From the Inside Flap
I wrote the last line of my report on Burglaries: Resolved. Two more dreary tasks to go, then I'd be out of here. The end of one more week as a precinct secretary in an over-air-conditioned office of the Boston Police.
Time to celebrate the weekend! I reached into my top drawer and unwrapped a cappuccino-cream-filled chocolate. I was giddy with the smell before it reached my mouth. Then I ate a second. Then a third. Whoa, Charlie, slow down. I looked into the drawer. Then -
what the heck? - I ate a fourth. Shut the drawer, I told myself. I shut it very slowly, snatching two wrapped candies before the drawer was back in place.
And so it came to be that my mouth was filled with creamy bits of heaven when my desk phone rang. My hello sounded like "hallah". Cool and elegant, that's me.
"Cooper," my boss said. "Can you come into my office?"
"Thure thing, thir." I swallowed hard in case he had another question.
I got up from my cubicle - and as I strolled through the department - I noticed that most people had gone home. I pictured them on white-stone balconies, sipping fine red wine with friends. Or maybe at a party, running to the dance floor when they heard the opening notes of the latest hit song. Mondays were made worse by all the office chatter about staying out too late and the busiest weekends ever.
My weekend plans involved three things: ice cream, scrolling through the movie database, and the Laundromat. I'd have clean underwear at least.
I'm not sure which was the most pitiful: my weekends or my job. Monday through Friday I answered phones, made appointments and wrote up crime reports. I was the queen of crime statistics: locations of burglaries and batteries, age and gender of the suspects, etc. Sure, it was somewhat cool to work with the police. But nothing that would make you put down the remote if the camera panned in on my desk while you were checking out an episode of CSI: Miami.
Others did the good stuff. They figured out the motives and found the hidden clues. I knew nothing of such things. But would you like to know the time of day most felonies are committed in a certain part of Winterport, just outside of Boston? Well then, I'm your girl.
I told myself long ago I'd have a life by twenty-two. And now I swore that I'd absolutely be anywhere but the Boston PD by the time I got to thirty-five. I had six more years.