“No, I’m going to stay in, tonight.”
“Come on.”
“No.”
“Do it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Don’t be a fag.”
“I’m tired.”
“I want to drink.”
“Then go.”
“Come with me.”
“Naw.”
“Dude, you’re being so gay.”
“Eh.”
“Come on, dude.”
“Bah.”
“I’ll buy you”--he checked his pockets--“three beers.”
“Yeah, alright.”
It was after this conversation that I recommended my friend Pete to my superiors down at the station. Pete had been out of work since college, where he questionably chose phrenology as his major, and the squad was looking for a new hostage negotiator.
One might question the morality in fudging a friend’s resume and helping him to a position for which he is dangerously unqualified, but one can suck it; it’s not as though, in our town, the hostage negotiator was an oft-used weapon of the police force. Really all we do on a day-to-day basis is make routine traffic stops, tell the kids in the schools to stay there and help old women cross the street. Well, that and bust meth labs. Meth labs out the yin yang down here. Can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a meth lab, they say. Fredrik Wagner, a German immigrant, started our first meth lab back in 1888, and really, the town hasn’t looked back since.
Anyway, that’s another story for another time and place--namely, our Meth Lab Museum on Main and 8th, Monday through Friday from 10 AM to 5 PM, weekends 10 AM to 8 PM.
I was whistling my way to the station one morning, swinging my keys on my finger and winking at girls of questionable legality when my walkie talkie began telling me something about a jumper on the roof of our Best Buy. It was Pete’s first day, and he, and I by association, were being tossed directly into the fire.
The scene was one of great intrigue. Cars passing through the lot slowed, merchandise trumpeting “I Survived the Best Buy Jumper ’09” was distributed from tents, and swarms of nerds giddily skipped about, though it was hard to tell if they were riled by the jumper or some new video game.
“Outta my way, nerds,” I said, elbowing my way through the crowd. It was then that I got my first glimpse of Pete the Negotiator.
“Come on dude,” he said. “Jumping off that building would be totally gay.”
“I’m gonna do it,” the man shouted back.
“May I ask why?”
“I’ve got nothing to live for.”
“Wow, really? Nothing? That sucks, bro.”
“They shut down my meth lab, and my girlfriend left me for another guy, whose meth lab is still in business.”
“Bummer man.”
“Get out of my way, I’m gonna do it.”
Pete looked at me. “Damn, dude, I think he’s gonna jump.”
“No,” I said, “you have to convince him not to jump.”
“I don’t know man, he’s pretty convinced suicide is the way to go.”
The man stepped forward, toeing the ledge now.
“Do something,” I implored Pete.
“Alright, alright, DMY bro. Time to use a little something I like to call reverse psychology.”
Pete looked back up and spoke into the megaphone.
“Me and the boys are going to pack up and leave. It’s clear you’re too much of a pussy to do it, so we’re gonna go get drunk at Friday’s.”
“What?” The man yelled.
“Yeah, we’re gonna go, puss-boots.”
Pete looked back at me confidently. “He’s starting to crack,” he said, and looked back up.
“You’re--”
Pete was interrupted by the sound of the man hitting the concrete. The crowd sat silent for a moment, until the man dusted himself off and walked away. It was a pretty small Best Buy.
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