The two partners shake hands and run toward the beach.
THEME SONG PLAYS
EXT.THE BEACH-DAY
The girls are still making out as Booker and Styles arrive.
BOOKER
New Jersey Beach Patrol!
STYLES
Serve and protect!
The girls stop kissing and look indignant.
LESBIAN SLUT #1
Hey man, stop hassling us!
LESBIAN SLUT #2
Yeah! The liberal activist judges say we can do whatever we want.
STYLES
Not according to town ordnance 22.405.
BOOKER
And not according to God.
STYLES and BOOKER
(Simultaneously)
Serve and protect!
They shake hands and reach for their handcuffs. The girls start to run.
BOOKER
Freeze!
STYLES
We can’t let them escape. Think of the children!
They draw their service revolvers, aim, and fire. They are great shots. Both girls fall to the ground, shot in the back of the leg.
Booker and Styles holster their guns, smile, and approach the two sluts, who are crying in pain.
BOOKER
On this beach, we respect the law.
STYLES
(to the sluts)
You have the right to remain silent.
They grab the girls and handcuff them together. The officers exchange high fives!
BOOKER and STYLES
Serve and Protect!
THEME SONG PLAYS
INT. POLICE STATION – DAY
Booker and Styles enter the station house. Their commanding officer, CAPTAIN FARRELL, calls them over to his office. The two cops
. . . . .
I woke up with a throbbing headache and a stiff neck, a ceiling fan whirring above me, the loose pages of “New Jersey Beach Patrol” scattered across the bed as my eyes tried to focus on something, anything, like the white candle burning on the nightstand, its tiny flame bouncing up and down like an EKG from a heart attack. God, I hated waking up. I took a deep breath and started coughing.
“Welcome back,” Kelly said.
She sat beside me lotus-style, her guitar propped in her lap as she strummed a three-chord progression I couldn’t place, something mid-1990’s and familiar, a gloomy old favorite. I noticed her white t-shirt, a Property of Jaybird Pizza special; it was all she was wearing, except for her fuzzy pink socks. She smiled, but kept her eyes on the frets, her fingers switching between the D, G and E chords, … D, G, and E.
“How long have I been out?”
“Three hours, three days, three years…something like that.”
She leaned over and kissed my forehead, the body of the guitar poking my abdomen, yet she didn’t miss a beat. I still couldn’t place the chords, but I could remember the video, silhouettes of wheels over blacktop, people stuck in traffic in their workaday lives. “I went downstairs to make some tea and when I came back you were dead.”
I checked my phone: two texts from Amy wondering where the hell I was.
“Don’t worry. I picked her up at the Mall and drove her home. Everything’s cool.”
“You drove Amy home?”
“That’s right.”
She kept plucking the same strings, D-G-E, and the song finally came to me: “Everybody Hurts.” R.E.M. Not a good sign.
“What did you talk about?” I asked.
“Nothing. The usual stuff.”
I looked across the room, toward the balcony and its high-priced view, the double-doors pulled open to catch the breeze; we were close enough to hear the waves, the steady heartbeat of the ocean, and from the downstairs kitchen came the scent of freshly-baked scones, the remnants of the afternoon tea I had missed.
Kelly put down the guitar, leaning it against the nightstand as she turned to face me, her head settling against the pillow, her bare legs stretching out across the bed, her toes resting on my shins. The blood vessels in my temples twisted and screamed.
“My poor little narcolepsy boy.”
The T-shirt rode high on her hip; I reached over and touched her treble clef note tattoo.
“What did you and Amy talk about?” I asked, again, the idea of the two of them alone in a car, a twenty-minute commute with nothing to discuss except me being somewhat equivalent to a rectal exam.
“Don’t worry, she had nothing but rave reviews.”
She petted my head, stroking my hair like I was one of her cats.
“We’re going to her house for dinner tonight. I stopped at the pizzeria, too. Aren’t you proud of me? Whipping around town like a Jersey girl? I invited your uncle to join us, but he said he had to work. Does he ever take a night off?”
“He did, once, in 1998. I don’t think he liked it.”
“He gave me this t-shirt and a garlic knot; he said he’d name a pizza after me if I convinced you to stay. He asked if you were upset about seeing your mother after all these years. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I told him you were doing your best.”
I pulled myself up and reached for the Excedrin, gobbling down two in a single dry gulp, still too dazed to freak out properly about Kelly and Amy talking. The last few hours, even the awake part, had been a blur. After my meeting with Cobb, Kelly and I had checked into the Beach House, my Visa groaning as the owner swiped the card and handed us the room key. While Kelly unpacked, I’d sat down with Clyde’s crappy script, and then…sleep, the narcolepsy like a lightning strike. I must have been out longer than usual. I remembered the first few dreadful pages, but nothing else.
“I called home to check on the cats,” Kelly said. “They’re okay, although Mr. Biggles had an accident on my tapestry chair. I spoke to Katie, and she said…”
I smiled and nodded and did all those things one does to show the other person you’re listening, but my brain was sludge, half-asleep, half-chasing anxious thoughts about Amy alone with Kelly.
“…I mean, I don’t really want it, but what if nothing better comes along? Sometimes I think I should just go somewhere and start over, the hell with everything—except the cats, of course.”
Kelly’s big eyes dug into me as if, despite her better judgement, she still hoped I might offer something tangible, if not words of wisdom, then at least some guidance or
