Page 51 of Mommy

Chapter twenty nine

Derek

“Miss, please calm down.”

I repeat it again and again as the woman on the phone just keeps on yelling.

I’m not holding her anger against her, I get it, I’m angry too, but it’s not like I can do much about it.

It’s one of those days where I hate my job. If it weren’t for the fact that it’s me who’s protecting Ezekiel when he’s out on his revenge tours, I wouldn’t be here. Maybe I’d be doing something meaningful with my life instead.

But I’m not.

I sit here and get yelled at through the phone.

“You need to do something about this!” She goes on, her agitated voice grinding on my nerves. “This is your responsibility!”

I cringe.

Oh, how I wish she was right.

I wish the situation on Skid Row was my decision. That would mean I could do something about it. But like most other things, it’s not. I’m not the one making the rules, I’m not the one making any decisions. I’m just the one who can be blamed when shit goes wrong.

Sure, I have a little bit more influence in how things are handled, but ultimately I can’t fix a whole lot of problems. I’m executing, not deciding. I’m playing by someone else’s rulebook, and as much as I hate it. Right now that means, I can’t really do much.

“Is there a specific incident you want to report ma’am?”

I pray that there is. That way at least I can tell her I’ll look into it. Otherwise, I’ll just be forced to keep sitting here. I’ll have to explain why I can’t do shit and she’ll be angry and yell at me some more. And even though I get it, and I want to yell about it too, it’s not what I want to do with the rest of my day.

“Yes.” She seethes, and my back straightens a little from where I’m slumped in my chair.

“I saw one of the fuckers kick a dog. That’s animal abuse. That’s worth a report to the police.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

The odds of her story being made up are 50/50, but honestly, I don’t care. Even if she didn’t witness it, I have no doubts that there is at least one case of animal abuse hidden on skid row.

Skid Row.

It’s what we call the area of town where no matter how thoroughly we sweep, no matter how frequently the cops comb through the streets, homeless people will build camps. There were always tents on the side of the road, dirt and trash on the street and alcohol and drugs passing from hand to hand.

About a year ago, the mayor decided to no longer clean up the area. Under the pretense that at least the homeless, addicts and dealers would be where we knew about them, the tents slowly turned into more permanent living conditions. And the smuggling expanded.

It shifted, from drugs, to animals.

It’s Ezekiel’s and Shelly’s worst nightmare.

Because ever since they started producing puppies on skid row, selling them to passersby and citizens of the city, the amount of dogs going into the shelter exploded.

It has gotten so bad that even Shelly won’t be able to stop the authorities from euthanizing dogs left and right much longer.

“I’ll be right on my way, Ma’am, thank you for calling.”

I end the call while she’s still yelling at me to do better.

As if I don’t already do the best I can.

Chapter thirty