Love Story
By: Paula L. Jones
“Hey.” T’Lea looked stressed. She ran her left hand across the back of her neck as she slid into the seat across from mine. “Sorry I’m late. Miranda dropped me off.”
I opened my mouth to reply, and promptly shut it.
In the booth behind ours, a group of girls gasped all at the same time and several shouted, “Oh, my god!”
This wasn’t what made me shut my mouth.
Simultaneously, a Dee’s Pizza server, who I could see in my peripheral vision, dropped a tray full of drinks as he passed our booth.
This was also not the reason I’d shut my mouth.
Ice, glass, splashing liquid, gasps and shrieks mingled in a cacophony of startling sounds, and I didn’t even turn my head.
My gaze was glued to T’Lea’s left hand, which was now resting on the sticky table of the booth we’d claimed as our own nearly two years ago.
I finally found my voice, “Your ring…” I pointed to her bare fourth finger and the rest of my question shriveled and died in the back of my throat.
I couldn’t ask. I was too afraid.
Things had been awkward between us lately. She’d started complaining about me working so much, and she’d been more stressed out than usual.
I wasn’t much better. Overextended, tired, and withdrawn, I spent far more time at work than with T’Lea.
On top of that, we never talked about our wedding plans. It was like we’d just stopped planning. When had that happened? And, why?
Inwardly panicking, I felt my stomach turn over on itself. I dragged my gaze away from her hand and up to her eyes.
The brown eyes that felt like home had steadied me three months ago, when I’d looked into them and asked her to marry me.
But now, her attention wasn’t even on me.
T’Lea was staring at something behind me, her eyes wide with fear.
“Nobody move,” a male voice shouted above the shrieks and gasps that seemed to be coming from every corner of the small pizzeria.
Oh.
I turned around just as the eatery grew eerily silent except for the sound of a lone pair of footsteps padding across the deteriorating linoleum.
A columnar tree of a man, cartoonishly tall and skinny, sauntered towards the cash register, which was manned by the pizzeria’s owner, Dee.
He wore a threadbare denim jacket, jeans that looked two sizes too big, and a black ski mask that completely covered his face and neck.
The worst part of the scene was what was in his hands, an AR-15 semi-automatic.
He waved it in Dee’s direction.
T’Lea and I were regulars, popping into the pizzeria more times than I could count. Every time we dropped by, Dee was smiling with a sincere friendliness that made you want to come back even if the tables were a little too sticky and years of Louisiana’s flooding and humidity-laden heat waves had turned the place’s floors and walls into an unsightly mess.
But as the man waved the weapon in her direction, Dee was grim-faced and visibly shaking.
She lifted her hands in the air and spoke quietly, “You can have it all, sir. I’ll open the register if you’d like.”
Yeah. That’s not happening.
“Open it!” the man shouted, shoving the gun in her face.
Dee jumped in fear, trembling as she did as told.
“Why are you moving so slow?” The man yelled. “Open it now, hurry up.”
‘He’s not from here with that accent,’ I thought as I sighed and reached under my jacket for the Glock 22 at my right hip. I clocked the accent as originating from someplace further east. It had a twang that wasn’t a specialty on NOLA’s menu of Cajun and Creole-influenced accents. He was maybe a product of Mississippi or Alabama.
“Noah,” T’Lea whispered.
I turned back to her and the fear in her eyes had intensified.
She shook her head. “Please, don’t.”
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “Promise.”
“Faster!” the masked man shouted, which elicited a shriek from Dee.
I took a quick look around.
The server who’d dropped his drinks was sitting on the ground beside the mess, pale and wide-eyed as he watched the attempted robbery unfold.
The seated patrons to his right were quiet and unmoving, as stunned as he was.
I couldn’t see the girls in the booth behind ours, but I could hear one of them attempting to quietly dial 911 on her phone.
If I can hear that, he might.
I rose to my feet and aimed the Glock at the stick-thin gunman who now looked like he was on the verge of losing his pants.
He should’ve robbed a place that sold belts.
“New Orleans P.D., drop your weapon now,” I shouted.
The suspect jumped and turned to me as he simultaneously backed up and tripped on the cuffs of his falling jeans.
His eyes were blue and dilated, like he was on something.
“I’ll shoot you,” he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth as he pointed the semi-automatic at me.
I fired and shot him in his right arm. He screamed in pain and dropped the weapon.
I hopped over the lake of cold drinks and glass that was forming next to our booth and ran towards the suspect.
He cringed as bright red blossomed through the fabric of his jacket. When he leaned forward to grab his fallen gun, I pulled the Glock’s trigger a second time, shooting him in the right shoulder.
He yelped, gripped his shoulder, and bolted through the door at his left, leaving the gun behind.
“There’s a cop here, he shot him…” I heard one of the girls in the booth behind ours excitedly shrieking into her phone. Her voice faded into the distance as I pushed open the door and ran outside to the bustling sidewalk.
It was one of NOLA’s rare pleasantly windy autumn days, which drew both locals and tourists to Frenchman Street.
In between the throngs of families and couples who were walking along the sidewalk and nervously eyeing me, I spotted the suspect tripping over his baggy jeans as he headed north.
“New Orleans PD, stop!” I shouted, which worked like a charm in both getting the crowds to part and in inciting the jerk to run faster.
Darting around street vendors and slow-moving civilians, I pursued him and had the unfortunate displeasure of witnessing the moment when he finally lost his pants.
It occurred at Dauphine Street, which was also where he turned right and headed east.
Sirens sounded in the distance, not just my guys, but the whole brigade- Fire and EMTs.
My phone, stashed in my left jacket pocket, rang and I ignored it as I sprinted after the suspect and silently thanked God for giving me the discipline to work out as much as I did.
The guys hassled me with their quips. “Who are you trying to impress, Noah?” and “Alright, Captain America. Slow down.”
But to be honest, I liked the attention, and being able to chase a suspect for a couple of miles was an even better perk.
“Stop!” I shouted, taking in his ugly blue and white stripped boxers, which had something written on their waistband in black
Sharpie marker.
I squinted and sped up, marginally noticing that my phone was ringing again.
M. Hollowell
Is that his name?
“Hollowell!” I shouted.
He turned around and looked over his shoulder, sweat dripping down his face.
Yep. That must be his name.
He turned right on Mandeville Street and my phone started ringing again.
If someone’s trying to reach me this much, it must be important.
I used my free hand to grab my phone as I hung a right on Mandeville.
Hollowell was slowing in stride, beginning to wear out.
With his wounds, there was no way he’d lose me.
I grinned.
You’re mine.
I lifted the phone to my ear without looking at the caller ID, “Paulson. Can I call you back in 15?”
“Noah,” Superintendent Lopez’s voice was low and grave. “It’s T’Lea. There’s been an accident.”
I came to a halt and tripped.
I caught myself before I could fall and unseeingly watched Hollowell make an abrupt left turn and dart onto a city bus.
“What?” confused, I stared at the bus as it pulled away. “I don’t understand.”
“Where are you?” Lopez asked.
“Following the suspect. Just lost him at Mandeville and Dauphin. What do you mean accident? Is she, is she, is she…” the awful words curdled and half-evaporated, like milk left out in the sun.
“We’ll pick you up. Hang tight.”
“W-wait.”
Lopez had already ended the call.
The shaky seizures that liked to snake their way into my throat and wrap themselves around my words now found their way to my knees.
Moving slowly on stuttering knees, I put my gun back in its holster and leaned against a nearby wall.
Just ahead, a delivery truck beeped loudly as it began to back up. Two guys, deep into a loud conversation, passed me on the sidewalk. Brakes squealed and a car horn honked.
The world went on, and simultaneously came to a dead stop.
I can’t lose her.
I closed my eyes, shutting everything out.
I can’t lose her.
I opened my mouth to reply, and promptly shut it.
In the booth behind ours, a group of girls gasped all at the same time and several shouted, “Oh, my god!”
This wasn’t what made me shut my mouth.
Simultaneously, a Dee’s Pizza server, who I could see in my peripheral vision, dropped a tray full of drinks as he passed our booth.
This was also not the reason I’d shut my mouth.
Ice, glass, splashing liquid, gasps and shrieks mingled in a cacophony of startling sounds, and I didn’t even turn my head.
My gaze was glued to T’Lea’s left hand, which was now resting on the sticky table of the booth we’d claimed as our own nearly two years ago.
I finally found my voice, “Your ring…” I pointed to her bare fourth finger and the rest of my question shriveled and died in the back of my throat.
I couldn’t ask. I was too afraid.
Things had been awkward between us lately. She’d started complaining about me working so much, and she’d been more stressed out than usual.
I wasn’t much better. Overextended, tired, and withdrawn, I spent far more time at work than with T’Lea.
On top of that, we never talked about our wedding plans. It was like we’d just stopped planning. When had that happened? And, why?
Inwardly panicking, I felt my stomach turn over on itself. I dragged my gaze away from her hand and up to her eyes.
The brown eyes that felt like home had steadied me three months ago, when I’d looked into them and asked her to marry me.
But now, her attention wasn’t even on me.
T’Lea was staring at something behind me, her eyes wide with fear.
“Nobody move,” a male voice shouted above the shrieks and gasps that seemed to be coming from every corner of the small pizzeria.
Oh.
I turned around just as the eatery grew eerily silent except for the sound of a lone pair of footsteps padding across the deteriorating linoleum.
A columnar tree of a man, cartoonishly tall and skinny, sauntered towards the cash register, which was manned by the pizzeria’s owner, Dee.
He wore a threadbare denim jacket, jeans that looked two sizes too big, and a black ski mask that completely covered his face and neck.
The worst part of the scene was what was in his hands, an AR-15 semi-automatic.
He waved it in Dee’s direction.
T’Lea and I were regulars, popping into the pizzeria more times than I could count. Every time we dropped by, Dee was smiling with a sincere friendliness that made you want to come back even if the tables were a little too sticky and years of Louisiana’s flooding and humidity-laden heat waves had turned the place’s floors and walls into an unsightly mess.
But as the man waved the weapon in her direction, Dee was grim-faced and visibly shaking.
She lifted her hands in the air and spoke quietly, “You can have it all, sir. I’ll open the register if you’d like.”
Yeah. That’s not happening.
“Open it!” the man shouted, shoving the gun in her face.
Dee jumped in fear, trembling as she did as told.
“Why are you moving so slow?” The man yelled. “Open it now, hurry up.”
‘He’s not from here with that accent,’ I thought as I sighed and reached under my jacket for the Glock 22 at my right hip. I clocked the accent as originating from someplace further east. It had a twang that wasn’t a specialty on NOLA’s menu of Cajun and Creole-influenced accents. He was maybe a product of Mississippi or Alabama.
“Noah,” T’Lea whispered.
I turned back to her and the fear in her eyes had intensified.
She shook her head. “Please, don’t.”
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “Promise.”
“Faster!” the masked man shouted, which elicited a shriek from Dee.
I took a quick look around.
The server who’d dropped his drinks was sitting on the ground beside the mess, pale and wide-eyed as he watched the attempted robbery unfold.
The seated patrons to his right were quiet and unmoving, as stunned as he was.
I couldn’t see the girls in the booth behind ours, but I could hear one of them attempting to quietly dial 911 on her phone.
If I can hear that, he might.
I rose to my feet and aimed the Glock at the stick-thin gunman who now looked like he was on the verge of losing his pants.
He should’ve robbed a place that sold belts.
“New Orleans P.D., drop your weapon now,” I shouted.
The suspect jumped and turned to me as he simultaneously backed up and tripped on the cuffs of his falling jeans.
His eyes were blue and dilated, like he was on something.
“I’ll shoot you,” he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth as he pointed the semi-automatic at me.
I fired and shot him in his right arm. He screamed in pain and dropped the weapon.
I hopped over the lake of cold drinks and glass that was forming next to our booth and ran towards the suspect.
He cringed as bright red blossomed through the fabric of his jacket. When he leaned forward to grab his fallen gun, I pulled the Glock’s trigger a second time, shooting him in the right shoulder.
He yelped, gripped his shoulder, and bolted through the door at his left, leaving the gun behind.
“There’s a cop here, he shot him…” I heard one of the girls in the booth behind ours excitedly shrieking into her phone. Her voice faded into the distance as I pushed open the door and ran outside to the bustling sidewalk.
It was one of NOLA’s rare pleasantly windy autumn days, which drew both locals and tourists to Frenchman Street.
In between the throngs of families and couples who were walking along the sidewalk and nervously eyeing me, I spotted the suspect tripping over his baggy jeans as he headed north.
“New Orleans PD, stop!” I shouted, which worked like a charm in both getting the crowds to part and in inciting the jerk to run faster.
Darting around street vendors and slow-moving civilians, I pursued him and had the unfortunate displeasure of witnessing the moment when he finally lost his pants.
It occurred at Dauphine Street, which was also where he turned right and headed east.
Sirens sounded in the distance, not just my guys, but the whole brigade- Fire and EMTs.
My phone, stashed in my left jacket pocket, rang and I ignored it as I sprinted after the suspect and silently thanked God for giving me the discipline to work out as much as I did.
The guys hassled me with their quips. “Who are you trying to impress, Noah?” and “Alright, Captain America. Slow down.”
But to be honest, I liked the attention, and being able to chase a suspect for a couple of miles was an even better perk.
“Stop!” I shouted, taking in his ugly blue and white stripped boxers, which had something written on their waistband in black
Sharpie marker.
I squinted and sped up, marginally noticing that my phone was ringing again.
M. Hollowell
Is that his name?
“Hollowell!” I shouted.
He turned around and looked over his shoulder, sweat dripping down his face.
Yep. That must be his name.
He turned right on Mandeville Street and my phone started ringing again.
If someone’s trying to reach me this much, it must be important.
I used my free hand to grab my phone as I hung a right on Mandeville.
Hollowell was slowing in stride, beginning to wear out.
With his wounds, there was no way he’d lose me.
I grinned.
You’re mine.
I lifted the phone to my ear without looking at the caller ID, “Paulson. Can I call you back in 15?”
“Noah,” Superintendent Lopez’s voice was low and grave. “It’s T’Lea. There’s been an accident.”
I came to a halt and tripped.
I caught myself before I could fall and unseeingly watched Hollowell make an abrupt left turn and dart onto a city bus.
“What?” confused, I stared at the bus as it pulled away. “I don’t understand.”
“Where are you?” Lopez asked.
“Following the suspect. Just lost him at Mandeville and Dauphin. What do you mean accident? Is she, is she, is she…” the awful words curdled and half-evaporated, like milk left out in the sun.
“We’ll pick you up. Hang tight.”
“W-wait.”
Lopez had already ended the call.
The shaky seizures that liked to snake their way into my throat and wrap themselves around my words now found their way to my knees.
Moving slowly on stuttering knees, I put my gun back in its holster and leaned against a nearby wall.
Just ahead, a delivery truck beeped loudly as it began to back up. Two guys, deep into a loud conversation, passed me on the sidewalk. Brakes squealed and a car horn honked.
The world went on, and simultaneously came to a dead stop.
I can’t lose her.
I closed my eyes, shutting everything out.
I can’t lose her.