The Convertible - Time of My Life

This is the third Convertible story. The first two, "The Convertible" and its sequel "The Convertible -- Another Road" are closely connected and should be read together, but from this story onward the Convertible stories will all be standalones, the charmed 1955 TR2 being the sole thread tying them together.

Sometimes when writing a story, help comes from unexpected places. I owe many thanks and give much credit to my wonderful muse RiverMaya for her invaluable cultural guidance and inspiration on this one. Without her input, there would be no Tia Maria Regina, Zamboangueñas heritage or 'satti at puso'. Please make sure you check out her well-crafted story "Maria del Sueño", as well as her music elsewhere.

Also, a huge thank-you to the eagle-eyed Verbalinians -- my ace in the hole while editing this story.

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The Convertible -- The Time of My Life

After ten years of working for the New Jersey Federal District Court's Parole Office, I was ready to make a change in my life, needing to clear my head and find a new career direction.

My legal name is Araceli Ochoa, but most people I work with just know me as Norma -- it was the nickname my roommates in the dormitory gave me in college when I was working on my BS in Criminal Justice, I used it when I became a parole officer because Araceli was too unusual for people to remember. It's a Filipina name meaning 'Altar in the Sky', but constantly explaining my name to people was tiresome. So, for the last 10 years I've gone by Norma.

My official job description duties included 'responsibility of effective community supervision, enforcing court-ordered sanctions and safeguarding the public, and aiding the offenders in improving their conduct and conditions.' That was mostly bullshit; during my tenure, probably 80% of the non-violent offenders I supervised were charming but incorrigible assholes who kept their noses clean until their parole ended; then they'd jump right back to their old habits. It was the remaining 20% that made me feel like I'd actually done some good. One of the recent 20 percenters was a poor-little-rich-girl type named Arianna Bradford.

The first time I met Arianna, it was in jail during a transition assessment meeting to see what I had to work with. Upon meeting her, I really wanted to hate her. She was 5'8" tall, big-boobed and gorgeous, unlike the 5'6", skinny and plain cocoa-skinned woman I saw every morning in the mirror. But then when we started talking, I realized underneath her good looks was a bona-fide member of the walking wounded. This was no hard-core jailbird sitting across from me; even though she'd only done 3 months, it had taken a real toll on her. She was humble and contrite, almost at the end of her rope.

Ordinarily, I try to match my people with low-level employment opportunities so they can keep a low profile and stay out of trouble until their parole ends. Going through Arianna's file I saw she was educated and, given her previous employment as a stockbroker, probably way smarter than most of the other offenders I managed. It just so happened I was contacted earlier that day by a buddy of mine, Hal Parrish, General Manager at the Ramble Inn.

The Ramble Inn is a low-budget place near LaGuardia airport that caters mostly to travelers and business people. Hal needed a 6pm -- 2am desk manager. I thought Arianna would be a good match for the position, and it would keep her out of trouble, so I put the two of them together.

Thankfully, Arianna took to it right away and Hal was thrilled. She abided by all the rules; passed her weekly drug and alcohol screenings, was always at work on time, her till was always balanced, plus she was good with the guests. Then a couple of months into it, a surprise hotel guest shows up -- her former brother-in-law. Get this -- not only was he her ex-brother-in-law, he's her ex-husband's twin! They have dinner to catch up, one thing leads to another and they're in love. But then it gets way weirder.

Arianna and former brother-in-law/now new boyfriend make an appointment and come to my office, wanting to talk about possibly transferring the remainder of her parole to California. She's got family there -- her mother -- who just so happens to be married to -- bear with me now - her ex-husband, whose name is Joel. The boyfriend, whose name is Jacob, shows me pictures. Mom's 49, 16 years older than hubby, but a hell of a looker and apparently quite the fertile Myrtle -- damn near 50, she's got one baby on her hip and another on the way!

I tell the two of them OK, the family thing is covered, but Arianna will still need employment. Boyfriend says no problem, that he's gotten her a job at a car import and restoration shop owned by none other than his brother, Arianna's ex-husband! That's some twisted family dynamics right there. I imagine Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations with them will be chaotic, to say the least. I can see how kissing the wrong twin brother under the mistletoe might get a little awkward.

Anyway, Arianna's a good woman, so I write up a transfer request and send it over to the Interstate Commission for Adult Offender Supervision. Two months later it's approved, and she's on her way to California. On the way to LaGuardia, Jacob - former boyfriend, now upgraded to fiancé - pops by my office cubical and asks me for $40. I figure, OK, I'll play along, and slide him a pair of Jacksons.

He congratulates me and gives me an envelope with some keys and the title to a restored 1955 Triumph! The car is a restored British racing green TR2 convertible. My Dad Paolo used to race a later model Triumph, a 1956 TR3 before his big stoke that paralyzed him on his left side; after that he couldn't drive it anymore, and I eventually had to sell it to pay the medical expenses not covered by insurance.

Every time I'd visit him in the convalescent home he'd ask me to drive him somewhere in his car. There was no way I could tell Dad the truth, he would have been heartbroken, so I had to tell him some bullshit about it being in the shop. Since the stroke also trashed his short-term memory, I got away with repeating that lie, but having the TR2 meant I could take my dad for rides in a sports car again!

On the way out of the door, the fiancé mentions the car is kind of charmed; it brought his brother and new wife together, and now him and Arianna. Basically, it's a 4-wheeled love machine. Given the state of my love life over the past 10 years, I was not optimistic about my chances.

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I mentioned how the non-violent offenders I supervised were 80% charming-but-incorrigible assholes; when it came to the violent offenders, 100% of the ones I supervised were assholes, with no charm at all. In better times when prisons weren't overpopulated these guys wouldn't have seen the light of day, but these were not better times so now here they were, needing someone to supervise them. Lucky me. Then again, it was because of one, Raoul Moran, that I met officer Alejandro Perez.

Raoul was 32, but he looked 45. He was 6'3" and his file listed his weight as 245 pounds, but I think the scale was undercounting. He had scars on his cheeks and chin, and I gave up trying to count his tattoos. He'd been in prison most of his life; this last go-round was for simple assault because the prosecution failed to find evidence of a gun he allegedly waved around while threatening his victim. Not surprising, as guys like Raoul were quite good at making evidence disappear.

The file notes said Raoul could be volatile, but his overall behavior in prison "met minimum standards". That meant he hadn't been caught beating up anyone or breaking any rules. He may have in fact been doing all of those things but nobody caught him at it, so the parole board determined he was my problem now.

With guys like these who might not work well with a female officer, I usually get a police officer/risk partner in there with me; I play it safe and don't take anything into the interview room that could be thrown, no hot drinks, or anything like that. My usual risk partner was a guy named Frank Kerr, 22 years on the force. Frank was a big, easy-going guy who knew how to talk to the bad mofos. He'd seen some shit, knew a lot of these guys, and they respected him.

On the Friday in early March that I was to meet with Raoul Moran, however, Frank was out with a nasty case of the flu. In fact, a lot of the older experienced officers were; the virus had run rampant through the building. After calling around, somebody managed to pull in a motorcycle officer from the city's Traffic Department to fill in. He introduced himself as Alejandro Perez, but asked me to call him Al. He was tall, a good 6'1", and ironically resembled Erik Estrada from the old CHIPS show. "This one's a cutie', I thought to myself.

We entered the conference room where Mr. Moran was seated at the table waiting. I sat down across from him while Officer Perez remained standing. "Hello, Mr. Moran, I'm Officer Ochoa, and I've been assigned as your parole officer." I didn't extend my hand; I wasn't here to make friends.

Moran didn't extend his hand either. "You gotta be kidding me; ¿Esta puta es mi oficial de libertad condicional?" He had a look of disgust on his face. I could smell the misogyny on him.

Officer Perez's eyes went wide, and I could see he was about to intervene but I waved him off. If this assclown Moran thought he could call me a whore, he had another thing coming.

Leaning forward, I narrowed my eyes and said in a low threating tone, "Tu madre era una puta, eres hijo de mil padres, ¡bastardo! Like it or not, I'm your ticket to freedom. Work with me, you'll have an opportunity to improve your situation. You dick around with me? Te arruinaré, ¿entiendes?"

The combination of me telling him his mother was a whore, plus me calling him the bastard son of a thousand fathers, was bad enough, but combined with my threat to mess him up, pushed Moran over the edge. The big man lunged across the table at me, hands reaching for my throat. I anticipated that move and dodged to one side, aiming a blow at his larynx that missed, glancing off at the last second; Moran was able to grab hold of my upper left arm.

His grip was strong, and it hurt like hell. Fortunately, it was short-lived; Officer Perez gave the guy a nightstick upside his head, enough to stun him. His grip on my arm released, and Perez quickly slapped the handcuffs on him. I went out into the hallway and called for assistance from some other officers; Moran was hustled away, back to his cell.

I shouted at him, "No hay libertad condicional para ti, pedazo de mierda!" -- 'No parole for you, you piece of shit'. He looked back towards me and spit.

A few minutes later I was called into my supervisor's office. Captain Peterson wasted no time tearing into me, telling me in no uncertain terms how I'd majorly fucked up. It was an election year, and another convict in an overcrowded prison didn't help the Governor. What the hell had I been thinking?

As I walked out, I saw Officer Perez leaning against the wall. "So, did you hear all that?" I asked him.

Perez chuckled, "I think they heard it 400 miles away in Buffalo! You OK?"

"Yeah, I have a thick skin," I answered, "thanks for helping me out today. That big bastard had a hell of a grip; he'd have done me some damage of you hadn't smacked him. I'll probably have bruises on my arm for a week." Looking at his nice brown eyes, I had an impulse. "Since I don't have any more appointments today, I'm bagging it. Would you be open to grabbing a drink with me?"

"After seeing how tough you are, I'd be afraid not to!"

We agreed to meet at a bar-and-billiards place over on Harbor Boulevard. After changing into civilian clothes and combing my hair out, I headed over in my old 1986 Ford F-150 with the 3-speed shifter on the column; the forecast called for snow and the TR2 was definitely not a bad weather car.

Officer Perez pulled up in a 2000 Geo Metro hatchback. It looked like neither of us were into fancy cars. I decided to hold off on telling him about the TR2 for the time being.

We found a booth, and I bought the first round of beers. I told him, "Thanks for saving my ass today," and we tapped our mugs together. We each took a long sip.

"How long have you been on the force?" I couldn't help but notice Perez looked really cute in his civilian clothes.

"About two years." My eyes went wide.

"Really? You look older!"

"I get that a lot, I don't know why. I'm 23, will be 24 in a month. You?"

"I've been a parole officer for 10 years. I'm 33."

"33? Really? You look younger. Maybe it's that Latina DNA."

I flinched. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the fact I'd had a shitty day, but I had zero tolerance tonight, and I wasted no time setting him straight.

"Look, damn it, just because I have dark hair, dark skin, a Spanish surname and speak fluent Spanish doesn't mean I'm Latina! I'm a first-generation American; my parents immigrated from the Philippines. Not everyone there speaks Tagalog; in all the islands there are 182 different languages. Spanish was an official language there from the first Spanish colonization in the 1500s until just 30 years ago, in 1987.

My family came from Zamboanga City, where Spanish is the main dialect, in fact. It's in the Zamboanga peninsula of Mindanao, the second largest southern island group in the Philippines."

Alejandro smiled, and raised his glass. "Very well then. Today I learned something new! Here's to the Philippines!"

"To the Philippines!" We both drained our mugs, then I asked, "Listen, since we're off duty, do you mind if I call you Alejandro?" I waved a couple of fingers at the bartender, he brought two more.

"I prefer it. And can I call you Norma?"

"Actually, I'd prefer that you didn't. My friends and family call me by my real name, Araceli."

"Beautiful name. OK, I'll call you Araceli, but which am I? Friend or family?" I looked at him, and he had a little smirk on his face, the cute smart-ass.

"Friend...for now," I quipped back at him, winking. I swear, one beer and it was kicking my ass already. I wasn't usually such a lightweight. "By the way, I just want you to know Alejandro, any rumors you might have heard are false. I'm not gay. I like men, but a few years ago some Sergeant put the moves on me at a Christmas party and was pissed that I shot him down. He started telling people I was a lesbian, just to get back at me. I didn't bother denying it, and since then, I've pretty much kept to myself at work, to avoid any complicated entanglements. Made life a lot easier." (It also made life lonelier, but I wasn't drunk enough to admit that fact.)

Alejandro looked down, a pained look crossing his face. "Oh. So I guess this means we're just friends, huh?"

I took another drink from my second beer. "Not so fast there, Officer Nice Brown Eyes," Now somewhat buzzed, I announced, "I have another secret. I'm turning in my 30-day notice Monday...I'm QUITTING!" I wasn't sure why this was so funny, but stopped and laughed, loudly. Alejandro was laughing as well, but it could have been with me or at me.

"As of 9am Monday, none of that shit matters anymore. I can date whoever I want!" I drained the last of my second beer, noticing Alejandro hadn't touched his. Then, I pointed at him and made my closing statement: "I would not mind at all if that could be you..."

Alejandro got up from his side of the booth; I thought for a moment I'd fucked up and he was leaving, but instead, he came over to my side of the booth and slid in next to me. Putting his arms around me he whispered, "I think that can be arranged, Araceli," and kissed me gently on the lips. I couldn't believe my ears -- or my lips!

After 10 long and lonely years I now had a kind of boyfriend! More beers appeared on the table, and as things got a little fuzzy I realized I'd missed lunch because of being called into the Captain's office, so now I was a 125-pound woman drinking on an empty stomach. I remember laughing at Alejandro's jokes, telling him he was the best-looking cop I'd ever seen, talking about growing up with my crazy family, and then everything got VERY fuzzy; what happened after that, I had no recollection.

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I could smell eggs frying, and coffee. Sunlight was pouring in a window, and I squinted, not sure where I was. My head was pounding, and I had to pee badly. I looked around, and saw I was in a bed in an unknown bedroom. Peeking under the covers, I saw I had on my bra and panties, but other than someone had undressed me, nothing seemed amiss.

I heard Alejandro's voice. "Good morning, sleepy head." He stuck his head in the room. "You were pretty hammered last night, and it had snowed a few inches so there was no way I was letting you drive home. You're in my apartment now. I brought you home and put you to bed." He held up his hand, "Not to worry, I let you have the bed; I slept on the couch."

"Did you..." I stammered, my brain still not firing on all cylinders, "undress me?"

"Just the top layer before I tucked you in, but don't worry, I was a perfect gentleman, kept my eyes closed the whole time." Since my head hurt, I was in no mood to laugh but he chuckled at his own humor. "Bathroom is to the left down the hall, kitchen is to the right." He threw a terrycloth ball at me. "This is my bathrobe. I figured you'd want to preserve your modesty." He paused.

"OK, full confession -- I didn't keep my eyes closed the entire time I was undressing you, I did look at your butt. All I have to say is, niiiiice!" He gave me the thumbs-up and ducked away as I threw a pillow at him.

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The following Wednesday I met with a parolee, Jeremy Garrison -- 34 years old, 5'11", light brown hair, blue eyes, 175 pounds. A handsome face that had seen some hard times, but oh, those eyes. There were times when he and I met where I had a difficult time concentrating because of those damned dreamy eyes, they were way too easy to get lost in. Jeremy was one of my cases like Arianna Bradford; he'd done a bad thing but I could clearly see the good in him. He'd gotten into a fight with a guy who'd harassed a woman coming out of a bar.

Jeremy would have been facing a simple assault charge, except he'd picked up a piece of pipe so technically there was a weapon involved. He was sentenced to 3 months jail time, plus 1 year parole under my supervision.

I had to hand it to him, Jeremy was never late to his appointments with me, always passed his drug and alcohol tests, and made every effort to stay away from trouble. The fact that he was charming and cute made my meetings with him quite pleasant, but as his caseworker I wasn't about to stick my toe into the relationship pool. That would have seriously compromised my integrity, it was not worth losing my job for. Three weeks after his parole ended, Jeremy came by my cubicle with a bouquet of roses.

I was surprised but pleased. "What's this about?"

Jeremy looked like that kid that won the golden ticket. "You remember how I'd applied for a bunch of jobs as a chef in the hospitality industry?"

I nodded, "Yes, of course I remember. I wrote letters of recommendations for you."

"Well, I got a phone call three days ago. I've been hired as a Crew Cook Assistant on an Odysseus Cruise Lines ship, the Argonaut Voyager!"

I was so happy for him I'd have given him a hug, but it was the office where my fellow officers would see it. I had to maintain my professionalism. "Congratulations! You're my latest success story! Can I take you out to dinner to celebrate?"

He laughed, shaking his head. (It was a nice laugh, too, one that I wouldn't mind hearing under different circumstances, like in my bedroom!) "Officer Ochoa, it's me that should be taking you out! You were the one who had my back and got me going in the direction I needed. I'll always be grateful. But I can't go out, the ship I'm on leaves from the Brooklyn Cruise Terminal tomorrow morning at 9am, and they want me on board tonight to help stock the kitchens.