Underwear (XII.i)

Posted on by gmfx

“This could get ugly,” Sam cautioned as they climbed out of the squad car.

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Kit replied, hand on her belt, near her taser but distinctly not touching it.

They walked with a practiced stride, calm and confident, slow and steady, hopefully both authoritative and nonthreatening. It was a fine line, especially given the reason they were here. These sorts of confrontations were never simple, but Sam felt even more uneasy than usual.

“Here they come!” a man called out ahead of them. “Didn’t I tell you?”

The few pedestrians nearby mostly tried to continue on their way without looking, but Sam still clocked one person nearby stop and pull out a cell phone. Two white police officers approaching two young black men in the midst of a protest. Sam hated that he felt himself tense up at the sight of that phone. It shouldn’t have changed anything – he already had a body cam on, but he couldn’t help feeling that the situation had become just a little more hostile.

Sam flashed back to the moment just a couple nights before when a black youth had been caught in his headlights. Sam’s hand had been on his gun. The kid had begged not to be shot. Sam took a breath. Exhaled slowly. He kept his hands off his belt. And then he addressed the two men. “What’s your business here?”

“Can’t you tell?” the first man asked

“Education,” the other said.

“We’re doing a public service. And we don’t even need twenty percent of the city’s budget to do it, unlike some people here.”

“You call this education?” Kit said, face scrunched up in discomfort as she examined the posters the two men had on display, one propped up on an easel, the other laid out on the ground, both covered with printouts of newspaper headlines, historical photos, and more. Sam clenched his jaw, feeling the knot in his belly twist even further. He tried not to fixate on the chaotic collages.

Scarred backs and hollow eyes
Christ on the cross
Smoking buildings
Millions kneeling during Hajj
Panicked faces and vicious dogs
Illuminated manuscripts
White hoods and burning crosses
Broken chains
Hanging bodies
“Am I not a man and a brother?”

The men were grinning confidently apparently satisfied as much by Kit’s fascination with the images as with Sam’s determination to avoid looking at them. “I call this truth,” the first man said.

“Undeniable,” the second said, “indefatigable, irrepressible.”

It was already going sideways. Sam needed to get this back on track quickly. “We’ve received some complaints,” he said bluntly.

“The truth is uncomfortable.”

“Do not think that I came to bring peace on earth,” the second man quoted. “I did not come to bring peace but a sword.”

“We’re told you were accosting children.”

“For I have come to set a man against his father, a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law,” he continued.

Don’t engage, Sam thought. “A father reported that you told his son that his daddy was a racist and his ancestors killed black people.”

“And a man’s enemies will be those of his own household.”

“All white folks in this country benefit from the inherent privilege of a society built on the backs of slaves,” the first declared, voice getting louder. “Our bones and our blood are the bricks and mortar of this country.”

“That’s very true,” Sam said, hoping his agreement would undercut the escalating soapboxing. “And you have a right to be angry about that history.”

“Damn right.”

“But you can’t be harassing children on the street.”

“The kid was disrespectful. He was walking all over our poster, and the dad didn’t even try to stop him.”

“The poster you put on the ground,” Kit asked sardonically, still distracted by the strange collages.

“If I put a Bible on the ground, does that mean you’re gonna walk on it?”

“The kid was four years old,” Sam said, voice heavy.

The first man set his jaw. Calm and confident, he looked Sam square in the eye. “Guess how old I was when the cops shot my daddy?”

* * *

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear (XI)

Posted on by gmfx

“This was a stupid idea.” Sam only realized he had made the declaration out loud when the man at the other end of the aisle looked up sharply then walked quickly away. “Great,” Sam muttered, “as if I didn’t feel ridiculous enough already.”

At least now he was alone. Just him and an entire wall of underwear, each plastic sealed package printed with a picture of, well, a package. Men with single digit body fat and glossy six pack posed on each one. Sam worked hard to keep in shape, but he knew that he looked nothing like any of these models. He briefly started to speculate on how he measured up to them in other areas, but quickly decided not to dwell on it. He was already thinking far too much about underwear – better to stick with color and style than to think about how it shaped his own package.

“Not that anyone is going to see it anyway,” he grumbled.

The other customer, who had apparently been lingering at the endcap, peaked around the corner to see what was really going on with the strange man talking to himself in the underwear aisle. Perhaps it was when he saw the sidearm at Sam’s hip that he decided it really wasn’t the best time to pick out new underwear and nearly ran to the other end of the store.

Sam barely noticed him. He was too busy trying to figure out whether it was significant that the model on the package of boxers had a beard. Were boxers more rugged? His department still didn’t allow full beards, but maybe he could grow a mustache – something he had always resisted before. Mustache’s seemed to scream either hipster or cop. He definitely didn’t feel like a hipster, and while he wasn’t ashamed of being a police officer, but he also didn’t like broadcasting “cop” to the world these days.

He shuffled down the aisle, checking what other offerings were available. Here he was right at home with the boxer briefs he always bought. He almost involuntarily reached for the same pack of grays he typically bought. It was almost impossible to reconcile the image of the sculpted glutes on the packaging with pudgy middle aged form he had found dead on a living room floor. But it was the same underwear, and it was the same he was wearing now. He adjusted his motion, picking up a set of black underwear instead. Would changing the color of his underwear change him? Would it change him enough just to change the color? Did he even want to change? Sam put the underwear back and continued down the aisle.

Briefs: what he had warn as a child and stopped wearing in middle school because of the chaffing. It was what Kit thought he should wear for some reason. What reason, was it sexy? Hadn’t he read an article about it being too restrictive? Maybe even lowering his sperm count? But why did THAT even matter?

Printed boxers: Weren’t cartoon underpants for kids? He had never had a pair of Superman underwear like one of his friends in first grade, but he had never felt like he was missing anything either. Now he could get any number of superheroes. Also donuts, sloths, galaxies, rainbows, paisley, and more. A deep part of him cringed away from the flashy images. Even if no one would ever see this, he worried he would feel uncomfortable with so much color.It’s just underwear, right?

Why do we need so many choices?

Sam’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked and saw that his father was calling. The phone continued to buzz in his palm as he red the name “Dad” over and over. Then he slipped the phone back into his pocket. He knew what his dad would have to say, and it wouldn’t make him feel any better. Worse, he didn’t want to answer the questions his father would ask.

So, Sam turned back to the wall of cotton and nylon. “Fine,” he muttered. “One of each.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Underwear (X)

Posted on by gmfx

Sam hadn’t thought this through. There was more he wanted to ask his ex-wife – there had always been more that he wanted to say to her – but like so many conversations before, he floundered. A familiar feeling of shame choked him as he imagined the face Angela was probably making on the other end of the call, waiting impatiently for him to say something. To say anything. He had to say something.

“Who are you talking to?” Kit had flung the door open with her usual gusto and was now shoving a cup of steaming hot coffee into Sam’s face.

“Hey, I gotta go,” Sam said hurriedly. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“You really don’t have to,” Angela replied.

“Sam,” Kit growled still holding the coffee right in front of his face.

“Yeah. Bye,” Sam said before dropping the phone and taking the coffee from Kit.

“What’s up?” she asked as she pulled on her seatbelt.

“Nothing.” Kit threw a suspicious glance at her partner. She had already put the keys in the ignition, but she didn’t start the car. Sam looked her direction, but was unable to maintain eye contact. “What?” he asked.

“What’s up?” she repeated more slowly.

“I had to make a phone call.” Sam knew he was being awkward, and he knew what Kit would say if he mentioned Angela. And he really didn’t want to think about the teasing that would follow if he explained why he had called his ex. So, to avoid the conversation, he took a nice casual swig of coffee. “Mmmfffg, ahh!” he choked.

“Yeah,” Kit said. “It’s hot.” She maintained a level gaze of scrutiny as Sam recovered and fished for napkins to clean up the coffee he had managed to spit onto the dashboard.

“Sorry,” Sam mumbled, still avoiding eye contact.

Kit just sighed. “It was her, wasn’t it?” Sam didn’t say anything, just directed a particularly intense focus on the little tasks of wadding up the napkins, shoving them into a cup holder, and blowing on his coffee. His face was red, and his mouth was drawn into a thin line. Kit wasn’t going to let him get away with anything though “I thought you weren’t going to talk to her anymore.”

“You say that like it’s easy,” Sam grunted into his coffee.

“Didn’t you delete her number?”

“Yes.”

“So she called you?”

“I . . . had her number memorized.”

With a roll of her eyes, Kit finally started the car. “For god’s sake, Sam. Get your shit together.”

“My shit’s my own business,” he answered gruffly. “Just because you’ve never . . .”

Jaw set tight, but otherwise unmoved, Kit waited. “Well?” she said at last. “Just because I’ve never what?”

“No,” Sam said, feeling a fresh shame rising around him, “Nothing.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Underwear (IX)

Posted on by gmfx

“Get the coffee, alright?” Sam said.
“No way,” Kit shot back, “it’s your turn. Shotgun always makes the run.”
“Can you just get it?” he growled in a tone he generally reserved for scaring youths off of private property. Kit’s face soured, but she relented. With a disdainful shake of her head, she climbed out of the squad car and slammed the door. “I’m sorry,” he called after her. “I just need a minute.” Kit just blew a raspberry over her shoulder as she marched into the coffee shop. As soon as the door closed behind her, Sam opened his phone and made a call.
There were four painstaking rings before a woman answered in a harsh voice saying, “What do you want, Sam?”
“Hi, Angela,” he said with a passable attempt at genuine enthusiasm. “How are you?”
The enthusiasm was neither believed nor returned. “Why are you calling,” she asked.
“Alright, listen,” he said with a sigh, “I know this is kind of coming out of nowhere, but I need to ask you something.”
“What, Sam,” she asked in the tone of a brusque goodbye.
Like ripping off a band-aide, Sam hesitated, and then rushed all at once, saying, “What do you think my underwear says about me?”
A pause. Sam wondered if Angela actually had hung up the phone. Then with almost a hint of a laugh, she said, “Excuse me?”
“Look I know it’s a weird question, but . . . it’s kind of important,” he mumbled.
“Are you drunk?”
“Am I—it’s the middle of the day,” Sam said, raising his voice even more. “Why would you think I’m drunk?”
“Are you?” she asked with probing sharply.
“No,” he retorted. “I’m not drunk. I’m on the job.”
“Did you just say you’re drunk on the job?”
“I—what?” Sam said, growing more flustered. “Angela, I’m a cop.”
Her shrug was practically audible. “You hear a lot of different things about cops these days.”
“Will you just answer the question?”
Having been annoyed by the conversation since the moment she answered the phone, Angela sighed and said, “I don’t know, Sam.”
“Okay, but one year, for my birthday,” he said hurriedly, “you gave me a pair of silk briefs. Did that mean something?”
The next sigh was much louder and more pointed. “It meant I thought you would look good in them.”
Sam watched the coffee shop door anxiously, knowing that his partner would return at any moment. “Alright, but then one Christmas you gave me a pair of boxers with footballs on them,” he said, still speaking quickly. “What about that?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever,” Angela answered. “I guess I thought they would be fun. Football was one of the only things I ever saw you get really excited about, so I thought you might like some boxers with footballs on them.”
“But I always wore boxer briefs,” Sam said anxiously, “not boxers.”
“Well the store only had that pattern on boxers. Would you have worn them even if they were the right style of underwear?” Sam made several noises like he was trying to speak, but no answer ever came. “I thought so,” Angela said at last.
“So what does that say about me?” Sam asked, exasperated that Angela couldn’t answer some simple questions about the significance of his undergarments. Her icy attitude was also frustrating. Obviously, their history made things complicated, but she was the only person who had ever been able to offer him comfort on the rare occasions that he reached this level of emotional distress. It seemed reasonable to Sam that a dead real estate tycoon wearing his style of boxer briefs was significant enough to warrant a breach of their usual silence.
Of course, he hadn’t explained any of that to her. So when Angela’s answer came, it had an air of calm finality. “I think you lost the right to ask me questions about your underwear when we got divorced.”

* * *

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear (VII)

Posted on by gmfx

It was a vegan bakery. From inside his car across the street, Sam studied the little shop. Was there any trace? Any remnants of the past showing through the new, trendy facade?

None that he could see.

The problem wasn’t the bakery itself. And he didn’t have anything against vegans. He did have the thought that it must be a sad life without cheese, so all the more need for delicious baked goods. Sure, a cookie without butter or eggs apparently cost twice as much as one with them, but that didn’t seem to be a problem here. The shop was nestled between an upscale boutique and a stylish cocktail bar. There was a Tesla parked in front of him for crying out loud. Clearly an eight dollar muffin would be no big deal in this neighborhood.

Maybe he should have become a baker instead of a cop. He definitely wouldn’t have to deal with corpses as a baker, right? And there was no reason he would ever need to find out that he wore the same underwear as a murder victim. And if he ate a donut on the job, it wouldn’t be some sort of ironic joke, just a perk of the job.

But he liked being a cop. Didn’t he?

Sam knew he should go. Still, his eyes drifted back to the building across the street, up to the second story and the northernmost window, where his old bedroom had been. Dammit if even the windows weren’t different. They were modern, double hung windows that probably didn’t let in a cold draft all winter, then swell so much they wedged themselves shut in the summer. There might not even be a bedroom on the other side of that window. It was probably an office or a storage space. He doubted the people who ran businesses here now needed to sleep in the spaces they rented.

Thinking now of his parents, Sam remembered that he had three missed calls from his father along with three voicemails he hadn’t listened to. He didn’t open any of them up now, but texted his dad anyway: Went by the old place this morning. It’s nice of course, but it’s not the same. Wonder what will happen to it now.

Not the same – an understatement. No abandoned store fronts or plywood panels on broken glass doors. There were actually flowers growing in the small beds along the sidewalk. And even this early in the morning there were people around. There was more life and energy here than in even his best childhood memories. The area had been completely revitalized, and it was all thanks to the clever dealings of Richard Polbrock, the man whom Sam had found dead in his underwear in a part of town as run down as this had once been.

Sam knew that’s why his father had called. He had watched the news and knew that Sam had been at the scene of the murder. And his father would understand why Sam had stopped by the store and apartment that had once been theirs – before Richard Polbrock bought it and canceled their lease. Sam hoped that if they never actually talked about it directly, neither of them would have to admit the truth: that they were glad Richard Polbrock was dead. Sam didn’t want to describe that crime scene to his father. He didn’t want to here satisfaction in the man’s voice, didn’t want to reduce his father to that sort of base cruelty. And he didn’t want to spend any more time thinking about that corpse in his underwear.

It was just underwear, right? It didn’t mean anything.

It was just underwear…

* * *

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear (VI)

Posted on by gmfx

Sam wanted to destroy something, maybe just himself. He sat in the driveway in the dark for a long time, engine off, his hands gripping the wheel with the same panic that was crushing his throat. What had he almost done? Was he really the sort of cop who would…?

Finally, he climbed out of the car, consciously willing each individual muscle to move, accomplishing something that approximated normal movement. Precise strides carried him to the door. He unlocked it, stepped inside and went immediately to the gun safe, shutting his sidearm away without his usual care. He simply couldn’t carry the thing any longer.

It was not a heavy gun, but having it safely stowed still lifted a noticeable weight from Sam’s shoulders. Unfortunately, this allowed the cycle of confused and anxious thoughts he had been unconsciously suppressing to resume their parade through his mind.

A corpse.

A pair of underwear.

His underwear.

A millionaire.

A slum.

A bodybag.

A corpse.

That body was the gravity well around which all his mixed up emotions now swirled.

He needed a distraction. Settling into the couch of his narrow living room, he finally took his phone off of airplane mode, and the device nearly leapt out of his hands with vibrations from text messages.

“Saw you on the news. Looking good!”

“Yo, did you catch that killer?”

“Was that you on the news?”

“Hey, nice uniform Farnsworth! Saw you on 57. When are we hanging out?”

“Did someone really kill Rupert Polbrock?”

“I can’t believe I’m friends with a TV star!”

And from his father, simply: “Call me.”

Right, so no distractions to be had from his phone. Sam sent the damn thing sailing across the room into the recliner. He hated news cameras, at least when he happened to pass in front of their lens. Attention made him uncomfortable for reasons he had never entirely understood. And Sam really didn’t want to be associated with this particular news story either. But a job is a job. He had to secure crime scenes, and news crews had to secure footage for evening updates.

A part of him was tempted to turn on the news or to look up the video online and see the events the way everyone else did, but even that pulled him back to the image of a corpse lying on a living room floor wearing the same underwear he did.

Vertigo.

Sam suddenly felt like he was back in that same room, back in that house that had almost the same layout as his, back in that “slum.” His life was somehow superimposed on that murder site. There was an outline on the floor where a human life had ended. And the gravity pulled him down. Sam rose from the couch and fell to his knees in almost the same motion. He sprawled out on the floor of his living room in the exact same pose that he had found Rupert Polbrock.

Strands of old shag carpet brushing against his lips, Sam muttered, “What the fuck am I doing?” But he didn’t move. In the chair nearby, his phone buzzed repeatedly as he missed a call. Sam stayed right where he was on the carpet, wishing for something to destroy.

* * *

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear (V)

Posted on by gmfx

Sam barely even registered the intersection as he stepped on the brake. He was just a couple blocks from home and already imagining the cold beer and dull TV noise which would give his mind an escape from the labyrinth of angst he had tumbled into when he discovered his underwear matched a murder victim’s. But right before Sam could proceed through the intersection, a solitary figure sprinted across the street, jacket flapping in the wind. A moment later, two more people followed running at the same pace. “Shit,” Sam spat, as a feeling of duty smacked him in the face. He was not home yet, but in a police car, in a neighborhood that some of his fellow officers would probably consider a slum. And there were young men in hoods chasing someone.

Were they young men? Had he really seen them? But as fast as it had been, Sam knew how to recognize aggression. That was a pursuit, and it would probably end badly unless he did something.

Accelerating around the corner, Sam quickly caught up with the runners. White sneakers shone like beacons on the poorly lit streets. All three were still running as fast as they could and hadn’t noticed that it was a squad car behind them. Just scare them off, Sam thought. He was off duty, he needed to be prudent, but he could still help someone. Brights flashed in the night. Window rolled down, Sam barked a simple, “Hey!” in a tone of practiced authority. Three faces looked over their shoulder, recognized the lightbar on top of the squad car and understood. All three turned sharply and disappeared into the shadows. Sam stopped sharply. Whoever these young men were, they were now lurking around other people’s property. He could hear voices speaking in sharp tones, but couldn’t make out the words. “Get out of there,” he yelled.

There was a burst of profanity and a sound of scuffling and rapid footsteps. A shrub nearby started rustling. Sam opened the door of his car and stood up tall and powerful. “Get out of there,” he repeated.

More rustling—breaking foliage—rapid footsteps. Somewhere nearby a voice called out, “No! Stop!” Something bad was happening. Sam shouldn’t have even gotten out of the car, but he felt duty bound to take action now. He quickly reached into his car and turned on the vehicle’s spot light. The beam immediately fell on a solitary figure just beyond the reach of the headlights, illuminating wide eyes, white shoelaces, the metal zipper of a dark hoodie, and hands that were raised nervously in the air. “Please!” the young black man called back. He was shaking, “Don’t shoot!”

“What?”

“Please,” he called out, voice cracking. “Don’t shoot me.”

The plea didn’t make sense. What did this kid think was going on? But then Sam realized that his hand was on the grip of his gun. The weapon was still safely holstered, but he couldn’t even remember reaching for it. He relaxed his hand, forced his breathing to slow, but there was still blood pounding against the skin throughout his body. “Look, just . . . just go on home,” he called. Aside from his shaking, the young man didn’t move. Hands above his head, face twisted and stretched with fear, eyes unblinking as they stared straight into the spotlight. Sam stared back. For a moment the whole world outside of that spotlight’s beam ceased to exist.

Man and Boy.

Officer and Citizen.

Cop and Thug.

Blood pounded in Sam’s ears. Angry at himself and at the thug who reminded him how much he was still a scared and confused kid, Sam roared, “Go!” The young man jumped, fell over backward, scrambled to his feet in such a panic that he slipped out of one shoe, and left it behind, fleeing into the night with a lopsided gallop. Sam stood beside his car until the only sound he could hear was his own shallow breathing. Trembling, he climbed into his car, turned off the spotlight, and drove home.

* * *

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Story by Gregory M. Fox

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

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

Underwear (II)

Posted on by gmfx

“Hey, you alright?” Kit asked.

Sam’s face was twisted and scrunched up as he contemplated the dead body they had found. “I have that same underwear,” he repeated.

Kit rolled her eyes. “And yesterday the chick in the stall next to me was wearing the same shoes I was. It’s not worth flipping out about.”

A corpse, body gone cold and white. The blood that had sprayed onto the wall and pooled beneath the body and congealed into the elastic waistband of those boxer-brief’s that matched the very same ones he felt gripping his hips. Shouldn’t that be significant somehow? “But—”

“Look,” she said with a bit more attitude, “where do you buy your underwear?”

“Uh, Wal-Mart.”

This time Kit grimaced. “First off,” she said, “I must reiterate that you can really do better when it comes to how you take care of your—”

“Kit…”

“And secondly, hasn’t it occurred to you that someone else might have picked up one of the millions of identical packs of underwear that Wal-Mart sells?”

Still flustered and uneasy, Sam finally looked away from the corpse and said, “A dead body is different than some random person in the next stall. He picked out that underwear and then he died in it. You never think about what your corpse is going to be wearing when you pick out your underwear. I mean, this could have been me. If I died in a pair of gray boxer-briefs, what would that say about me?” He knelt down to look into the face of the dead man. “This guy is—oh shit!” Sam had been so distracted by the underwear, that he had not yet taken a look at the victim’s face until that moment. “You know who this is, don’t you?” he asked.

Kit crossed the room to see the man’s face, studied it a moment, and shook her head. “Should I?”

Sam’s mouth was dry. “This is Rupert Polbrock,” he said, pronouncing the name with deliberate care as he felt old wounds threaten to tear themselves open. Kit still showed no sign of recognition. “He’s a . . . a real estate developer,” Sam continued. There were so many other words he could have thought to use, but like a good cop, he tried to stick to the facts.. “He buys out cheap properties and ‘renovates’ them. Gentrification, that sort of thing.”

“So our dead guy’s rich,” Kit said, though she still didn’t seem very impressed.

“And he’s wearing my underwear.”