The tide of adrenaline was going out and the silt of the night, of all that happened, was laid bare. Even though I’d explained to everyone, all the reports, all the questions and interviews, the memories of it all had edges now and most of them were sharp like a switchblade.
Harrisburg just looked straight out the front window without his usual cadence of fidgets and questions. He didn’t look out the passenger side window and point at a new restaurant or some weird drug addict, asking if we could stop, check it out, or as he always put it, “see what’s what.” But Burg was far away now, a place I’ve visited more times than I wanted to, like your own house of mirrors, and the reflection of who you are keeps you from getting out.
“You hungry?” I ask.
“Me? No... I’m not hungry.” He keeps staring forward and I wonder if he heard me right. My math tells me we haven’t eaten in fourteen hours.
“I’m pulling into Portillo’s,” I said.
We get to the drive-thru and I bark both of our orders through the crackly speaker; the attendant mumbles something in response. I pull the large bag through the window and Berg hardly moves. The smell of roast beef and french fries fills the car, and my stomach lurches like a dog on a leash seeing a rabbit in the distance. I put the large Cokes in the holders and pull away.
“This for me?” he says. “What do I owe you?”
“Yeah—I got the usual. But got the regular Cokes.” He grabbed one of the Cokes and took a long pull.
“Easy,” I say. I make a left turn and pull out the fries and hand them to him. I was grateful I got extra. I can barely make out the ‘thank you’ as he puts the fries down, deep down.
We drive for a bit, eating our meal in silence as I get him home. I don’t bother putting on the siren to make it a bit faster. We’ve had too many flashing lights tonight and too much noise tonight.
“What’s going on this weekend?” I ask.
Burg takes a pause.
“Catch up on shit, I guess. Clean the house. Grocery shop.”
“We are going to watch the game. Got plenty of food and room. Kids might be a little wired having their old man home for two whole days. Do your chores Saturday. Come over Sunday.”
“I just don’t want to be—”
“It’s fine. The gang will leave you be. And my wife wants to meet you—you’d be doing me a favor getting her off my back.”
We finish off the bag, and he smashes the bag in his hands, rolls down the window, and tosses it out. The white paper ball joins the rest of the trash in the street. The empty drink containers follow with ice exploding like grenade shrapnel when they hit.
We get to his apartment and he opens the door and says, “Hey—what do I owe you for tonight?”
“Nothing, Burg. Nothing. Get some rest. I’ll pick you up Sunday.” He takes a beat and starts his long walk to his apartment, and through the house of mirrors where he will hopefully put his arms out and find his way.
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