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The Sentinel

"Walk Your Sentinel Regularly"
by the other g.m.

Jim was in a foul mood.

The shot from the thief at the convenience store had missed any vital areas, but had excavated a nice expressway through his left shoulder. Nothing permanently debilitating. Just lots of throbbing, and near constant itching around the entry and exit wounds. Having a week off with Blair constantly under foot wasn't helping things.

"Jeez, would you look at this," Jim said, pointing towards the containers of various spices sitting in disarray on the once pristine formica surface of the kitchen countertop.

"Blair, how many times do I have to tell you. If you use something, put it back when you're through."

Jim immersed himself into the tiring job at hand, arranging the spices into neat and ordered rows along the wall. He paused a couple of times to survey his work. No, that one is a quarter of an inch too far to the left. He moved each one across a fraction of an inch at a time until they were equidistant from the plain, white ceramic flour jar on the right and the polished, pine butcher knives holder on the left. Perfect. For now. Jim glanced into the living room. Like a terrible two year old, Blair was a mess waiting to happen.

Blair lounged on the sofa, going over research notes for an upcoming class lecture. His head bobbed in time to the music from his headphones.

Jim realized the cornmeal jar was out of alignment and moved it into the perfect position. He frowned. Now everything else was out of place. He made minor adjustments for several minutes to the neat rows of spices and jars until everything was in its' Army approved place.

His keen hearing picked up the microscopic scraping of plastic heels on simulated, varnished pine furniture. He snapped at Blair. "Feet off the coffee table."

Blair's head stopped bobbing. He pressed his torso into the cushioned sofa and leaned his head towards the kitchen, where the authoritarian voice of The Evil Stepfather bellowed from. Blair lifted his feet off the coffee table, and dropped them on the floor. He turned up the volume on his headphones.

Banging jungle rhythms reverberated against the sensitive interior of Jim's ears. The pain in his shoulder throbbed in time with the pain in his ears. "And turn down the headphones, will you. Your giving me a headache."

Blair limply waved a hand toward the kitchen, and turned the volume down.

The meticulous rearrangement of kitchen items complete, Jim looked for something else to inflict his overriding sense of order on. Seeing nothing in need of his attentions, he walked past the Sandburg demolition zone, and over to the French doors that opened onto the balcony. He stood in front of the glass, watching car after car drive by on the street below. He drummed his fingers against the glass. He inhaled deeply.

His nostrils picked up the faint scent of cocaine. It was close. Maybe in one those cars passing by, or on somebody walking just below the apartment. He opened the glass doors and stepped out onto the balcony. The scent vanished. He frowned and walked back into the apartment. There it was again. He sniffed. He turned in a circle, following the scent. The scent was all around him. He turned in the other direction and sniffed again. It was coming from him.

"Jeez," Blair said, whispering to himself. "Now he's chasing his tail." Jim heard it anyway and glanced at Blair with an expression somewhere between pursed lips, mouth breathing, and a questioning frown.

Jim searched his pockets and looked over what he found. He held the key ring with truck and apartment keys, two quarters, a nickel, and nine pennies. He smelled them. Nothing.

He put them back in his pocket, and searched through his back pockets. He pulled out his wallet and riffled through it. He removed a Magnum condom, still sealed in its' protective wrapper, from the pocket just beneath his Washington state driver's license. He waved it in the air and sniffed it.

Blair cleared his throat. When Jim glanced at him, Blair shook his head, waved the research notes, and went back to what he was doing. A glimmer of comprehension crept into Jim's mind - Blair saw the condom, and he wasn't interested in sex right now. Whatever. Jim went back to his search for the elusive cocaine.

Jim pulled every credit card, scrap of paper and piece of money out of his wallet. He sniffed each one in turn and dropped it on the floor. It was here, and he was going to find it come hell or high water.

There it was! The distinct scent of cocaine.

He let his wallet and all the papers in his hand fall to the floor. This was it! He held a one dollar bill up to the sunlight. He examined both sides, studying the details of his quarry. He sniffed it from end to end. He ran his fingers along its' slick, denim-soft surface, exploring the intricate texturing of this troublemaker.

The mental focus of the hunting frenzy faded. He held a dollar bill in his hands. A dollar bill like hundreds of millions of others. Most of them contaminated with microscopic traces of cocaine, because people who use and sell the stuff don't wear gloves in the line of business.

He picked up his wallet and its' contents, put the cards, papers and money where the belonged, and buried the wallet in his back pocket.

He glanced at the wall clock. Crap. Three and a half minutes gone. Totally wasted. He could be out there hunting down perps, if it wasn't for this gunshot wound. But that wasn't the problem.

"I can't hear myself think," Jim said, resentment lingering in his words. " Not with you shuffling those papers like it's ground zero for a tornado."

Blair turned off his portable MP3 player and threw his research notes onto the coffee table. He was tired of the bellowing ogre of darkness who just stood there, blocking the sunlight from the balcony windows. "Better?"

Jim saw only the messy pile of papers covering his coffee table. He re-aligned the magazines to their proper angles and layered placement on the table. He gathered up Blair's research notes into a single pile, making sure each page was right side up. He tapped the edge of the pile on the table top, so that all four edges were even in height, with no piece of paper out of line.

Blair stared in disbelief. "What is your problem, man?" He removed the headphones, and threw them on the couch next to the portable MP3 player.

Jim remained silent. He kept adjusting the pile of papers in his hands.

"Jim?"

Jim tapped the papers once again on the table top, to make sure they were straight.

"Jim."

Jim stood up straight and looked at the first page of the papers. Scribbled chicken tracks of Blair's penmanship ran wild all over the page. Lines of different sizes and ink colors criss-crossed and trampled over each other in a mad dash to reach some type of coherence of thought. Whatever it was, it eluded Jim. He frowned in disappointment. This unintelligible scribbling was a perfect example of Blair's inconsistency.

"Hey," Blair said. "Old man.' Jim froze and stared at Blair with the trademark Ellison Gaze of Death. What made it worse was the way Blair had said it, with the extreme slowness and grossly exaggerated gestures, as though Jim were a hundred and completely deaf.

Blair raised himself from the sofa, and walked to the other side of the coffee table. "You've been riding my ass all week, Jim. Nothing is good enough. You're like some evil stepfather." Blair imitated a wheezing old man with no dentures. "Turn down that noise. Don't write so loud, it gives me a headache. Don't play with yourself, I'm trying to sleep."

"What did you call me," Jim said. He dropped the papers into a nearby plastic trash can concealed in a woven, wicker basket.

Blair ran a hand though his hair. "You're like a dog that's been left in the house all weekend with nothing to chase. And me, I'm the piece of furniture that doggy Jim is not allowed on. The one he dumps on and chews to pieces."

It occurred to Jim that this was yet another instance of Blair's inconsistency. For a new ager, neo-hippie, or whatever he was, Blair dressed oddball conservatively. Must be an anthropology geek thing. Come to think of it, most of Blair's outfits reminded Jim of Aunt Millie's paisley furniture. Old furniture covers never die, they get dug up and worn by anthropology grads.

Cold air bit through Blair's thin shirt. He pushed by the silent, muscular mountain of Jim Ellison, and closed the balcony doors. He retrieved his papers from the trash can, and dropped them back on the coffee table.

"Stir crazy," Blair said. "Cabin fever. Bottom line, a sentinel has to patrol his territory. You can't really do that, on duty that is, because of your wound. So you take out that frustration and aggression on the nearest available object. Me."

"You called me old. Didn't you."

Blair screamed. He rubbed his face with both hands. "For a detective, you can be so dense sometimes. You know that, James Ellison."

"Maybe I wouldn't be so wound up," Jim said, "if you weren't so irritating to be around."

"Irritating," Blair said. He walked over to the tv and messed up the perfect arrangement of Jim's collectibles. "How 's that for your law and order", he said, pointing at the figurines and grinning wildly.

"Sandburg," Jim said. "You attitude stinks. I don't know why I haven't booted your ass out on the pavement by now."

"Stinks. Well..." Blair searched his mind for something to threaten with. He remembered something that bothered Jim even more than bathroom stink. Something that really choked him up. "Well, the next time I'm in the bathroom, I'm using a whole can of freshener."

Jim stood with his arms crossed, his face cold and stony.

Blair upped the stakes. "Isn't there five or six cans of freshener in there? Waiting to be sprayed."

"All talk, no action. Like always Sandburg."

Blair rubbed his stomach as though it were feeling queasy. "Those buffalo wings last night are really on the move." He squirmed around like a little kid about to have an accident if he didn't get to a bathroom really quick.

"Oh man," he said. "That chicken is really pecking away in there. You want a real stink. Were talking all five or six cans of freshener here." He scurried to the bathroom, watching for Jim's reaction the entire time.

Jim saw through the ruse. "Is there a point to all this?"

Blair dropped the little kid act, and walked back to the living room. "The point is that the sentinel part of you needs to tomcat around, panther-style, and mark some territory."

Blair grabbed his and Jim's coat from the hanger beside the door. He threw Jim his coat, and herded Jim out the door. "First stop, the city park. After that, maybe down by the docks."

Jim pushed one arm into the coat sleeve and pulled his coat on. "I don't have a choice in this, do I?"

Blair shook his head. "Not unless you want me to kick your ass out on the pavement."

"Me kicked out? Hey, this is my-"

Blair interrupted "Time to walk the sentinel."

Jim started to say something, but Blair gestured to him that talking would not be tolerated.

"Walk," Blair said. "Trust me. It'll do wonders for anybody who has to spend time around you."

Blair closed the front door, and deadbolted it with his key.

"Walk the sentinel," Jim said, as he and Blair strolled down the stairs. "I'm surprised you didn't bring a leash."

"But Jim, my friend, I already keep you on a short leash." Blair patted Jim's firmly, muscled butt. He let his hand ride the waist of Jim's jeans, until they reached street level.

Jim walked out the building's front door, leaving Blair behind. When he realized Blair wasn't there, an irritated Jim walked back and opened the door for Blair.

"Better," Blair said.

When they reached the truck, Jim walked around to the driver's side but stopped in front of the truck. He realized what he should be doing. He walked back to the passenger side, unlocked the door, and opened it for Blair.

"Damn straight," Blair said with satisfaction. "I'll house train that panther yet."

Jim got into the truck, belted himself in, and started the engine. He smirked as he pulled out into traffic, he wasn't going to let himself be panther-whipped that easily.

*** end ***

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