In the Nick of Time (3 page)

For life is not promised. It is comprised of tiny milliseconds, and once they pass, we can never get them back again. So we must make the most of our time on Earth, and he learns this lesson via a woman who is physically stunning, but also tangibly and emotionally imperfect. Her name is Taryn Jones, and her reputation precedes her. She is a celebrated fashion model, a native New Yorker with a penchant for independent thinking, and despite her lovely ways, she at times dances the tightrope of carefully cloaked insecurity. Not too much, not too little, but enough to make her pause.

Additionally, she is warm and feminine, as well as talented in many ways, some hidden. She, too, is multidimensional and complicated. She and Nick share a few things in common, but soon realize that their commonalties go beyond the reason they met in the first place. Taryn is proof that one can be scratched and dented, but still celebrate and embrace those psychological and emotional blemishes, and make a positive change. She is Nick’s beacon of light, and the way she lives her life, her philosophies, change his entire world.

My hope is that you, as the reader, go through this journey right along with Nick and Taryn, and once you read, ‘The End’, it stays with you a bit longer. This story is designed to take you on unexpected twists and turns for the better. It is my hope that it will make you think about topic(s) that you may have believed you had all figured out, and just when you think you know the answer, you discover there is something else lying beneath the surface, and it pops out at the most interesting and possibly unexpected times. So, without further ado, please join me, as I introduce to you Officer Nick Vitale as he takes you on an excursion and allows you to have a front row seat to the spectacle of his life.

You want to read about a damaged man that falls apart behind the iron curtain but comes back together, piece by torn piece, once he receives the love of a magnificent woman?

Well, the clock starts NOW…

“The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.”

—
Maya Angelou, “All God’s Children Need Travelling Shoes”

Y
ou ever notice
how time is never on your side? Neither clock nor Mayan calendar can predict what life has in store and when that life will come to an end. We wake up every damn day, thinking we know what the hell is going to happen, right? Like, we’ll get up at such and such a time; then we’ll hop in the shower, shave, check some emails, watch a little news, brush our teeth, get dressed, and leave for work. That’s all a bunch of crap because those are just plans, and plans are more times than not messed up somehow along the way. Take my job, for instance. There isn’t one damn day that passes when I can predict what the hell is going to happen. Time is funny like that. For example, when you’re having a good day, it’s far too short. When the shit hits the fan, or someone is especially getting under your skin, it drags on forever. I came to realize though, that time can be an enemy and a friend, too. I think I read that somewhere…

I read a lot now…

I wasn’t much of a reader as a kid. I only read what was necessary, like maps, instructional booklets for electronics, things like that. I didn’t see the point. It seemed to me, books just held a bunch of useless junk, the ideas of another person. I had my
own
ideas, what did I need someone else’s for? I grew up in Brooklyn with my older brother and my Ma. The neighborhood I call home is Brownsville. I was born and raised there. It’s the place I hate, and the place I love. I think, no matter where I go in this world, it will always have a piece of me. Anyway, here is the deal. I’m a cop… yeah, Brooklyn’s finest. I work in the 73
^rd
Precinct and before you roll your damn eyes, we deal with some shitty ass people and don’t get our just due so don’t come at me about any police brutality stuff, okay? You don’t think I know what’s goin’ on out here? I do! Not all of us are beating innocent motherfuckers over the head, all right?

The bastards I’m dealing with are cold blooded criminals—fuckers that wouldn’t think
twice
about taking out a knife or gun, and slicing you down to the goddamn white meat all over some perceived disrespect or a crumpled ten dollar bill. I take them off the streets for you, okay? I’m one of the guys out here busting their asses so you can sleep at night with a little peace of mind.

…And how am I repaid? I get a bunch of anonymous hate mail, get spit at in public, and am thrown a ton of bullshit from the community I’m trying to help. Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m not holding any grudges. I love my job; I’m just stating the facts. I work hard. Harder than just about any man I know, but that didn’t stop some angry bastard from cocking his shit-stained leg up like some mangy dog the other day and pissing on my squad car…

But, I wouldn’t change it for the world… I meant what I said. I love what I do; I live for it. Every morning, I get up at the same time.

I don’t hit that damn snooze button, because my day is planned out, at least in my mind, just how I want it to go…until I hit patrol, the damn field. Once I get to work, all bets are off. My quietest moments happen when I’m filling out my paper work, but even that can get crazy. Someone usually walks in hollering about some injustice, needing police attention right away while they insult us at the same damn time. I can barely start one task before another needs my attention.

The 73
^rd
precinct saved my life—gave it meaning, purpose. It allowed me to put my skills to good use, rather than bullshit my way through life. You see, though I had a great mother, I took her for granted, didn’t appreciate her. Not everyone can say they had a great mom, or a mom at all. I know that first hand. But, it didn’t matter. I wanted to run the streets, be with my boys, be a big shot. The streets are full of trouble, especially for bored, disregarded kids, and I became addicted to the suffering. My mother would beg and plead for me to stop, to straighten up, but I blew her off like dust on her Bible. She was from Puerto Rico, and she had dreams of getting a good job in New York, getting married to a nice guy, and having a few kids. The shit didn’t quite go down like that…

A lot of things didn’t go as planned, and that leaves a bit of anger, you know? You see your life going one way, and before you know it, someone turns off the light and you trip and fall. When the light comes back on, you’re in the damn desert or jungle, nowhere close to anything you could’ve imagined. I’ll be the first to say that I was confused. I wasn’t confused because I’m biracial. I wasn’t confused because I was poor. Nah, all of that shit made sense to me; it was logical, had reason. Two people from two different races fucked. Boom! I’m here. My mother worked a bunch of shitty, low paying jobs. Boom! I’m poor. I get that; I can understand that. I was confused because I didn’t know how to un-see the shit I saw, how to un-hear the shit I heard, and how to wash myself clean, absolve myself from the guilt of it all.

Guilt. Now THAT’s one hell of a drug. You know, everyone copes in his or her own way, does things to make it. I was no exception. I understand the people I talk to in my line of work. Even as I’m putting handcuffs on a bastard that did something stupid, I understand him more times than not, and a lot of times, they can see that. I tell him what he did was stupid, and I mean that shit as he needs to know just how fucking dumb his behavior was—because now he’s going to jail. Still, I get why he did what he did more times than not. He’s running from something that no one else can see but him, and it’s a mirror image of himself. Makes no difference what he is running from or toward though once someone becomes his victim, because now he sees
me
, and that means there are consequences.

I didn’t show up because there was a party on Rockaway. When people get a visit from Officer Vitale, they know I’m there because somebody is fucking up. And more times than not, it’s them. There have to be order and procedures. You can’t make it if there is no regulation. Even in criminal activity, there have to be parameters. I’m not in the gang unit, but that’s a perfect example of organized, rule driven bullshit, versus some of this other shit we see out on the streets… people just winging it. You have to have a well thought out plan, even though plans get ruined, just like I said… You still need an idea of what the hell you’re doing. You can’t just shoot from the hip and hope for the best.

I think when we forget the rules, even if they are rules we made up for our own lives, we lose focus, understanding—and we lose ourselves. I lost myself. I lost myself so badly, when I looked in the damn mirror, I had no idea who the hell was even looking back at me. I became embarrassed and ashamed because I was involved in things that had taken me under. It wasn’t supposed to be that way. I had the best of intentions, but intentions don’t mean anything if everyone you ever loved is dead and can’t see you tryna get your shit together. Regardless, I had an epiphany, and my soul was talking to me. It told me that my time was running out and it was now or never. Rather than die, I decided to make one more choice. I chose life.

Or maybe life chose me. I honestly don’t know, but a decision was made, and it was final. It was a really confusing time in my life. Regardless, I ended up so damn tired of myself, I couldn’t stomach another moment in my own company. I turned myself over to some people who would kill me, put me out of my misery, or kick me out on my ass. Each option was highly plausible. Why, you may ask? Well, I’ll tell you. Here’s the deal… I am a drunk. There really is no way to pretty that shit up. If you set out a six-pack of beer in front of me, I could hose that whole damn thing down in thirty minutes, guaranteed. You could set your clock by it. I had a method to my madness, though; I kept a schedule.

I kept things orderly. That made me feel better than other people, superior, like I was somehow not in the same league because I could control it to some extent. I was just lying to myself. I had been out of control since the damn day I was born. So, off to rehab I went, completely scared out of my mind. What ended up happening was nothing like I had imagined. It was much worse. I still clung on to some of my old ways. They were a security blanket, and that included my love of female companionship. Not too much, though! I was not interested in being anyone’s husband. I wouldn’t classify myself as a playboy, but I got around. Besides, women love a guy in uniform, and I got more pussy than I could handle.

You would think the last thing that would be on my mind was sex while in rehab, but you couldn’t be more wrong. If anything, I thought about it even
more
because I needed a distraction, something to make me feel good. Everything I really enjoy, that I look forward to, I’m good at. I know that sounds arrogant, but it’s just the truth. I’m a good cop. I’m a good lover. I’m a great drinker. I stayed out of people’s way when getting lit, didn’t cause too many scenes. I’m good at talking to messed up people, too, because
I’m
messed up, so I understand that shit up close and personal. See, rehab is all about focusing on yourself and trying to solve your own riddle.