I thought Australian officers were worse than American ones, but Vex has proved me wrong.
He was the one who baited me out when I was illegally working in Vegas. My first impression of him was a bad one. As far as cops went, he was the worst. A lot more than the Australian ones I was on the run from.
A pair of handcuffs had never left an officer’s pocket so quickly. He was escorting me into the car before he even had the chance to explain the reason for my arrest.
At the station, I had no other choice but to sit opposite him in the interrogation room and stare at his bland face for one whole hour. It was going to be torture.
Until he started to take interest in my seafaring adventures.
Are you supposed to befriend a police officer?
Probably not.
Invite them inside for a drink when they knock on your door bearing good news?
Not advisable.
I open the door and put a whiskey in his hand.
“You can’t accept a drink from a member of the public as a cop.”
“Fuck the rules.”
I scoff and sit down opposite him. “Someone wants to hand in their letter of resignation.”
“Is it obvious?”
“Why join the police force in the first place?”
Vex leaves that question unanswered and turns to the whiskey in his hand, taking a long sip.
“Thanks for sorting the visa,” I continue. “It can’t have been easy.”
“You can say that again.” Vex chuckles. “Federal agents were all over me like a bad rash for weeks. Hopefully now you’ll be able to leave this deadbeat motel and find something more long-term.”
I bark out a laugh. “Long-term? I don’t do anything of that sort.”
Vex sits forward in response, the glass of whiskey cradled in his hands. “How so?”
“What’s the point? People are forced to do long-term because they have a home and a family counting on them. When you don’t have those things, why stick around? Home is a sail and a few planks of wood, and that’s good enough for me.”
I don’t bother recounting some of my best seafaring adventure memories to Vex, how I island-hopped and made friends with all the locals. How I got caught out in a nasty storm one night and somehow made it out alive, even though the boat threatened to capsize multiple times.
Vex doesn’t wanna hear about all of this—his face is already turning green with envy. I was living my life while he was ruining other peoples’.
“How long will you be here for?” he asks.
“I dunno. Until I get the urge to leave.”
“Maybe you could take me with you. On the boat.”
Is he kidding? Forget the waves. Vex’s weight would be enough to capsize the boat alone. He’s also way too stressed. If he’s having a mid-life crisis over a job, what’s he going to be like when we’re stranded out at sea?
At some point, you’re closer to astronauts in space than you are to people.
“I like the idea of being on the move,” he says.
Theoretically, it sounds like a dream—escape the problems until they eventually fuck off.
