Fingerprints

Sorry for the delay, I began writing this story yesterday but as I kept on writing it I knew 500 words was too short and I just continued writing until it naturally ended. It was as if the story took a life of its own with each word on the page.

           My leg itched beneath the plaster immobilizer known as a cast. I wanted to scratch it, to end the feeling of a thousand ants climbing up my leg, hair by hair, to end. But I left my scratcher back at home, only a five minute drive from here, an easy stop to make if I were on patrol. Oh how I wish I was on patrol, driving around in my cruiser with my black shirt and sunglasses, the sunlight glistening off the gold on my badge as I walked around, observing the city that I decided to protect. Instead my injury restrained me to a desk job until my shin finally mended itself together. And worst of all they put me at finger printing.

I couldn’t have asked for a worse job, even janitor was easier than this. The people were the worst. From the dead eyed bureaucrats coming in for their security clearances, to teens arrested for marijuana or alcohol possession who had no respect for authority, and the foreigners with their awkwardness of me touching their hands as I rolled each digit across the black ink and then repeated the same motion across the legal documents. Nobody wanted to be there, neither did I until I met her.

            She walked in to the office with an aura of confidence, her lips curled into a smile, making her the first person in the world the ever smile when walking into a police office. Her eyes green as grass in the spring, her hair a deep maroon like autumn leaves, maybe she wouldn’t be so bad. I wondered if she was the kind of person who actually smiled in their drivers license.

            I told her the usual: please sit down and fill out the proper forms. She handed them to me, already filled out. I told her I was surprised, nobody fills out the paperwork before they get here. She smiled and told me that she likes to be efficient.

            I hobbled around the corner on my crutches. She looked at me with large eyes of concern, and asked if I was alright. I told her how I was doing fine but the itching was unbearable. She laughed a small laugh, I was confused. She explained that she too had been in cast before, actually twice on the same arm, and explained in a light hearted tone how she knew all too well how unbearable the itching was. How it was worse than the injury itself.

I laughed and told her I agreed. She stuck out her hand to me, and told me she was ready.

I forgot I was at my job and hesitated. I didn’t want her to leave, the only good spirited person to ever walk through those doors stood in front of me, and within a count to ten she will be gone from my life forever.

Of course I told her I was ready.

I grasped her hand firmly, her hands looked small and frail compared to mine. Their texture was soft like silk. With her hand in mine I joked about how although my legs might be broken my arms are still working fine and I might accidently throw her up into the air.

She laughed.

I placed her finger down on the onyx pad and rolled them across making sure the ink obstructed the entire print. My mental processes went back into action as I entered autopilot and began rolling her ink stained finger tips across the paper. I didn’t know what to say so I decided to wait for her.

Right thumb.

Silence.

Right index finger.

Silence. Give it a moment….

Right middle finger.

Silence. This is getting unbearable, here I am a train cop and I can’t even get the confidence to talk to a woman.

Right ring finger. She must have been suffering as well because she talked.

She asked me how I broke my leg. I told her that it was during a police pursuit when two young men robbed a 7-Eleven with an air soft gun on the north side of town. I climbed over a fence in pursuit but lost my footing at the top and fell, shattering my ankle and parts of my shin. I left out the part about it being only my fourth day on the job.

As I rolled her right pinky on the white piece of paper she told me how cool she thought it was that I was willing to risk my life for those around me. She was something, I never met anybody who actually had respect for cops. Even I didn’t just a few years ago when I was in high school.

Short pause. I tell her to give me her left hand, I look at it inspecting for rings. She wore two on it: a silver band on her pinkie, a sapphire on her middle finger. Her ring finger was barren. I tell her to take off her rings unless she wanted them coated in ink. She obeyed.

Left thumb. I ask her why she’s getting her finger prints done.

She begins by telling me it’s a personal decision of hers, something she’s been considering for a while.

I tell her it’s alright; she doesn’t have to tell me if it’s personal.

Left index finger.

She’s silent, but her face is contemplative.

I stall for a moment, purposely fumbling around with her hand.

Silence.

Left middle finger.

She breaks the silence again. Beginning with the fact that she respects me and my desire to protect and help others, and that her reason is similar. In a teasing voice she asks me to guess what it is, but assures me I won’t be able to.

I ask her if she’s joining the police force.

Nope.

Next guess: The military.

Colder.

The CIA?

Not even close.

The fire department or the paramedics?

No, but she will be doing something medical.

A hospital then!

Closer, but not close enough.

I tell her I give up.

Peace Corps she says, well technically a Doctors Without Borders and Peace Corps partnership.

My voice doesn’t hide my surprise as I tell her that I totally knew that, I was just messing with her. I don’t press the next finger down onto the blank square, my moment with her was only two fingers away from over.

She giggled and went on to tell me that helping people was her primary purpose in life. That she went to med school and discovered the Doctors Without Borders program and made it her goal to join the movement and save those in need, but her parents and friends disagreed and she because of that she was reluctant to tell me at first. Afraid of the embarrassment.

 She asked me if I was going to continue the finger prints.

Reluctantly I resumed, letting her know that I think her choice is very noble and she shouldn’t feel embarrassed to tell me.

Left ring finger.

One away, I ask her where she’s going and what she’ll do.

Mongolia she said, and commented on the fact that she has never left America but that hasn’t phased her on moving so far away. She’ll be serving in a newly constructed hospital in the rural parts of the country as a general practitioner.

I remark on how I never left the country, well except Canada but that doesn’t really count.

Another giggle, and I never even considered myself funny. She joked about how exotic that was and how daring I am to cross international boarders into Canada.

I laughed and joked about how big of a culture shock it was that adapting to the slightly cooler temperatures was the most challenging aspect there.

Left pinkie.

Damn habits! Why did I just do that?

I let he know we’re done, that she’s free to go. I sign the form and hand it to her.

You forgot something, she tells me.

What’s that? I ask.

You forgot to ask when I’m leaving.

I tell her that that’s none of my business.

She tells me that it is.

I ask why.

Because, she says writing something down, that’s how long you’ll have to spend with me.

She passes me a piece of paper with a phone number on it, the outer edges stained black from her fingers.

My immediate reaction was not to react, I just stood there dumbfounded. How did this happen?

Seven months, she tells me.

My mouth remained motionless.

I’ll give you time to recover, she says, but my time is short. So how does coffee after work sound? Just give me a call.

Like a child learning to speak all over again the word sure comes out of my mouth.

See you then, she says and walks through the door.

Maybe fingerprinting isn’t do bad after all.