Irma Gutierrez never dedicated herself to learning much about veganism. The vegetarian is power walking from Don’s room and trying to recall quotes she read online thirteen-years ago. “He hates that crap.” She giggles and then she halts and presses her palm to her forehead. Sara’s behind a counter. She smiles at Irma and gives her a thumbs-up. Irma nods to Nurse Sara who’s a Second Lieutenant in the U.S. army. She then resumes her forward striding, while smiling and planning how to slowly reintroduce meat into her diet.

Meanwhile, the medical center is on the corner of two main avenues. Its front entrance faces six lanes, three heading north and three heading south. Traffic is heavy and steadily clearing all intersections at thirty-five-MPH. Across six lanes is the Miami Family Diner where in the parking lot, Sergeant Ginger Johnson is sitting in a patrol car. She’s studying the traffic from her side window. In the passenger seat, a young man who is writing an article about women cheating their way into workplaces meant for men, is interviewing her. “Your name reminds me of a stripper. You should think about changing it to a real name like, Gloria.”

“Is there something special about the name Gloria?” Ginger grins.

“It doesn’t sound like a fake name used by a stripper.”

“You keep saying you want to speak with my supervisor, so, don’t forget to mention that one about me too.”

“I do want to speak with him. Which one is he?”

“Captain Tiffany Baller.”

“You’re lying. You made that up.”

Ginger notes that it’s the second time she’s seen a silver, Ford Taurus travel north in the right lane at about ten-MPH. It rounds the corner, passes the entrance to the medical center where then it speeds up. The car has no front plate, and she didn’t see a tail plate.

“Who gets all the dangerous calls? I mean, do male officers see more action than female officers?”

“No.”

“I see, so you ladies get called to the scenes, for the purpose of inclusion. I get it. It looks good on paper, but when you get there what do you do, jot down what you see while the men do all the wrestling?”

The sergeant bites the inside of her bottom lip and she imagines typing a scene where men in tear-away police uniforms wrestle convicts in pools filled with vanilla pudding. Women in mini-skirts and low-cut blouses wear caps that read, INCLUDED, and they sit on the hoods of patrol cars where they hoot and whistle… all the while jotting down what they see. Ginger presses her tongue to the inside of her cheek.

“What kind of names do the male officers call you females when you get special treatment?”

She turns her head slowly and stares at the smirking, twenty-three-year-old. “You are too stupid to ask me…” Ginger makes air quotes. “…trick questions.” She turns to her window.

“Stupid? You know I’m recording our conversation, right?” He taps at the phone in his hand.

A female voice comes across the car radio. She informs the sergeant that she is clear to take a meal break. Ginger responds to dispatch. Then she sits back and clutches the steering wheel. A silver Taurus rounds the corner and it heads north at about ten-MPH. From her side window, the sergeant spots a middle-age woman who’s wearing a sundress and she is power walking in white sandals. The silver car slows to about five-MPH. Ginger’s dark eyebrows furrow.

“You know what is stupid? The name Ginger Johnson.”

The woman in the sundress steps where the cement slopes for vehicles. The car speeds up and it turns into the driveway. Ginger’s dark eyes widen. The woman leaps forward. The car continues into the parking lot. The woman in the sundress pats at her chest and she sprints to the intersection.

“Ginger Johnson sounds like a man’s limp you-know-what.” He coughs and chuckles into his hand.

“Oh…” Ginger bats long, dark eyelashes. “Always tell new people about your developmental disability, baby.” She puts the car in drive.

“Baby?”

Ginger informs dispatch of her intentions to investigate the driver of the Taurus.

“I am a man!”

The sergeant steers toward the east-bound exit.

“We’re not going to eat? I’m starving.”

An eighteen-wheeler speeds by the front of the cruiser and then into the intersection. A blue, full-size van turns in front of it. To the sounds of crashing and breaks squealing throughout the avenues, Ginger radio’s dispatch, and the journalist screams.

***

Irma approaches the window of Manny’s Burger Joint. She turns toward the sounds of tires squealing, metal crunching and glass shattering. A dark-haired man with a thick, black mustache sticks his head out the window meant for placing orders. He shouts, “That’s a bad one. I hope no one is hurt.” He draws back. “Mrs. Gutierrez, please, come inside. No one will cross back for a very long time. Come in, it’s too hot out there.”

Irma is panting. “And too dangerous.” She charges for the glass door.

***

Across the street from Manny’s Burger Joint, is the Greco Fine Jewelry Store. It’s owned and operated by Mr. and Mrs. Samuele Greco. Their thirty-two year-old son, Sammy, is a jewelry designer. Inside the shop, a customer named Carlos Perez stands beside Mrs. Greco. Both stare wide-eyed out the window and toward the intersection.

Mrs. Greco closes her eyes. “Please God, I wish for no one to be hurt.”

In Spanish, Carlos repeats her words.

Behind the display case, Mr. Greco turns his chin to his right shoulder. “Sammy…”

Mrs. Greco places her hands on both sides of her head, smashing silver curls. She spins around. “You should pray to God, not call for our son.”

“Your son is keeping my customer waiting.”

She makes her way toward the glass case. “You angry with him, he’s my son. I wait for the day you are happy with him and he’s my son.”

Mr. Greco chuckles. “No. If he makes me happy, he’s mine. Always.”

Carlos grins and he strolls toward the couple who are half-sneering and half-smiling at each other. A white door opens behind Mr. Greco, and out steps a man who’s six-feet and six-inches tall. He carries a small, red box on the palm of his giant hand. Mr. Greco glances over his shoulder and then he and his wife take three steps to the left.

Carlos gazes at the man who’s a foot taller and half a body size wider than he. Sammy gives the red box to his father.

Mrs. Greco smiles at Carlos and she points at her son. “How such a small couple can make him? He is a first generation American. Uh, very tiny when born. We tell everyone we make him in Texas, on our honeymoon.” She and her husband bump shoulders and they snicker. Sammy smiles softly and he shakes his head.

Mr. Greco adds, “But we married in Italy, and he doesn’t get born in New Jersey for many years later.” The couple snicker.

Sammy clears his throat. “It doesn’t make sense to me either.”

Carlos grins.

Mr. Greco offers the open box to Carlos. “Your lady will be very quick to say yes, no?”

Carlos lifts the diamond ring from the box. “The mounting is spectacular.”

“My son is a great artist.”

“Oh… He’s your son?”

Mr. Greco shrugs. “I am happy.”

“Thank you for such a fine job. This is beautiful.”

Sammy gives Carlos a quick nod. “I wish you and your fiancé a long and happy life together.” He then returns to the back room and closes the door.