Underwear (IV)

Posted on by gmfx

“They’re here again,” Kit said, grim resignation in her voice.

“Of course they are,” Sam replied. He was feeling unsettled by a whole swarm of thoughts that had nothing to do with protesters and really didn’t have the capacity to think much about their repeated complaints. Of course, the protesters had no intention of letting him off so easily.

The wall of humanity lining the curb in front of the police station held their signs proudly as they had every weekend for the last couple of months. However familiar the slogans had become to the officers who had to pass them, the demands remained uncompromising:

“Hands Up – Don’t Shoot.”

“Demilitarize the Police.”

“Don’t Kill My Son.”

“I’m Not A Thug.”

“Black Lives Matter.”

Bold statements in black and white, a report as loud as a gunshot in the night.

Sam’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel as a sea of angry faces turned toward their slowing squad car. There was no specific reason for these two parties to mistrust each other. There had been no incidents of violence at any protests in the county, and if the news reports were to be believed, this community had a more open dialogue than most in the country during the latest wave of discontent. Nevertheless, Sam and Kit tensed up under the scrutiny of so many angry faces. As their car pulled into the lot, a megaphone amplified countdown sounded off: “Four, Three, Two, One!” A riot of voices followed, shouting, “I CAN’T BREATHE!” Together, a couple dozen protesters threw their bodies to the ground in a simulated death.

Kit shook her head. “If only they knew how much of our job is just writing traffic tickets,” she said, trying to lighten the mood.

Sam didn’t answer. His breathing had gone shallow. Was it a new sign? Or was it simply one he had never paid attention to before today? Resolute brush strokes of black paint asked, “Am I not a Man and a Brother?” Matter-of-fact and furious. The tall black man who held the sign stared boldly into the squad car, unflinchingly into Sam’s eyes.

“Sam,” Kit said in a soft voice. “Don’t engage, Same.”

It would be hours later when Sam realized that his partner had thought he was angry. He probably should have told her that he was actually terrified.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Trust

Posted on by gmfx

Cyan wrapped their arms tightly around Kevin’s broad chest, nuzzled the back of his neck, and whispered, “I love you.” To Cyan’s surprise, they felt Kevin’s body tense abruptly.

“Oh my god,” Kevin muttered.

“What?” Cyan asked tersely, anger swooping in to mask a sudden swell of anxiety as they drew back.

Kevin turned, unable to meet his fiance’s eyes. “I . . . I just farted.”

“You just . . .” Reflexively, Cyan sniffed, and then immediately regretted it. “Like right now?”

Kevin’s face had gone bright red, and he could barely meet Cyan’s eyes. “Right when you grabbed me.”

“So . . . right into my crotch,” Cyan said, nose now wrinkling involuntarily for multiple reasons.

As the fart cloud lingered around them, Kevin’s embarrassment only grew. He was just as revolted by the smell, but felt he just had to endure it as a sort of penance. “I’m so, so sorry,” he said.

Cyan folded their arms, giving their fiance a calm, appraising stare. Then a shrug. “That’s alright,” they said. “I’ll just fart in the bed tonight.”

“You’ll—” Kevin blinked rapidly, too surprised to be embarrassed. Then he saw the wide grin spreading across Cyan’s face.

Laughter, sudden, hearty, and pure.

“I love you too.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear (III)

Posted on by gmfx

Jones was squatting down, inspecting the corpse’s face. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “It really is Rupert Polbrock. Devin, go call it in. This case just got bigger than a bunch of beat cops.” Devin Collins nodded and walked out of the house. Jones started looking around with increased fascination at the flattened shag, sagging couch, and faded curtains. “People have always said he was a bit of a scumbag,” Jones said, “but I still wonder how he ended up shot in the back in a place like this.”

“Maybe it was an affair,” Kit offered, examining photos of a smiling couple which notably did not include Rupert Polbrock. “You know, angry husband sort of thing. Happens all the time.”

“Probably,” Jones said. “But if you’re as loaded as Polbrook, why do you need to go slumming?”

“Slumming?” Sam asked.

“Well, yeah,” Jones said gesturing around vaguely.

“I live in a neighborhood like this,” Sam said sharply.

“Yeah, but you don’t own half of Hay Street.”

“This guy’s really that rich?” Kit asked.

“Oh yeah,” Jones said. “The guy probably has a swimming pool full of money in his backyard.”

“Damn, why couldn’t he have slummed it with me?”

“It’s not a slum,” Sam grumbled

Devin Collins strolled back inside. He was a laid-back officer, one of the only black officers on the force. He moved slowly despite his height and long strides. “Well, half the homicide division is on the way,” he announced “and even the commissioner is coming.”

“Sounds like it’s going to be crowded,” Sam said. “We’ll wait out front.”

“Oh will we?” Kit said sarcastically.

But Sam was already heading out the door. “Come on,” he growled.

“Jesus. What’s got your boxer-briefs in a twist?” Kit teased.

“Nothing,” Sam growled.

When the fellow officers exchanged inquisitive glances, Kit explained, “Farnsworth’s been getting all existential over our dead guy’s underwear.”

“Existential?” Collins asked, perking up.

“Yeah, you know, ‘who am I?’ ‘Life is too short.’ ‘What sort of underwear should I buy?’ That sort of stuff.” Sam glowered at Kit’s imitation of him, but she just shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh, well that might be an identity crisis,” Jones offered casually, “but it’s not exactly existentialism.”

Kit sneered. “What are you talking about – not existentialism?”

“It’s not a crisis,” Sam insisted, then glanced again at the dead man’s underwear. “It’s just . . . weird, you know?”

“Weird like you’re discovering that the universe is ultimately meaningless, and it’s up to you as a free individual to determine the course of your own life?”

Jones stared at his partner with his eyes narrowed. “What the fuck are you talking about, Devin?”

Collins just shrugged. “Existentialism.”

“What the fuck, man?” Jones asked, still waiting for the punchline.

Devin straightened up slightly and stuck out his chin. “I double majored in philosophy in college. That’s how I’m gonna make detective in a couple years.”

“Alright then, Detective, enjoy your case,” Sam said brusquely before finally stepping out the door.

“I’m telling you,” Kit said in a loud whisper as she followed Sam out of the room, “crisis.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Thread

Posted on by gmfx

Round and round Ana wound the thread, bright turquoise running between her fingers. “If you would just let me explain…” she tried to say.

“You’re not going,” the older woman announced, not even glancing away from her work on the loom. “There’s no point discussing it.” Her fingers danced like a harpist plucking the strings, but hers was a song of color and patterns that would take weeks to complete. Ana marveled, not for the first time, how someone as severe as her mother was capable of creating such beauty.

Every thread in its place.

Round and round, Ana spun the thread, her grip on the shuttle so tight her fingers started to hurt. Her mother continued weaving. “You don’t really need me here, Ana remarked.

The answer came automatically. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I do.”

No thread out of place, Ana thought. The last of the turquoise thread slipped through her fingers. The shuttle was ready. But instead of handing it to her mother, Ana slipped it into her pocket and said, “Mother, I think this will be your finest work yet.”

Ana meant what she said, but her mother simply scoffed. Ana didn’t care. She was leaving.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox