffed behind his back. “You pig fuckers!”
Officer Williams and Officer Connelly, now with mustaches and some extra body fat, read young Joy Ride’s rap sheet as he continued to kick the back seat of the car.
“I don’t get it, is he Mexican?” asked Officer Connelly.
“He kind of looks Turkish,” replied Officer Williams.
“I had a cousin who married a Turkish guy,” said Connelly, “good Guy. Great cook.”
“Is this the same…” Officer Connelly began.
“No, it couldn’t be.”
They continued down the entensive rap sheep, dating back ten years ago to the post office incident.
“It’s the same kid.”
Joy Ride kept kicking the back seat, yelling obscenities and flushing his face against the glass of the police car. “You pig motherfuckers, get. Me. Out. Of. These. Cuffs.” He kicked the back seat with each syllable.
Connelly and Williams moved to the back, passenger side of the squad car and closed the door.
“You’re a Republican, right Connelly?”
Joy Ride had stopped kicking the back seat of the car and turns his head around to get a glimpse of the two lawmen.
Williams had been taken aback by his colleague’s question. “I go to church, if that’s what you mean.”
“Well, you know, what would Jesus do in a situation like this?” asked Connelly.
Williams grunted a laugh, “besides tan his damn backside?”
“I mean, this kid’s just going to end up in juvie with all the other kids with no background. Shouldn’t we do something other than just bring him in? He needs real guidance.”
Joy Ride, Officer Williams and Officer Connelly sat in a red booth at an off-white table next to the painted walls of Casa Del Hoya, a Mexican cantina-style restaurant with dim lighting. They both stared at Joy Ride, who was twisting and untwisting his butter knife into his napkin. Williams and Connelly looked at each other with the same thought to take it away before he could use it as a weapon, and silently agreed that he was only twelve and it would be best to show him some trust.
Ahem. Williams cleared his throat, putting his right arm on the table. At the same time, a waiter appeared wearing a white apron and a sombrero.
“Hello Officers, I’m Francisco, like the city, and I’ll be your server today. What can I get you guys to drink?”
“We’ll both have waters and you can have whatever you like,” replied Officer Williams.
“I’ll have a beer then.”
Francisco looked at the officers, who looked at each other.
There was silence for a moment.
“I’ll be right back with those drinks,” he smiled, nervously and walked to the back of the restaurant, his long white apron fluttering in front of him with each kick.
Both officers returned their attention to Joy Ride who was, apparently, un-phased that he had got away with such a request. J.R. continued to twist his knife, while Officer Williams and Connelly shifted uncomfortably in their seats, now apparently intimidated by the young boy.
“Son, you, uh, you can’t…” began officer Connelly.
“You can’t do that to cats. What you did. You can’t do that,” finished Officer Williams.
“It just ain’t right,” said Connelly.
Joy Ride looked up from his knife for a moment. Both officers shifted again, uncomfortable.
“You know,” began Connelly, “we found you in a box about ten years ago at that post office, just right there down the street.”
Williams looked at Connelly as if he had said something inappropriate. Then cleared his throat. “Son…”
“I’m not your son,” said Joy Ride, with confidence.
“Young man,” Connelly picked up, “there’s do’s and there’s don’t when it comes to touching animals. You wanna pet a cat, that’s a do. You wanna do what you did to a cat, that’s a don’t.”
“It’s a mistake, son,” said Williams.
Joy Ride looked up again; Williams looked down.
“Look, ya… ya don’t…” Connelly tried to stammer out each word to describe what he had read on the rap sheet.
“You know, young ladies might be interested in a guy like you,” said Williams, “but you can’t go around doing what you did to animals. Girls don’t like that.”
Francisco returned with their drinks. Two waters and a beer. “You guys, uh, ready to order?”
“Five minutes!!” barked Connelly, slamming his hand onto the table sending a bell-ring of cutlery and alerting other patrons to the table’s presence.
“O-K,” said Francisco rolling his eyes and walking away.
Conelly’s eyes widened and his mustache twitched. He watched Francisco walk away, until Francisco was out of sight.
“You’re going to an orphanage,” said Officer Williams. “Does that sound like fun to you, son?”
As if in one swift motion, Joy Ride’s third warning came in the form of a three point, cat-like pounce atop the table, kicking a full bottle of beer into the officers glass cups, sending shattered glass and water into the air. He jumped onto the floor, using table 21 as a Parkor-style kick-off, all at once while snatching Officer William’s keys from atop the table.
“That little shit!” a woman at an adjacent table yelled.
“That little shit,” said officer Williams, getting up to chase Joy Ride. Tripping over Connelly, who was still in shock, picking the glass from his wet hair.
Barely reaching the pedal of Williams and Connelly’s squad car, Joy Ride whipped the Ford over a curb, through a trestle of bushes and cinder and onto the six-lane street. As Williams and Connelly exasperatingly reached the outer restaurant, cars were spinning to miss the young driver who overtook three lanes. Speeding off.
Officers Connelly’s muffled voice spoke into his shoulder radio, reporting the incident as Officer William’s watched his squad car disappear into the distance. His mind fell silent to disappointment as the tires screeched around a corner.
Joy Ride sped down a residential street and through a red light. A passing semi plowed into the driver’s side of the police car and sent he car spinning into traffic pole. Joy Ride was immediately killed.
Don’t mail babies.
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