Early to Rise

Soot mars the sign like a black toothy grin. It is the only part of the store that doesn't resemble a lump of coal. I yawn. It's too early to be up. The coffee doesn't help much. The rising sun reflects off the face of my watch and blinds me momentarily. It's the seventh time I've checked it in ten minutes. Or eight. I'm losing count.

"You look like hell."

The voice belongs to the fire chief, a friend of mine, and just the person I was waiting for.

"Hi Roger. You all done in there?" I ask.

"Yeah. We should have all of it. Just watch your step. Everything's falling apart."

"Know where the fire started?"

"Looks like the kitchen."

"Accelerant?"

He pauses to think, wipes smoky grit from his face so that it leaves a streak.

"Probably. For it get so big so fast? Yeah, I'd say so."

We say our goodbyes. He asks me if I want to get a drink tonight and I say I will if I can still stand up then. He thinks this is a joke, slaps me on the back, and I nearly fall over. He laughs, climbs on his big red truck and leaves. I don't know where he gets his energy.

A smell invades my nostrils inside the shop; fragrant, pungent, and sickly at the same time. It's a strange but familiar aroma, more familiar than I care for. The floor, countertops, walls, and ceilings are slick with water. I maneuver my way around the overturned remains of chairs and tables to get to the kitchen.

That is where I see the body, which is new. It is in the corner under a fallen rack, blackened and scrunched up into a fetal position. I crouch down, seeing if I can find some identification, but it appears to be a lost cause. I'm not sure the corpse has any pockets. It's so far gone, I'm not even sure it has any pants. Whatever is encased in the crusted cocoon would require the services of the medical examiner.

"Sam."

"Jesus Christ, Feingold, don't sneak up on me like that."

"Jumpy today?" he says with an easy smile.

He looks positively radiant, as in actually emitting light. He's always this way, always bright, always eager, full of youthful vigor. I think he mainlines caffeine.

"So, you think this is the same guy?" he asks.

"Yeah. Got a body though. That's different."

"So what makes you think it's still the same guy?"

"Oh, I don't know," I say. "Three Krispy Kremes in three weeks burned to a cinder. I'm taking a wild guess."

He nods. He's easy to convince. "Do we know who that is?" he says, pointing to the body.

"Maybe the owner. No identification yet. Will have to wait for the ME."

"Time to make the doughnuts."

"What?"

He grins. "You know, from those commercials? 'Time to make the doughnuts!'"

"That's Dunkin' Donuts, not Krispy Kreme," I say, but I don't know why. It's better to ignore him, not argue.

"Just saying, you know--"

"Spare me, okay?"

He laughs and I stare at him.

"I get it. Like a tire right? A doughnut spare?"

I steer him to the door and tell him to get statements from the potential witnesses gathered behind the barricades. As he struts out to greet the public, pad and pen in hand, I can't help but imagine that he might become police commissioner one day and say a silent prayer.

I make some calls and find out that the owner and all employees are accounted for, then look around some more without Feingold and stay late to talk to Tess, our friendly neighborhood medical examiner, who promises to call me before she does the autopsy.

When I get back to that station, it is already late afternoon. I knock on the captain's door and receive a grunt in reply.

"You wanted an update on the arsons?"

Another grunt. The boss is not much of a conversationalist.

"It's probably our guy. There was a body at the scene. If we're lucky, maybe it's our firebug."

"Good," he says, which is my cue to leave.

I walk back to my desk, trailing essence of charbroiled doughnut. I sit and rub my eyes, tired beyond comprehension. At least no one has made any cop and doughnut jokes today.

"Honey glazed."

It's Feingold sitting across from me. When did he get here? It looks like he's wearing different clothes from this morning. They're clean and pressed.

I look up at him. "What?" I say. I am not in the mood for this.

"Honey glazed. That's the doughnut that you smell like," he says, beaming.

Chipper bastard.

The Other Guy

There is always THE OTHER GUY in romantic comedies. The formula has some variables, but often times THE OTHER GUY is never the focus of the story. He is a catalyst to the plot and we don't care about him. But take a moment to think about what this man has to go through. He's a doormat.

Darryl is twenty nine years old. He's a decent guy, has a good job, loves his family, cares for his friends. He is the type of person that is considered great company. One day, Darryl meets a girl, who is beautiful, smart, funny, all things you'd like in a romantic prospect. They hit it off, and in a whirlwind romance, he proposes shortly after. He does everything right and they are in love.

Then enters a third party. Surprise! It's the girl's old friend, a misogynistic, callous, womanizer. But he is a friend, so he makes nice and accepts him. But of course he is not here to be friends. He is here to ruin your life. This is because he harbors a secret flame for your fiance, one that he never knew of, and burns so much more brightly now that she is less attainable. He woos her, and she swoons with little effort because she has a soft spot for jerks and lost causes. He crashes Darryl's wedding and she leaves him, this perfect girl, to a chorus of applause. Applause!

And so they live happily every after. Minus THE OTHER GUY. What's his name again?

Prodigal Son

"How old are you?"

The boy held up three fingers, then--probably because he was bored of me--walked away and returned to his toy cars. He rolled them on the hardwood floor, making engine noises.

"Quite a kid you have there," I said to his mother, a nervous woman.

"Thank you."

She was visibly distressed, shaking.

"It'll be okay."

She looked at me. I don't think she believes me.

"Why don't we start with when it began?"

She nodded. "Two weeks ago," she said, then her eyes averted from mine and went wide.

I turned around and saw little Tommy giggling and playing with his cars, except they were floating two feet above his head, racing on an invisible track of air.