Second Chance Alan Foley The warm sun caressed Carlos’ face as he drove his black and white cruiser through the neighborhood. Sergeant Carlos Soledad’s speed was 25 mph because this was the recommended tactical speed for patrolling. It was a safe speed for a moving target like a patrol officer to see and not be shot. It didn’t hurt that he was wearing a bullet proof vest called “Second Chance.” As he approached the intersection which was controlled by stop signs, he saw the same ten-year-old boy he had seen yesterday at about the same time at the same spot who had flipped him off. As Carlos came to a complete stop, he heard the boy yell, “oink!” He slightly turned his head to see that the boy flipped him off again. He looked around and saw no one else in the immediate area. As he gently accelerated past the boy, he stared straight ahead with his shoulders perpendicular to his direction of travel and slowly raised his left hand. As the left hand cleared the driver’s door, he extended his middle finger. The stunned boy slowly dropped his smaller middle finger, obviously outgunned and outmaneuvered.

Carlos chuckled. He knew he shouldn’t have but it humored him. He was 29 and had been on the fast track at the police department since he became a cop at 21. He would be taking the upcoming lieutenant’s promotional in several weeks; restraint was virtue in lieutenants. He had made many arrests, been involved in several shootings, and had a persona that endeared him to the troops. He was just like them. He displayed over and over again a physical courage that made many patrol officers proud to follow him into fights and shots-fired calls. He was tactically sound. He never made a move that was unsafe, and he never expected his men to do anything he wouldn’t do. He was considered a natural. Carlos was very satisfied with his life because he was moving up rapidly.

Carlos got to Starbuck’s later than his usual 1 p.m. time because he had backed other officers on several calls. He always made sure that everything was under control on his watch before he indulged himself, one coffee during the beginning of his shift and one coffee during the second half of his shift. He didn’t have to eat but he had to have the two cups of coffee during each shift. It gave him a feeling of comfort, a routine. Routine was something he didn’t have when he was growing up. His mother was an alcoholic, and his father was a Marine Corps. lifer. He was either dodging his mother’s verbal abuse or his father’s beatings. It was 3 p.m. now. As he stood in line, he saw a twenty-something-year-old coffee-colored Latina waiting by Michael, the barista who was making elaborate drinks. She was petite but curvaceous. Her dress was sleeveless and white with pink designs and her high heels were pink. The dress caressed her in all the right places.

“A tall white mocha for Maria!” announced Michael.

The Latina stepped up to the bar and picked up her drink. Her gait was smooth, and she moved down the aisle toward the exit as if she was keeping a rhythm. As she approached Carlos, he saw her in slow motion and developed tunnel vision, a phenomenon that occurred in high-stress situations like shootings where the officer sees only what is ahead of him or her and blocks out everything else. It was tactically unsafe.

“Excuse me.”

Carlos became conscious that he was in her way. As he stepped back, he stumbled against the customer behind him. He mumbled something to Maria but it was inaudible to everyone, including Carlos. Maria smiled and walked past him.

“Thank you. You know you have two left feet.”

Carlos could only nod his head. In reality, he was an excellent dancer. He knew that women loved to dance, and dancing was a way to get from the dance floor to the bed. “I’m sorry, sir,” Carlos told the man behind him.

“It’s okay. She is a beautiful woman,” said the man.

“Can I buy you a drink?” The man’s shoulders relaxed, and he smiled. He was going to buy a tall coffee-of-the-day.

“Yes, that would be fine. A venti mocha frappachino with whipped cream.”

Carlos when he had money was always generous with it. The frappachino was a small price to pay for meeting Maria. The tunnel vision was also a part of the price tag but Carlos let it slip his mind. As the female barista anticipated Carlos stepping up to the front counter, Michael told her, “Move over, sweetie. I’ll take care of this one.” Michael liked Carlos a lot. Carlos was intelligent and handsome, and women and some men flocked to him like birds to a bird feeder. He went through women like a bored reader scanning pages of a dull book.

“Hi Carlos,” chattered Michael.

“Good afternoon, Michael. A venti mocha frappachino for my friend…?”

“Stanley,” answered the man.

“Yes. A drink for my friend and my usual.”

Michael made notations on a cup and then gave it to the barista making drinks at the bar.

“You’re late today, Carlos.”

“It’s been a busy day, Michael. Sometimes it gets like that.”

Michael handed a tall cup of regular coffee to Carlos and then made change for Carlos’ $20 bill.

“Have a good day, Michael.” “You too. Be careful out there.” Michael then turned to the female barista and whispered that he wished Carlos swung his way. The female barista said the same thing.

As Carlos drove away, he thought about Maria. He would like to meet her again. Unfortunately, his relationships rarely lasted three months because his female friends had unrealistic expectations, and he had none. Because of the abuse he received when he was growing up, he had come to steel his emotions so that he wouldn’t get hurt again. Life hadn’t prepared him to share his life with another human being.

On the following day, Carlos walked up to his mother’s apartment building. He waited till late morning to visit her because his mother never got up early. And he didn’t wait till too late in the afternoon because he knew his mother would already be drinking. She was difficult but she was his mother. He opened the front door with his key and walked in.

“Hi, mom!” He placed the grocery bag on the kitchen table. The sound of the toilet flushing echoed through the small, disheveled apartment. It smelled of cigarette smoke, and the ceiling and the walls had yellowed.

A few minutes later, an emaciated woman of fifty-something entered the kitchen in a well-worn bathrobe, the color of which had faded long ago.

“Carlos,” his mother muttered. She hugged him and then made a beeline to the grocery bag. She pushed aside the basic staples like a kid pushing things out of the way in her toy box to get to her favorite toy. As she searched, she made a guttural sound like Marge Simpson did when she was frustrated.

“Ah, here she is.” His mother pulled a small brown paper bag out of the larger bag and patted the bottle on its side. “You do love your mother.”

“I do, mom. Would like you like something to eat?”

“I am a little hungry.”

Carlos took some items out of the grocery bag. He cooked her chorizo and eggs the way she liked them and heated a tortilla on the stove burner, which was the only way she would eat them. As his mother was eating, he watched her shoveling small portions at a time. For as long as he could remember, he had been taking care of her. When he was almost the same height as the kitchen table, he used to make himself a bowl of cereal with milk in the morning. He also made his mother a bowl. When he was tall enough, he used to microwave their meals. And when he could safely reach the top of the stove, he used to cook for them. It seemed like it had always been this way. His father had left them when Carlos was just able to use the microwave. Carlos had to grow up fast when he was young and subsequently missed out on a lot of things kids did.

“How you been, mom?”

“So, so.”

“Do you need anything fixed around here?”

“Just me.” She let out a truck driver’s laugh. When she was young and beautiful, the laugh was acceptable. It had brought more attention to her, and she relished it. She could have been a Charlie’s Angel but instead she married into the Marine Corp. When Carlos came along, he was another burden for his mother to carry. Now, the raucous laugh only made her look more pathetic. After her breakfast, she sat in her sofa chair and watched the Sunday afternoon movies. Carlos kept her company like he did every Sunday. He looked at his watch. It was 2 p.m. He normally stayed till about 3 p.m.

“Mom, I have to run some errands today.”

“Go! Go!”

As he came out of the kitchen to head to the front door, his mother yelled out, “I want to buy you something for when you become a lieutenant. Can you give your mother some money?”

“I left fifty on the kitchen table for you.” Carlos expected no more than a card for each holiday or celebration. The balance of the money would provide for his mother’s addiction. He tried to help her several times in the past but she didn’t want help.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, mom.”

Carlos drove straight home, thinking about Maria. For some reason he thought he had seen her before but just could not remember where or when. He had an excellent memory. He walked into his condo a short time later. You could immediately tell that it was a bachelor’s pad. It was sparsely furnished. The refrigerator was virtually empty. Most of the food was of the microwaveable kind or it was canned. There was an unusually large quantity of beer. It was definitely not a typical home setting but Carlos never lived in a typical family. It was a residence but not a home.

At 3 p.m., Carlos walked into Starbuck’s wearing a new change of clothes: a coffee-colored sport shirt and a brown pair of slacks. She was not in the store. He waited till 4 p.m. and then left.

Carlos returned every day at 3 p.m. He wore civilian clothes on Monday and Tuesday, his days off. He left every day at 4 p.m. On Thursday and Friday, he wore his duty uniform and waited each day for about ten minutes. Maria didn’t show. On Saturday at 3 p.m., Carlos stood next to the glass front door and looked in. It was difficult to see because of the cloud cover’s reflection off the glass. He held his breath, hoping. When he was young, he used to hold his breath and wish for something to happen or not happen. On his birthdays when he did get a cake, he held his breath for an instant and made a wish before blowing out the candles. When his mother yelled at him in her drunken rages, he would close his eyes and hold his breath and make a wish that she would find something else to occupy her idle time. When his father used to search for him in their house in order to beat him and make him a man, Carlos would close his eyes and hold his breath and wish that his father would never find him. Carlos opened his eyes and saw Maria reading in a sofa chair by a window facing the street. She was wearing a red dress. When Carlos stood next to her, he finally let his breath out.

“Good afternoon, sergeant,” said Maria as she glanced away from her book to stare at his black polished steel-toed boots next to her delicate red high heels.

“Good afternoon, young lady.”

“I was hoping to see you again.” Maria looked up at Carlos.

He saw her eyes twinkle. He really didn’t know if the eyes could twinkle but when someone understood something or recognized something, just for that very instant, there seemed to be a twinkle or a change of colors. And it was her eyes that seemed most familiar to him. “What are you reading?”

“The ‘Magic Barrel’ by Bernard Malamud.”

“Wasn’t ‘The Magic Barrel’ a story about a Jewish priest who hired a matchmaker?” “It was. The rabbinical student was so driven that he missed out on a lot of things like love, and he needed some help.”

“That sounds familiar. To be frank, Maria, I’ve been looking for you.” Carlos couldn’t lie to save his life. He never lied to his parents even if the lies could get him out of a beating or a yelling. He was always up-front.

“Say my name again. I love the way you say it.”

“Maria… Maria… Maria.”

“Mmmmmm.”

“I don’t have much of a break so I will have to be blunt. Are you attached?”

“Only to UCLA and my job.”

“If a man was a good man and loved puppies and walks along the beach and read poetry, then would you consider going out with him?”

Maria laughed.

“Of course, silly,” she said precociously like a twelve-year-old nymphet named Dolores Haze.

Carlos’ body relaxed. Things were going his way. He didn’t know why he had become so rigid around her but he never felt like this way before. He really, really wanted this. And when she called him silly, his defenses completely broke down. They exchanged cell phone numbers and set a tentative date for next Friday night. As Carlos walked away, he was happy, happier than he could remember. She was smart and beautiful and had a sense of humor. He wanted to keep this feeling forever.

It was drizzling. Carlos had been waiting for fifteen minutes in his black BMW. The white suit was overstated but he didn’t want Maria to think that this meeting was frivolous for him. He cared about this one. As he watched the minute hand of his watch go past 59 after, he closed his eyes and holds his breath. At 7 p.m. sharp, he looked in his rearview mirror and saw Maria stride toward the front of the restaurant in a tight fitting little black dress and black high heels. She didn’t seem bothered by the rain.

Carlos waited for her by the front doors. She didn’t stop outside his comfort zone but penetrated it, kissing him on his right cheek and placing her slightly damp body against his. Not knowing exactly what to do with his idle hands, he placed them on her waist.

“Are you wet?”

“Of course I am, silly.”

Inside the crowded restaurant, they ordered sashimi and a bottle of plum wine. They talked about everything and nothing. Carlos held nothing back as if he was at confession.

“Have you ever shot anyone?”

Carlos looked down at the table briefly.

“About four years ago. In fact, it’s exactly four years ago to this day that I got a call of suspicious subjects behind a small apartment complex. It was possibly a drug deal. When I arrived, two guys split from me. I chased one down the alley and he ran into the side yard of a home. He stopped at a dead end, exhausted and had no where to run. I told him to put his hands up but he reached into his pants. It was dark and raining. His right hand came up quickly. I shot him.”

Carlos looked at Maria and saw that her facial features had hardened. She was glaring at him. It startled him.

“Did he die?”

“I checked him. He was dead. The autopsy indicated that he was probably dead before he hit the ground.”

“Was it a gun that he pulled out of his pocket?”

“No. I found a hype kit next to him. A scorched tablespoon and a syringe wrapped up in a dirty white paper towel.”

“What happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… this guy points a tablespoon and a hypodermic syringe at you, and you kill him.” Maria’s voice was a higher pitch than he had ever heard it.

“The investigators called it a good shooting. I felt bad about it. I still do but there was nothing else I could have done. I told him to put his hands up, and he reached into his pocket. It was dark. Everything happened so quickly. I thought he had a gun.”

Carlos looked up from his wine glass and at Maria. She had settled against the back of the booth, almost as if she had fallen there, like she had slumped and was exhausted. Maria remained quiet and continued to drink while Carlos talked about other things. Eventually Maria started talking again. She talked about getting her bachelor’s degree at UCLA in English. She wanted to be a writer someday and to write about the stories that filled her neighborhood. She was excited about her future. Carlos saw that her eyes were gleaming again and that she was sitting on the edge of the seat, almost falling off. They hardly touched their food but finished off the bottle. He became conscious that it was quiet in the restaurant and when he looked around, he saw that it was empty except for the two waitresses and the two cooks. It was 10 p.m.

“We better go. I think they want us to go home.”

“I think you are right, senor.”

The couple walked to her car which was parked a block away. Carlos raised his right hand but she leaned into him, kissing him. He could taste her warm peppermint breath.

“Can we go to your house?”

“Maria, I don’t want to blow this.”

“We won’t. Let’s go, silly.”

His defenses crumbled again, and he was helpless.

They drove to his condo. He led. She followed in her black Mitsubishi Eclipse. The rain poured. In the foyer, Maria stared at the outside through the open front door. She said, “The beauty of the rain is how it falls. Do you see how light sparkles off of each raindrop as if each was a world unto itself? It reminds me of a simpler time when I was young. Every time it rained, I went out to play. I loved the rain. My oldest brother would always come out to get me.” Carlos stared at the dark, dripping Maria. Her silhouette against the backlit rain was delicious. He was terribly hungry. Maria turned around.

“I’m sorry. I got lost for a minute. Come here, silly.”

Before Carlos reached her, Maria grabbed the hem of her black dress and peeled it over her head. She was standing in high heels, wearing nothing but a smile. Carlos kissed her.
“Take me to your bed.” Carlos led her.

Inside the bedroom, Maria flopped on the bed, kicking off her high heels.

“Hurry up. Take off your clothes. And do it now!” Carlos chuckled as Maria gave him commands, almost sounding official.

“Don’t turn off the lights. I want to see.”

Carlos turned the lights back on. He was standing and was fully erect.

“Lay on your back.”

“Let me get a condom first.”

“No, I want to feel you. I will get off when it’s time.”

Carlos gently got on the bed and laid on his back. Maria crawled on top of him and gently rocked back and forth till he was nestled inside her…. Both were sweating profusely when Carlos uttered, “I’m coming.”

Maria leaned back, positioning herself so that Carlos would rub against her spot. It wasn’t long before she felt the orgasm sweeping over her body. Maria waited till Carlos stopped thrusting his hips. As Carlos was lying there, his eyes had teared. He felt emotionally vulnerable, something he hadn’t felt for a very long time. Under the fold of the comforter, Maria picked up an object. Carlos watched her as she took the orange plastic tip off the syringe. Maria worked mechanically and unemotionally. He saw what was coming and did nothing to prevent it. She stabbed the syringe into his chest and then pushed the plunger down, injecting Carlos with two ccs of a bloody red substance. Maria slid off. As she dressed, she told him without anger. It was her oldest brother whom he had killed four years ago. Maria stared at Carlos who remained motionless.

“The syringe was one I took from one of my brother’s friends. He was HIV positive.”

Maria stiffly walked out through the bedroom door and out the front door.

Carlos never moved from his bed. He placed the syringe on the end table after replacing the orange cap. He wasn’t sure of what to do except that he knew he wanted to be with her. If she gave him half a chance, if she gave him a second chance, then he would do his best to make her happy. He was sure that his happiness was connected to her happiness. He felt a squeezing in his chest, a desperateness he had not felt since he was a child and wanted his parents to love him. He would wait for her the following day at 3 p.m. He had nothing to lose.