a license to say too much

The bomb that Littlegirlcop was waiting for dropped just as dessert landed on the table. Two berry coblers, Three coffees, one banana cream pie and electroshock therapy. Murphy was at lunch with his cop partner Marty and their boss the often manic Sergeant McD. His drivers license said Michael James Mc Dermott, He was Micky McD to his mostly retired cop buddies. Marty and Murphy usually called him Crazy Micky. On the walk up to his office Marty told Murphy. " All fancy lunches come with a price, sometimes it's monetary, sometimes it's emotional, but it's a price all the same." Then with his left index finger he pulled down the the skin of his lower eyelid and doing the best imitation of his maternal grandfather, Lorrenzo Da Lucca, he said, "Guarda," then back to is own voice, "just you watch."

Murphy was well aware of his boss's struggle with mental illness. Sergeant Micky was always a bit too forthcoming with information about his talking-shrink and his prescribing-shrink and his crush on the short one with the big feet and sausage fingers, Murphy wasn't sure which shrink that was. While Marty also got his fare share of Crazy Mickey's too-much-information, Murphy got more. He and Crazy Mickey were both gay, and because of that fact they shared a bond, Crazy Mickey saw the bond as a license to say too much.

Both men left the lunch table surprised and drained, this was rare because little that Crazy Mickey said surprised them anymore. But when he told them He'd OD twice in the past six months, they realized his condition was far worse than either of them had thought. Crazy Mickey said he wasn't trying to kill himself really, he was just trying to get some sleep. The big sleep, or just eight hours, Murphy wondered, Jesus Christ, just trying to get some sleep.

The most surprising detail of his story wasn't how he tried to put a softer spin on his suicide attempts, though that was interesting. Or the descriptions of the charcoal they filled him with at the hospital to clear the toxins out for his system, which was more sickening really. What was surprising was why his boyfriend only called 911 the first time he ODed. The first time he collapsed into a heap on their shiny hardwood floor. The second time he dragged Micky to the bed and let him ride it out at home. The unknown facts that led to that second decision, the decision not to call 911, fascinated them both. Under what circumstances do you not call for help when your boyfriend collapses on the floor of your well maintained suburban home. That question made the story far stranger.