By Barbara Poelle
You swipe a hand over the mirror to clear the condensation and run a hand over your face. You are a tough yet attractive detective creased with the kind of wrinkles that give you character definition rather than age description. Pulling on a pair of familiar trousers you realize you have to inhale a bit before looping the button through the eyehole. You may not be able to run a mile in under 6 minutes anymore, but that layer of thickness around your waist somehow adds to your allure. And let’s be honest. You can’t live on seltzer water and celery sticks unless you’re trying to book Hollywood talkies rather than perps.
The car smells like burnt coffee. Unopened mail slides across the backseat as you pull out of the drive. You beep once to the love of your life, who raises a coffee cup in salute through the kitchen window as you shift and accelerate towards the end of the block.
This morning you have a rookie scuff shoe riding with you. A newbie. Despite being told the rook’s name once in the office and again when strapping into the car, you can’t remember it.
“Newb” seems to serve both of you just fine.
Newb seems nervous, but it’s laced with a focus and a vibration. Like the kind of energy Gordie Howe would radiate. You remind Newb that today is a day for watching and listening.
The first call seems straight forward enough; the blues have already been to the scene, looks like a nondescript domestic abuse taken to the next level.
The house, squat and drooping. The victim, still. The husband, MIA.
Newb is the only one having an original experience today.
You remind Newb to watch and listen.
There is the squawk and static of police radios. There are too many people in a small room. There is blood. You step to the center of the room, and confer with the first officer on site. Out of the corner of your eye you can see Newb looking at the entertainment unit. Newb should watch and listen. Newb has been told this, but no one can control Newb but Newb. You turn back to the cop, Grady. You have been on scene with Grady before.
Without warning, Newb crouches against the entertainment unit and pushes. A man in a blood stained Old Milwaukee t-shirt and ripped sweatpants explodes out of an impossibly small hiding space behind it. He is wild eyed, and cornered. He is clearly on something. There is maybe a millisecond where you all stand gaping at each other. Until you see the gun.
You are able to cross the small room faster than the husband can get the gun up, but not fast enough to take it away. You launch yourself in front of Newb as an explosion rocks the room and you are aware of the wetness before the pain.
The husband is down. There are a lot of men’s voices raised in only the way men’s voices can be raised in a small room where something animal and base has happened. Someone is rolling you over. It’s Newb.
You close your eyes.
Newb was only supposed to watch and listen today.
And that, my friends, is EXACTLY what it’s like when you read a brand new debut novel submission in its entirety and write a comprehensive, constructive pass letter citing both subjective opinions and industry tides, and wish the author the best of luck on their journey, and then receive something nasty, aggressive and even profanity-laced in response.
Newb? Today? You just Watch and Listen.
***This post is dedicated to my lovely, amazing colleague, The Beantown Baddy. Just hit delete and keep on trucking sister!
