The following note describes a complete lack of professional behavior on my part, and could easily get me fired or worse, but it may be needed in the future to explain why I’ve reversed my decision to fail Mike’s eval, so I’m going to put this in his private casefile and hope for my own sake that it goes unnoticed.
Mike had been on my docket since the Capitol Riots put him behind a desk. They beat him with poles and waved guns in his face. He might have knocked a few of them about before they subdued him, but nothing suggests he made any mistakes. Standard procedure indicates a time off active duty and then a clean psych-eval before he gets back out there. I couldn’t get a straight answer about how he handles the stress, so I said no. They must really want him back, because he came to me an hour later with a pat answer, probably from his sergeant and a demeanor to suggest that I let it ride, but I didn’t.
After work I saw him in the Metro, heading down to the Red Line. Maybe another night alone at home was too much, or else I have a serious complex of my own, but I followed him to the Rhode Island Station and then up into the street. He ducked through some trees at some kind of production facility and behind it to a row of old brick warehouses. We passed a chainlink gate that was half ajar and he went into an open service door. I waited nearby until I couldn’t hear anything. It occurred to me that I was being stupid, but it was exciting so I stepped in. It was empty but there was an obvious path to the back corner and a walk-in freezer door. I touched the handle expecting cold. It wasn’t and I pulled it back, but when it started to give someone inside yelled out, “What the fuck is that.” I froze, my brain doing stupid and the door heaved open and knocked me aside. People grabbed me, dragged me in and pushed me face first into a brick wall while they closed the door. Then I was down, with a knee in my back, and a voice in my ear telling me to “shut the hell up and don’t move.” I was dizzy, so I complied. That was it for a while.
Eventually I heard someone approaching. They started to put a bag over my head and I turned over quickly to avoid it. The weight on me shifted and she lost her grip. My eyes had adjusted to the dark so I could tell that the one holding me had a slight figure and when she spoke I could tell she was hispanic. I put my hands up as if I had any idea how to protect myself and she waved the other person off. “I got this cerote,” and she did. She played with me for a few minutes, then put me back on the ground, groaning where I let the bag over my head. She whispered something while she taped my hands together. I couldn’t understand the words but it had to be the most suggestive thing I’ve ever been told. I think she wanted me to try again.
They let me get to my feet and we started to walk. It was an underground passage with turns and corners. I’m sure we walked part of a metro tunnel because of the air, and the sound of distant trains. It seemed like a long time and I hurt all over—nothing broken, just bruised. Eventually we got to a place with people. The sounds of dining filled the air and they sat me down on flimsy plastic chair. My lady-friend spoke in my ear again, this time muffled by the canvas bag. She said, “If you want to play again, just tell me, but not here, my boyfriend wouldn’t like it.” She sunk a firm grip into my thigh where she had kicked me before and I groaned an okay. “That’s it bicho mío.” And she left me.
I sat with the smell of old street food permeating the greasy bag, until Mike came and started talking. He seemed pissed at first, but after I promised not tell anyone about the place he calmed down. I offered to pay for his plate, my own and agreed to leave a generous tip for my escorts and the bag came off. Dozens of other people were there eating the most amazing food I’ve ever had, all on mismatched patio tables and paper plates. None of them seemed surprised at my treatment. There was no talk of politics, no blue or red banners, no tourists, just good food and the feeling of being alive. Maybe the beating was responsible for that last part. It was also the most expensive plate of food I’ve ever bought but when it came time to settle up, my tactile friend flashed a fierce smile as she hung on the arm of her boyfriend, the chef and I paid up. I
Soon the bag was back over my head—through more tunnels and eventually up into the night air. I found myself a block from Union Market. I took off the bag off eagerly, but it was just Mike alone. I thought he might remind me not to speak about the place, or ask me if I was going to pass him back to active duty but he just walked away. There was nothing left to say—he did have a way to deal with stress. It’s probably a little more uncurbed than I would recommend, but I had the answer to pass his eval, and something that I’d been craving too.
PsychEval Notes, Capitol Police Force
