police.”
Jason shook his head. “Not always senselessly. Sometimes there’s good reason and you know it,” he said unapologetically.
Leah was taken aback.
Of course. She knew that. But it didn’t help. She sat silently as Jason calmly finished his cigarette and tossed the butt into the street. In a nervous gesture he ran his hand through his hair and half turned toward Leah.
“Look, we’re the first ones you’d call if you were in trouble. How bad can I be?”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?” she asked tightly.
“But I’d be there,” he said softly.
I. Not we. Leah looked at him finally, seeing a man more sure of himself. He no longer needed sympathy. She no longer wanted to give it. Without any further response, Leah suddenly stood.
Jason reached out and grabbed her arm. Not roughly, but firmly enough to deter her. In that instant their eyes met. Jason wouldn’t let go, and slowly Leah sat down again. The short silence that followed was needed, to let go of a tension that had built with astounding speed, and which had to dissipate somehow.
“Are you uncomfortable with me?” Jason asked quietly.
Leah’s eyes widened with acknowledgment. “Aren’t you?
Jason half grinned. “No …”
Leah felt impatient. This wasn’t going right. He should have taken himself off in some sort of defensive huff, the same way she would have a moment ago. But Jason just sat there, as if waiting for the steam to vent itself completely from her.
“What kind of cop are you anyway?” Leah asked.
Jason slowly leaned back against the wrought iron banister, and reached for another cigarette. “A good one …” he murmured.
Jason told Leah that he was a juvenile officer, a kiddie cop. Somehow the information allowed Leah to feel he was different from her image of the men in blue. Maybe because she wanted to believe otherwise. She sat and listened to Jason talk about what it was he actually did. Nonetheless, she made a feeble remark, a criticism that didn’t come close to damaging his ego.
“I suppose you know you smoke too much.”
He shrugged but lit the cigarette anyway.
“You don’t look like a cop, either,” Leah observed.
Jason grinned. “Still trying to convince yourself I’m okay?”
He was more than half right, and the fact that he could smile about it went a long way toward making Leah relax. She was no longer inclined to leave. She leaned back against the opposite banister from Jason and left all that space between them.
“Why juvenile work? Why not homicide, or narcotics or …”
“Some other disgusting vice?” Jason filled in for her. “It’s all the same. Juvenile used to mean kids who got into trouble. Now it’s criminals who are not of legal age. Everything changed.”
“What do you do for them?”
Jason shrugged negligently. “Not much, really. I listen. I talk. I coach sports. It’s physical and lets off a lot of energy. If they want to fight, they can fight with me.” He smiled at her. “I’m bigger, so I usually win. It’s better than having them go out and hurt someone else because they’re frustrated and pissed off.”
Leah did not know what she had expected Jason to tell her about his work, but it wasn’t this. It didn’t sound so much like police work as it did social work, a kind of therapy for problem kids. An intervention system between the kids and incarceration.
“Why?” Leah asked.
She could see Jason taking the time to consider the question. Once again he got that faraway look that told Leah he was looking for an honest answer.
“Sometimes I think Americans don’t really like kids very much. We have them and then we don’t know what to do with them. Kids take time, and they’re often a lot of trouble. More and more people aren’t willing to be troubled. So what we end up with, what I see too much of, is throwaway kids. I see an awful lot of abandoned, abused, neglected kids that nobody wants. I sometimes wonder, how did it come to this? How
Jason shook his head. “Not always senselessly. Sometimes there’s good reason and you know it,” he said unapologetically.
Leah was taken aback.
Of course. She knew that. But it didn’t help. She sat silently as Jason calmly finished his cigarette and tossed the butt into the street. In a nervous gesture he ran his hand through his hair and half turned toward Leah.
“Look, we’re the first ones you’d call if you were in trouble. How bad can I be?”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?” she asked tightly.
“But I’d be there,” he said softly.
I. Not we. Leah looked at him finally, seeing a man more sure of himself. He no longer needed sympathy. She no longer wanted to give it. Without any further response, Leah suddenly stood.
Jason reached out and grabbed her arm. Not roughly, but firmly enough to deter her. In that instant their eyes met. Jason wouldn’t let go, and slowly Leah sat down again. The short silence that followed was needed, to let go of a tension that had built with astounding speed, and which had to dissipate somehow.
“Are you uncomfortable with me?” Jason asked quietly.
Leah’s eyes widened with acknowledgment. “Aren’t you?
Jason half grinned. “No …”
Leah felt impatient. This wasn’t going right. He should have taken himself off in some sort of defensive huff, the same way she would have a moment ago. But Jason just sat there, as if waiting for the steam to vent itself completely from her.
“What kind of cop are you anyway?” Leah asked.
Jason slowly leaned back against the wrought iron banister, and reached for another cigarette. “A good one …” he murmured.
Jason told Leah that he was a juvenile officer, a kiddie cop. Somehow the information allowed Leah to feel he was different from her image of the men in blue. Maybe because she wanted to believe otherwise. She sat and listened to Jason talk about what it was he actually did. Nonetheless, she made a feeble remark, a criticism that didn’t come close to damaging his ego.
“I suppose you know you smoke too much.”
He shrugged but lit the cigarette anyway.
“You don’t look like a cop, either,” Leah observed.
Jason grinned. “Still trying to convince yourself I’m okay?”
He was more than half right, and the fact that he could smile about it went a long way toward making Leah relax. She was no longer inclined to leave. She leaned back against the opposite banister from Jason and left all that space between them.
“Why juvenile work? Why not homicide, or narcotics or …”
“Some other disgusting vice?” Jason filled in for her. “It’s all the same. Juvenile used to mean kids who got into trouble. Now it’s criminals who are not of legal age. Everything changed.”
“What do you do for them?”
Jason shrugged negligently. “Not much, really. I listen. I talk. I coach sports. It’s physical and lets off a lot of energy. If they want to fight, they can fight with me.” He smiled at her. “I’m bigger, so I usually win. It’s better than having them go out and hurt someone else because they’re frustrated and pissed off.”
Leah did not know what she had expected Jason to tell her about his work, but it wasn’t this. It didn’t sound so much like police work as it did social work, a kind of therapy for problem kids. An intervention system between the kids and incarceration.
“Why?” Leah asked.
She could see Jason taking the time to consider the question. Once again he got that faraway look that told Leah he was looking for an honest answer.
“Sometimes I think Americans don’t really like kids very much. We have them and then we don’t know what to do with them. Kids take time, and they’re often a lot of trouble. More and more people aren’t willing to be troubled. So what we end up with, what I see too much of, is throwaway kids. I see an awful lot of abandoned, abused, neglected kids that nobody wants. I sometimes wonder, how did it come to this? How
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