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In the staroom of the police station the young policeman bumps into an older ocer. The young man is fetching water, the older man is drinking coee. Their relationship is complicated, as is often the case between police ocers of dierent generations. At the end of your career you’re trying to nd a point to it all, and at the start of it you’re looking for a purpose.
“Morning!” the older man exclaims.
“Hi,” the younger man says, slightly dismissively.
“I’d oer you some coee, but I suppose you’re still not a coee drinker?” the old ocer says, as if it were some sort of disability.
“No,” the younger man replies, like someone turning down an oer of human esh.
The older and younger men have little in common when it comes to food and drink, or anything else, for that matter, which is a cause of ongoing conict whenever they’re stuck in the same police car at lunchtime. The older ocer’s favorite food is a service station hot dog with instant mashed potatoes, and whenever the sta in the local restaurant try to take his plate away on buet Fridays, he always snatches it back in horror and exclaims: “Finished? This is a buet! You’ll know when I’m nished because I’ll be lying curled up under the table!” The younger man’s favorite food, if you were to ask the older ocer, is “that made-up stu, algae and seaweed and raw sh, he thinks he’s some sort of damn hermit crab.” One likes coee, the other tea. One looks at his watch while they’re working to see if it will soon be lunchtime, the other looks at his watch during lunch to see if he can get back to work soon. The older man thinks the most important thing is for a police ocer to do the right thing, the younger thinks it’s more important to do things correctly.
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“Sure? You can have one of those Frappuccinos or whatever they’re called.
I’ve even bought some of that soy milk, not that I want to know what the heck they milked to get hold of it!” the older man says, chuckling loudly, but glancing anxiously toward the younger man at the same time.
“Mmm,” the younger man murmurs, not bothering to listen.
“Getting on okay with interviewing that damn real estate agent?” the older man asks, in a tone that suggests he’s joking, to cover up the fact that he’s asking out of consideration.
“Fine!” the younger man declares, nding it increasingly dicult to conceal his irritation now, and attempting to move toward the door.
“And you’re okay?” the older ocer asks.
“Yes, yes, I’m okay,” the younger man groans.
“I just mean after what happened, if you ever need to…”
“I’m ne,” the younger man insists.
“Sure?”
“Sure!”
“How’s…?” the older man asks, nodding toward the bump on the younger
man’s forehead.
“Fine, no problem. I’ve got to go now.”
“Okay. Well. Would you like a hand questioning the real estate agent, then?” the older man asks, and tries to smile rather than just stare anxiously at the
younger ocer’s shoes.
“I can manage on my own.”
“I’d be happy to help.”
“No—thanks!”
“Sure?” the older man calls, but gets nothing but a very sure silence in response.
When the younger ocer has gone, the older man sits alone in the staroom drinking his coee. Older men rarely know what to say to younger men to let
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them know that they care. It’s so hard to nd the words when all you really want to say is: “I can see you’re hurting.”
There are red marks on the oor where the younger man was standing. He still has blood on his shoes, but he hasn’t noticed yet. The older ocer wets a cloth and carefully wipes the oor. His ngers are trembling. Maybe the younger man isn’t lying, maybe he really is okay. But the older man denitely isn’t, not yet.
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