Dreams in Black and White
by Josh Buchin

Growing up, I always wanted to be a pirate. Sail the seven seas, robbing, looting, plundering, answering to no one but the call of the wind. As corny as it sounds, I'm ashamed to say it's true. Every year on Halloween I'd get a bandana, an eye patch and a fake beard and patrol around the neighborhood, getting candy as my gold and cookies as my crowns. It's ironic, I often think, how I ended up being the exact opposite of what I'd dreamt. Instead of fighting the law tooth and nail, I served it as a willing minion. I was the imperial guard, charging in on the pirates' stronghold and arresting them. I was a police detective.
It could be worse. I could still be a beat cop. Instead I'm a detective, partnered with my close friend Anthony "Imitation" Rickter. Together, we were an unbeatable force, feared for good reasons. Together, we swept the streets free of crime. In theory anyway.
"Dash?" said Rickter, interrupting my daydream. "Dash?"
"Yeah. I'm here," I said looking up at my partner.
"We got a 415, a hostage situation," he said as he turned towards the door, where his car was parked.
"I'm right behind you."
* * *
"What did you want to be as a kid?" I asked curiously, staring out the windshield. Rickter stopped at a light and turned his head to me, giving me his full attention.
"What?"
"Your dreams, what did you want to do when you grew up?" I repeated.
"Oh. I wanted to be a burglar. Breaking and entering, sneaking around late at night, stealing priceless jewels. That's sort of why I enjoy detective work, it's like sneaking around on the other end."
"The pay isn't as good."
"I'll vouch for that."
"It's weird."
"What is?"
"You wanted to be a thief. You became a cop. I wanted to be a pirate. I became a cop. So what do the cops end up doing?"
"Good question."
Rickter pulled up to the crime scene, double-parking sloppily in the street. We both hurried out and raced towards the dilapidated, roach infested apartment. We were met by Officer Pieric who showed us up to the crime scene.
Supposedly, the man was in his apartment with a shotgun aimed at his daughter. From what we'd managed to piece together, it appeared to be true. The speakerphone was handed to me, and my first task was to introduce myself. "My name is Dash O' Conner. I am a Detective for the NYPD. Tell me, why do you have a gun jammed into your daughter's head?"
"Go away!" The man bellowed, anger seeping through his strained scream. He was mad, but at what?
I turned to the man next to me and whispered: "How long has this been going on?"
"About 15 minutes."
Speaking back into the speakerphone now, I said calmly. "I'm here to talk to you. What do you need?"
"Nothing from you, Goddammit!" he hollered back, his voice sounding like it would give at any minute.
"This isn't going anywhere," Rickter said to me.
I agreed with that. I was silent for a moment, trying to plan out what to do next. When I finally spoke, I tried to speak as calmly as possible, taking in deep breaths of air. "What did you want to be when you were a kid?"
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" The man yelled back, fearing it was trick.
Whose to say it wasn't? "What were your dreams? What did you lie in bed thinking about?"
Silence. Then laughter. First a slight chuckling, then a deep belly roar. "You're not gonna believe this. Jesus, I don't." More laughter. He was cracking himself up. "I wanted to be a cop. One of you. I wanted to be a cop," he repeated, quieter, to himself. I heard the sound of metal hitting the floor as his gun was released from his hands. Cops swarmed in, their footsteps sounding like giant drops of rain.
I leaned up against the wall in the hallway opposite Rickter. I took out a cigarette and put it in my mouth, searching my pockets for a lighter. "He wanted to be a cop," I said thoughtfully. Saying his words again. "He wanted to be a cop. Figures." 

The author would like you to know: By day, Josh Buchin is your mild mannered, average - albeit slightly paranoid - hard working, blue-collared, everyday Joe. But at night, beneath the veil of darkness and under the moonlight inferno, Josh Buchin is transformed into a much darker creature. Cynical and outspoken, he stays in the comfort of his shadowy cage, hammering away at faded keys. He is hidden from the rest of the world, deep down in his impenetrable lair miles below the streets of Berkeley. He can be lured out of his underground fortress only by his e-mail signal, activated at Jbnitro@aol.com