Summer Sausage – or – How to Tune a Guitar

“Sixteen years, Dick. Sixteen goddamn years.”

“I know, I know. And you’ve been a fine cop the whole run.”

“And I’ve been a fine cop the whole run.”

Charles Swein exhaled loudly, leaning back against the padded emerald vinyl of the booth. Sick of this diner, sick of this heat, sick of the sweat on his back soaking through his shirt, pasting him to the cracked and worn upholstery. Sick of the force and sick of this prick of a captain sitting across the table, smiling like some Susie waiting to show off her new pony. It wasn’t necessary to take him down here, away from the rest of the guys, like he’s some child’s going to cry when he doesn’t get his way.

Not like he’d been spared embarrassment before. Not like he’d been spared embarrassment when some highschool quarterback hero realized he was small potatoes in the game and life and joined the force with an All-American smile and wits dim enough to woo a ten-years-married woman into a house and ring bought by his daddy. Not like he’d been spared when the whole PD was invited to the wedding and the whole PD attended the wedding. Or when the newlywed was promoted shortly thereafter to sit pretty with the precinct higher-ups, the newly-divorced demoted to some rookie’s beat for “disorderly conduct” towards his “fellow” officer.

So Charles was working alone, conducting his investigations alone, eating dinner and sleeping alone. Being alone isn’t lonely if there isn’t anyone you want to be with.

“I just think you could use some support. You’ve been out of Homicide for some spell now, and it may take a bit to get your sealegs back.”

“Don’t bullshit me. This isn’t a favor. This isn’t you caring. It’s you not wanting to care.”

“Chas, really –”

“I do my goddamn job. Last thing I need is some easytown greenhorn with a gun for a co–”

“Gun for a what?” Easytown greenhorn stood at the end of the table with a shit-eating grin, hands at his hips. You could call it a Superman pose; Charles thought Wonder Woman.

“Excuse us a minute, Chas.” The captain took the napkin from his collar and rested it on the table next to his plate. Diner gravy, thought Charles, will be that man’s undoing.

Dick and easytown greenhorn walked toward the bathrooms, speaking quietly to blend with the din. They must’ve been talking about Charles, Charles thought. Talking about his poor attitude, his distaste for authority. Dick was sharing the story about when he found him passed-out in a chair outside a motel room with a suffocated prostitute and an overdosed youth minister inside. And/or the one about his intoxicated stumbling-through of an elementary school substance awareness assembly. And/or the one about his pre-op transsexual son being stabbed four times on his way home from school, paralyzing him from the waist down. Dick was sharing stories and strategies, dictating Charles’ dossier. As if it needed further distinguishing. The two shook hands with solemnity and returned to the table, easytown greenhorn occupying Dick’s place in the booth while he remained standing.

“Chas, this is Jack Coban. He’s your new partner. Jack, this is Chas. He’s your new.. partner.” Charles grunted. The grin returned to Jack’s face as he extended his well-manicured hand. Fingernails clean and filed, healthy cuticles, and none of those streaks you get from a lack of calcium. The man stunk with a musk that assumed a two-block downwind would be as pleased with his presence as he was. Why was he so pleasant?

“Why’re you so goddamn pleasant?” Charles fidgeted in the booth, skin peeling from the vinyl. This heat made him uncomfortable and ornery.

Chuckling, “Friends call me Jacky.”

“I ain’t your godda–”

“You ain’t my goddamn friend. Right, right. Friends and you call me Jacky.” Some kind of amused, Jack straightened his posture, propping himself on the table with his elbows. Still grinning, he glanced to Dick. “I think we’ll be fine. This is fine. This’ll go well.” Dick sighed his heavy, fat man’s sigh and reached for his wallet. Halting his sweaty sausage of a hand, “It’s on me. You’re fine.”

Dick nodded a heavy, fat man’s nod. “Don’t dilly-dally. You’re both on duty. Get to know each other, share a milkshake, then back to work.” A heavy, fat man’s laugh at his own joke as he shuffled out of the diner, eyeing the waitress on his way.

“Dick.”

Pleasantly, “So let’s open a dialogue, huh? We’re going to have to get to know one another to make all this go smoothly. Personally, I work better when I have a more.. informal relationship with my partner. I find that my partner often handles his or her tasks with a more efficient adequacy as well. It’s important to be close. If we’re close, we’ll be fine. Just fine.” The waitress came and filled Dick’s coffee cup. Jack smiled at it, pulled it close, and began sipping. “So what do you think, partner? Tell me something about yourself.”

“No.”

Jack knew enough already. Probably knew that Charles vomited on himself and his wife while they took the first dance. That they’d tried to have four kids, but Charles’ sterility prevented the conception of even one, eventually turning them to a surrogate father.

The afternoon sun was unbearable. Charles could taste the sweat on his lips.

Probably knew about his eleventh toe. The time he broke into his ex-wife’s new home to bring her a cheap grocery store bouquet of week-old Easter flowers. She’d been kind to not tell her former highschool football hero husband.

“Well that’s fine then, partner. We’re fine. Do you have any questions for me?” Jack sipped Dick’s coffee. To his credit, the man took heat well. Not a bead on his brow. Pleasant.

Charles thought: Two kids. Cookie-cutter home in a mid-80s suburban development. Attractive, but aging, wife. Staling but existent sex life. Quality, but not flashy, sedan for himself. A station wagon for the wife and kids. Dog. Gym membership, but old aerobic equipment at home in the basement. Sports-watching, beer-drinking friends, also married. Father or grandfather was a cop, maybe both.

You’d think the diner’d have an air conditioner or a fan or something.

Shifting his weight, feeling the cool of his sweaty shirt on his back, “No.”

“Well, I was raised mostly by my uncle. He was a police officer. I don’t have much time for friends or recreational activities because of work, but I try to get a workout in at a gym when I can. Or just freeweights at home. My wife and I got our daughter a golden retriever for her birthday last year. She named him after her goldfish, Sammy. I like to do my commute by bicycle, but it’s rather impractical living out in Rosewood Hills, so I usually just drive my truck.” Apparently pleased with his summary, Jack finished Dick’s coffee with a smile, looking out the window towards the sun, half-descended. “Well, I think this was just fine. I’ll get the tab.”

Charles had suffered a heatstroke at a Boy Scout camp when he was younger. He’d refused to drink any water or wear a hat during a long hike, trying to make himself look tougher than the other Scouts. He fainted near the top of the trail, knocking two of the other boys over. Charles and one of the boys were cut and scratched, the other boy broke his wrist in the fall.
Charles looked at Jack and drank the glass of melted ice water the waitress’d filled when Dick arrived. “I didn’t get anything.”

“That’s fine.”

After paying for Dick’s twelve-dollar chicken fried steak and one-dollar coffee, Jack approached the jukebox. After a minute or two of flipping through the forty-fives while Charles peeled himself from the booth, Jack put his quarter in and made a selection.

“I’ll walk you to your car, partner.”

The interior of Charles’ car was sweltering. The dark leather seats and steel buckles burned his exposed skin. “It was fine meeting you, Chas. Really a pleasure.” Charles rolled his windows down, expecting his silence to serve as the rude goodbye he was too warm to emphatically gesticulate.

Lee Hazlewood introduced and drawled an old Spanish lullaby in the diner.

Why was he so pleasant?



Charles “Chas” Swein is survived by his son, Lyle, 18. The memorial service will be wheelchair accessible.