Officer Down

Chapter One nbsp; Normally, I avoid domestic disputes, but this girl is standing in the middle of my hallway, and she’s hitting herself in the head. With her own shoes. I could turn around, take the elevator back down to the lobby, and notify the doorman. But Omar knows I’m a cop. He’d send me right back up here. nbsp; She’s my next-door neighbor, unit 1612. Her name is Katie or Kathy or something cute that doesn’t quite fit, especially now. She’s a small girl with a lot of blond hair and a mouth even worse than mine. She lived here by herself when I moved in two years ago. The first time her late-night partying kept me up, I tried to be reasonable: I slipped a friendly note under her door. The next few times, I made official complaints to the Association. The last time, about a year ago, I invited my co-workers over. They busted her snorting coke with a couple suits from the Board of Trade. Since then, she never says hello. nbsp; “You’ll be fucking sorry when I’m fucking dead, you fucking asshole,” she yells, the profanities accentuated with a swift heel to her head. A forearm full of gold bracelets clinks, echoing her swing. I figure she’s high, but when she sees me she pauses, her arms midair, and her eyes are clear with conviction. I try to think of something to say. “Excuse me” doesn’t seem appropriate. I feel like I’m in her way. nbsp; She takes a step back, politely allowing me to pass, like this is an everyday thing. I stand there like an idiot. How can she be so serious when she looks so ridiculous? When I don’t take the opportunity to make a break for my place, she turns her attention, her yelling, and her shoes to the door. nbsp; “Did you hear what I said, you son of a bitch? Do you even care if I die?” nbsp; The door couldn’t care less. nbsp; I’ve heard her arguing with this guy through my adjoining living room wall for a few weeks now. Senseless, hurtful arguing. Arguing about arguing. One night after a double shift I thought I could sleep for a week and I didn’t sleep at all because I could hear them. What did you just say? Say it again. I dare you. I felt like a kid back home with my parents in the next room. And just like when I was a kid, I tried not to listen. I closed my eyes and tried to think about other things. I told myself it wasn’t my problem to solve. Back then it became my problem. Now, it’s right in the middle of my hallway. nbsp; “You think you can find someone better than me?” the girl asks. “Besides your mother?” Ouch. nbsp; When the girl gets no response, she starts assaulting the door with her shoes. I’m comforted it stands between them. nbsp; I look both ways. There’s no one else around, though I’m sure they’re all listening from inside their condos. Granted, that’s where most of them solve their own crises. nbsp; By now, the humor of the scene is wearing thin, even when one of her French-manicured fingernails pops off. It just adds insult to insult. nbsp; The girl keeps at it, and part of me wants to join her and yell at the guy too. I’m sure he’s guilty of something. I work with men. My best friends are men. I know how they operate. The guys who play games can go play them at a bowling alley as far as I’m concerned. nbsp; On the other hand, this girl hasn’t exactly worn a halo since we’ve been neighbors. It might not be my best move, but I decide to give this guy the benefit of the doubt. I get behind her and grab her arms to stop her from whacking me in the head. Surprisingly, she doesn’t resist me. Maybe