Dichotomy VIII
Title: Dichotomy VIII
Pairings: none, particularly
Warnings: none, stereo-typing
Time period: 1957
Summary : needles and thread; why wasn't Walter Kovacs a police officer?
Whoreson, Whoreson, Whoreson! Why? Why did it always have to come back to his mother?
Walter was curled up on his cot at the home; it was summer after he had finished his schooling and his graduate year. The Superman existed and he was American; Walter however, was a mess of misery and defeat, in a fetal ball. Dimly, he recalled the events at the police station. He had passed the physical exam to be an NYPD police officer with flying colours; it was the psychological exam and his history that had failed him.
***
The police had it on record that Walter's mother was a whore. That he had been taken away from her as a young adult and sent to an orphanage after getting in a fight. A bout of savagery where he had burned another child's eye and had to be hauled off of pounding in another's face. Because of this, his psychological profile, and his mother's profession, they had deemed him unsuitable.
"You were raised by a prostitute Mr. Kovacs, we of the NYPD can't believe your morality would be rigorous enough to withstand our line of work." The old Irish sergeant giving him the breakdown of events seemed kindly, but there was a sneer hidden in the lines around his eyes, the narrowness of his gaze.
The other officer in the room, of polish descent like Walter himself, picked up where his partner left off; his gaze was piercing.
"Quite frankly, Mr. Kovacs, we believe your attitude towards the fairer sex, lack of empathy, and violent tendencies, are a severe liability for this job. If you are truly serious about becoming a police officer, you must see women as people before you see them as criminals or victims."
Every last word felt like a stab in Walter's gut. He hadn't cared deeply about anything for a very long time, and he had trained his body day and night for becoming a police officer. He had studied law as best he could from the library at the home, and was sure he had a handle on how police procedures went. He'd even memorized the Miranda Rights speech. Head down, he left the interview room, a heavy weight on his shoulders. Outside, some regular beat cops accosted him. One was very visibly overweight, and the other even homelier than Walter.
"Didn't make the cut, kid? It's 'cause yer a faggy li'l arty liberal," Fat cop said, blowing some smoke into Walter's face as he passed by. Walter stared for a moment, looking at the cop's uniform. He reflected that this sample of "New York's finest" didn't deserve his badge.
"Yeah, your best subjects in school were English and Religion? Why don't you become a priest, kiddy fiddler!" Ugly cop jeered.
"Plus I seen the way you been eyein' my uniform. You one of them vigilante rejects? Not good enough for the Minutemen? Into costumes? I bet you get off on it, and that's the reason why you wanna' join, ain't it fag-boy!"Fat cop said.
"No! NO! I want to clean up streets! I want to help people!," Walter growled. He had stopped dead in his tracks, hands balled into fists.
"Why, 'cause you can't suck from your momma's tits no more 'cause of that pimp? Out for revenge? Pathetic." Fat cop said, blowing more smoke.
"Read The New Frontiersman or something, bleeding heart liberal fag-boy!" Ugly cop said.
Walter stared. Then he stared some more. He alternated locking gazes with both cops, his gaze cold fire. He reminded himself that if he so much as stepped a toe out of line, there he would never be a chance of joining the force, and both these scummy assholes knew it.
"Got somethin' you wanna' say? I'm all ears, princess!" Fat cop said, tossing his cigarette onto the pavement and stamping it out with his foot.
Walter's gaze didn't waver, but as he slowly walked away, his voice came low and without intonation. "I will remember your faces," he promised.
Despite themselves, both cops shuddered.
***
He'd taken the train back to the home, numb from shock. Dean had been the one to suggest he find a path in life where he could help others. Give back to his country. Be a part of something bigger. It had failed, like getting Dean to stay had failed. Fire and shadow. A temporary warmth and an illusion that something more was ever there. When taken away, it left Walter no warmer.
Walter had two months to find a job that got him out of the home before he was turned loose on the streets. He decided to ask the head of the home if he could job shadow the staff who had remained for the summer, find a task that suited him for making a living.
He tried cooking, but had no aptitude for it. He tried various branches of house-cleaning, but hated it for the tedium and how much of a woman's job it was. He couldn't bare to try tutoring again, and so had no desire to become a teacher. Though he was bright, accounting wanted nothing to do with him. This left laundry services. The clothing the children got at the home was largely through donation and the Salvation army, and thus often needed patching, hemming or sewing.
The elderly black lady he was assisting was very no-nonsense but often cracked jokes, which she laughed at. Walter came to like her a little. "Child, you homely. But you got a good eye on you and your hands are clever. I don't think you're half bad at this. Time comes, I'll give you a letter of reference. Now let's see if I can help you find someplace to work. You wanna'go to the city?"
Over-whelmed, Walter merely nodded. It wasn't so bad. He could do it. Children's clothing was largely unisex, and so this task did not bother him.
"Alright, I think I still know some people there. Dun'you worry, old Constance will take care of you."
"Thank-you, Ms. Constance."
Later, with the surprising discovery that he'd be handling women's wear at work, he heard the old woman's laughter echoing in his mind.
Pairings: none, particularly
Warnings: none, stereo-typing
Time period: 1957
Summary : needles and thread; why wasn't Walter Kovacs a police officer?
Whoreson, Whoreson, Whoreson! Why? Why did it always have to come back to his mother?
Walter was curled up on his cot at the home; it was summer after he had finished his schooling and his graduate year. The Superman existed and he was American; Walter however, was a mess of misery and defeat, in a fetal ball. Dimly, he recalled the events at the police station. He had passed the physical exam to be an NYPD police officer with flying colours; it was the psychological exam and his history that had failed him.
***
The police had it on record that Walter's mother was a whore. That he had been taken away from her as a young adult and sent to an orphanage after getting in a fight. A bout of savagery where he had burned another child's eye and had to be hauled off of pounding in another's face. Because of this, his psychological profile, and his mother's profession, they had deemed him unsuitable.
"You were raised by a prostitute Mr. Kovacs, we of the NYPD can't believe your morality would be rigorous enough to withstand our line of work." The old Irish sergeant giving him the breakdown of events seemed kindly, but there was a sneer hidden in the lines around his eyes, the narrowness of his gaze.
The other officer in the room, of polish descent like Walter himself, picked up where his partner left off; his gaze was piercing.
"Quite frankly, Mr. Kovacs, we believe your attitude towards the fairer sex, lack of empathy, and violent tendencies, are a severe liability for this job. If you are truly serious about becoming a police officer, you must see women as people before you see them as criminals or victims."
Every last word felt like a stab in Walter's gut. He hadn't cared deeply about anything for a very long time, and he had trained his body day and night for becoming a police officer. He had studied law as best he could from the library at the home, and was sure he had a handle on how police procedures went. He'd even memorized the Miranda Rights speech. Head down, he left the interview room, a heavy weight on his shoulders. Outside, some regular beat cops accosted him. One was very visibly overweight, and the other even homelier than Walter.
"Didn't make the cut, kid? It's 'cause yer a faggy li'l arty liberal," Fat cop said, blowing some smoke into Walter's face as he passed by. Walter stared for a moment, looking at the cop's uniform. He reflected that this sample of "New York's finest" didn't deserve his badge.
"Yeah, your best subjects in school were English and Religion? Why don't you become a priest, kiddy fiddler!" Ugly cop jeered.
"Plus I seen the way you been eyein' my uniform. You one of them vigilante rejects? Not good enough for the Minutemen? Into costumes? I bet you get off on it, and that's the reason why you wanna' join, ain't it fag-boy!"Fat cop said.
"No! NO! I want to clean up streets! I want to help people!," Walter growled. He had stopped dead in his tracks, hands balled into fists.
"Why, 'cause you can't suck from your momma's tits no more 'cause of that pimp? Out for revenge? Pathetic." Fat cop said, blowing more smoke.
"Read The New Frontiersman or something, bleeding heart liberal fag-boy!" Ugly cop said.
Walter stared. Then he stared some more. He alternated locking gazes with both cops, his gaze cold fire. He reminded himself that if he so much as stepped a toe out of line, there he would never be a chance of joining the force, and both these scummy assholes knew it.
"Got somethin' you wanna' say? I'm all ears, princess!" Fat cop said, tossing his cigarette onto the pavement and stamping it out with his foot.
Walter's gaze didn't waver, but as he slowly walked away, his voice came low and without intonation. "I will remember your faces," he promised.
Despite themselves, both cops shuddered.
***
He'd taken the train back to the home, numb from shock. Dean had been the one to suggest he find a path in life where he could help others. Give back to his country. Be a part of something bigger. It had failed, like getting Dean to stay had failed. Fire and shadow. A temporary warmth and an illusion that something more was ever there. When taken away, it left Walter no warmer.
Walter had two months to find a job that got him out of the home before he was turned loose on the streets. He decided to ask the head of the home if he could job shadow the staff who had remained for the summer, find a task that suited him for making a living.
He tried cooking, but had no aptitude for it. He tried various branches of house-cleaning, but hated it for the tedium and how much of a woman's job it was. He couldn't bare to try tutoring again, and so had no desire to become a teacher. Though he was bright, accounting wanted nothing to do with him. This left laundry services. The clothing the children got at the home was largely through donation and the Salvation army, and thus often needed patching, hemming or sewing.
The elderly black lady he was assisting was very no-nonsense but often cracked jokes, which she laughed at. Walter came to like her a little. "Child, you homely. But you got a good eye on you and your hands are clever. I don't think you're half bad at this. Time comes, I'll give you a letter of reference. Now let's see if I can help you find someplace to work. You wanna'go to the city?"
Over-whelmed, Walter merely nodded. It wasn't so bad. He could do it. Children's clothing was largely unisex, and so this task did not bother him.
"Alright, I think I still know some people there. Dun'you worry, old Constance will take care of you."
"Thank-you, Ms. Constance."
Later, with the surprising discovery that he'd be handling women's wear at work, he heard the old woman's laughter echoing in his mind.