Acceptance
It may have been 10 at night, but the day’s heat was still trapped in the Phoenix concrete. It was 101 degrees. The air was stagnant. It was not supposed to feel like this without the sun shining, especially on the first day of October.
Quinn turned on the local jazz station. He always liked the voice of the DJ who would provide a little background and context before playing the song. Quinn wondered how old she was and what she looked like. When you become familiar with a voice, especially one like hers, it’s natural to want to know a little more.
Quinn knew it would be easy to find out everything he wanted to know. But did he really want to? In today’s world, one can find out pretty much anything in an instant. If a fun debate erupts at dinner, a phone can provide the answer. The mystery is short-lived. Is that a good or bad thing, Quinn wondered.
For years, he resisted typing the DJ’s name. She remained a mystery, that voice coming through his radio, penetrating the Phoenix heat with her talk of Miles Davis and Thelonious Monk and Harry “Sweets” Edison. He realized in this instance he liked the unknown and could imagine her however he wanted.
Quinn began to wonder whether perhaps ignorance was bliss. Maybe life would be more enjoyable by staying in the dark and not paying attention and tuning out those trying to shed light on the world.
Why question those people and institutions with great reputations? Why seek out more information than is being offered to you? You are not supposed to know what a DJ looks like. Perhaps the face is pretty, but what if it’s not? There is no going back. You cannot erase the image from your mind. If you believe that Bob Dylan is right and all the truth in the world adds up to one big lie, you cannot return to the version of the truth you once thought was reality.
The sociopaths in the world like Dominic DeSimone are out there and can fool anyone. Quinn smiled at the memory of the original conversation in Shady’s that got him into this mess in the first place. Now he wondered why more people didn’t see it, including himself before he started getting dizzy, his head and ears full of pressure and his whole world tilting off balance.
Quinn remembered the days when he admired his bosses, when he liked his job and what the Institute stood for in the community. He wanted to go back to those days. But that was all in the past. There was no reason to dwell on it.
The summer had been hot and brutal with no break in the heat in the four months since Hugh Quinn went into the Phoenix police headquarters and told them a story about an unknown man approaching him at the Rhythm Room and following him until he kidnapped him.
The man was quickly identified by his Garfield neighbors, who were shocked at his actions. Quinn heard the man was likely to take a plea deal to avoid a trial. The media stories were plentiful but remained on a superficial level.
Using the trauma as an excuse, Quinn took an immediate leave of absence from the Institute for Arizona’s Common Good. Despite solid support from Institute leaders, Quinn chose to resign, saying he was ready to explore new options and perhaps open his own consulting firm with Lana.
The release of the Garfield Streetcar report was a smashing success. Next week, its backers would gather along the route for a neighborhood celebration.
That October morning was beautiful. A cold front swept through, and the season was changing to one of pleasant, sunny days. The corner had turned and optimism was in the air. Such is the cycle of life in Phoenix.
Quinn stood toward the back of the celebration as speaker after speaker praised this new era in the history of the Garfield neighborhood. DeSimone and Garcia represented the Institute well, Quinn had to admit.
Angelica Winslow, touting public transportation and neighborhood gentrification, said she would be introducing a funding bill for the Garfield Streetcar during the next legislative session. The crowd erupted in applause.
“What an amazing way to honor the history of the Garfield neighborhood while setting it on a path to preserve its unlimited future,” Sen. Winslow said.
Fr. Patrick McSorley, who received the largest ovation of all, said this project would transform the lives of all the residents of Garfield and those yet to discover this special slice of Phoenix.
“Hey, Hugh, what are you doing here?” asked a familiar voice.
Benjamin Biers walked up and shook his hand. The two had spoken sparingly over the past several months. Quinn thought Biers was disappointed that he allowed the cover-up to happen, but Biers had never questioned his friend’s motives.
He told Quinn how the condemnation proceedings for his property had begun. Biers didn’t like their offer and didn’t think his house was essential for the project, but he knew it was probably a done deal.
“Maybe I should’ve taken the cash in the first place and smiled and thanked them for their offer,” Biers said.
The men shared a laugh.
“Hey, Benjamin, now was not the time,” Quinn said.
“I know.”
When the speeches were over, DeSimone started walking around and shaking hands. He caught Quinn’s eyes and smiled. The message was clear: “I won.” Quinn conceded with a nod.
As Quinn returned to his central Phoenix condo, he felt a strange sensation. The room was still, and his head and ears were not full of pressure. The vertigo that had taught him to see the truth, past the lies and spin that bombard society every day, could not be felt. He had indeed seen, and even accepted, the truth. Quinn sat there for a minute in complete silence, absorbing the internal peace that had eluded him for so long.
He walked to the kitchen table and grabbed the Ace of Spades and returned it to its deck.
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Start reading what started it all: Ace of Spades I