Chapter 7 – America Really Is Big
Erin's well-meaning curiosity sounded like she was asking: "How come you're still single?"
"How come you're still single?"
Seeing Sean stay silent for so long, Erin wondered if she'd hit a nerve.
She quickly waved her hands to explain, trying to smooth over her blunt question; the frantic gestures also hid her own flustered embarrassment.
"I'm sorry—you don't have to answer!"
America's huge; you meet every type of person.
Plenty of great guys have things they can't talk about—performance issues, being gay, other physical or psychological problems.
Sean waved his hand as well, easing Erin's nerves.
"What's the big deal? Partners look out for each other—nothing I can't answer."
Hearing such a generous reply, Erin—her cheeks still pink—settled down, feeling she'd misjudged a stand-up guy.
"I had a girlfriend in college—gorgeous, smoking hot, long dark hair like Megan Fox. Then, for various reasons, we split."
"What reasons?"
Sensing juicy gossip, Erin brimmed with curiosity: how could a catch like Sean let her go—was it his fault?
"She cheated. At the time I was living in a cramped studio apartment in Koreatown, nothing like my current place in Manhattan Beach."
The implication: back then Sean was broke, not loaded like now.
Of course, only Sean personally was short on cash; his family never lacked money.
"…"
"I'm sorry for bringing it up."
The uneasy calm she'd just found shattered; Erin hadn't expected to step on a landmine twice in three sentences.
Sean brushed the topic off with a "no worries" wave. "I already got my revenge."
"I already got my revenge."
"Did you win her back just to dump her?"
Erin was curious: what form had his payback taken?
"I slept with her new 'boyfriend'."
The sentence detonated in Erin's mind like a nuclear bomb; for her, everything went deathly silent.
They say heartbreak can change a man, but no one warned me it could flip his entire sexual orientation—that's terrifying!
Seeing Erin's stunned face, Sean figured he'd better clarify before she completely misunderstood.
"No-no! She'd just told me she'd discovered her real orientation and was now with a short-haired butch woman, so her 'boyfriend'—who was actually her girlfriend—and I called it even!"
After finishing his romantic history and seeing Erin still processing, Sean signaled the server for the check.
"Sir, will that be cash, credit, or card?"
Sean glanced: $163, with California's nearly seven percent sales tax already included.
While he was looking, Erin swiftly snatched the bill. "To apologize and to thank you for having my back today—lunch is on me!"
"To apologize and to thank you for having my back today—lunch is on me!"
The waiting server stared like she'd just spotted a unicorn on Rodeo Drive.
A woman grabbing the check isn't unheard-of—just rare as hell.
Most times the guy pays or they split it Dutch.
Yet Sean had no habit of letting a woman pick up the tab.
He didn't chase luxury; salary plus system rewards let him bank serious cash every year.
Better to be known among friends and colleagues as "the guy who always picks up the tab" than to hoard numbers in an account like Scrooge McDuck.
"Erin, I never let my partner pay when we eat out. Didn't Trist say I'd handle it?"
With firm tone he reclaimed the bill from her resisting fingers and told the server, "Cash, please."
"Cash, please."
He then checked the 20% gratuity box on the receipt.
From his wallet he pulled two crisp Benjamin Franklin $100 bills. "Sorry, nothing smaller on me."
"Sorry, nothing smaller on me."
His only twenty had already gone to the server moments earlier for the bread basket hustle.
Why carry big bills instead of smaller ones? Afraid of getting mugged?
"Afraid of getting mugged?"
Okay, okay—if you're asking that question, your sense of humor is showing; best joke Sean had heard all year, hands down.
"Best joke Sean had heard all year, hands down."
But what if someone really did try to rob him?
Sean could only shrug: I don't eat beef—I just carry it.
He told the server to keep the remaining $4.40 as extra tip.
Empty-handed when he'd entered, Sean now carried two brown paper bags out the door—thanks to that strategic twenty.
"Thanks to that strategic twenty."
Sean mused: These garlic rolls might as well be free—she just kept stuffing them in! That tip money really does work magic!
The server who walked them out handed over the bags with a knowing grin: "Sir, your wish is granted."
"Sir, your wish is granted."
To her, the complimentary focaccia was unlimited anyway—load them up; the tip's already in her pocket.
"The bread's free to the restaurant, but paid for by my tip—now that's a win-win!"
"Thanks so much!"
Erin, who'd only eaten a few bites of her pasta, asked curiously, "Is that bread really that good?"
"Is that bread really that good?"
Sean smiled. "Pretty damn good. Two bags, four boxes: one for the squad room, one for Trist, one for you, one for me."
"Pretty damn good. Two bags, four boxes: one for the squad room, one for Trist, one for you, one for me."
Since his boss knew he'd ditched work yet let it slide, he had to show appreciation—Sean had the social game down pat.
He checked his TAG Heuer—noon sharp. Lunch done, time to head back to the station break room for a solid power nap.
Life's long, the job's long—skip today's work, do it tomorrow. Officer Sean's motto: clock in late, clock out early, nap in between—good for your health and sanity.
"Any objections?"
After twenty uneventful minutes they were back at Western Division; plenty of colleagues were heading out for their lunch break.
Seeing them, Erin—who usually brown-bagged it at her desk—watched the casually strolling Sean in street clothes and sighed: Playing hooky feels amazing!
"Playing hooky feels amazing!"
Sean led Erin back to their squad room. Many were out on patrol; only four uniformed officers in LAPD navy blue remained.
"Sarge!"
"Sarge!"
"Alright, just you four here. Found some killer garlic focaccia at lunch—brought some back for you guys to try."
The four present were:
Ella Darcy and Lamb Dana;
Kito Carl and Waters Loren.
Ella Darcy and Lamb Dana are partners;
Ella Darcy, a middle-aged African-American man, is the squad's only Black officer.
Most race-related disputes Sean dumps on Darcy—fight fire with fire: The cop handling your complaint is Black too—how exactly is that discrimination?
Lamb Dana, a young white guy, stands five-foot-six; his bachelor's degree from Cal State earns him an extra six grand a year in education incentive pay.
Kito Carl and Waters Loren are partners;
both young white officers. Loren's the woman; job stress and a Starbucks addiction leave her on the heavier side.
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