Ace
After days of deliberation, Harlan had finally decided to return to this place which had once brought him great joy. His eyes were closed tightly as to block out the pain of uncertainty. When he finally reached the end of the cobblestone alley in downtown Los Angeles, he slowly opened his eyes. Harlan's face instantly fell as he gazed upon the desolate scene in front of him. Patches of weeds grew from the cracks of the weathered public tennis courts. These courts were a tangible representation of Harlan's childhood. A few silent tears meandered down his cheeks. As he had aged, so had his dreams decayed.
A loud crash from behind caught his attention. A young white teenage boy was practicing his serve against an old wooden basketball backboard. For a moment, Harlan watched his flawless form. This boy's intense concentration focused on two things: the racquet and the ball. Harlan watched in awe as this reincarnation of his dreams practiced. After countless hits, the boy hit a forehand off the frame and the ball bounced over to Harlan.
"Hey, you play?" the boy taunted as he shook his shaggy light blonde hair away from his eyes. He gave Harlan a look which explicitly stated that if he could not play, he should leave.
"Of course," Harlan replied nonchalantly then noticed the boy's disbelieving look. Immediately, he became defensive, "Height has nothing to do with being a good tennis player."
"Prove it," the boy demanded as he handed over his racquet and two battered tennis balls to Harlan's outstretched hands.
Grabbing the racquet firmly, Harlan stopped about five feet from the backboard. Without blinking an eye, he tossed the ball to serve. Smacking the ball with incredible power, Harlan would have scared any opponent. The boy watched his fluid service motion in shock.
"Nice serve," the boy's tone transformed from disbelief to one filled with respect, "Where'd you learn to serve like that?"
"See those old courts over there?" Harlan pointed with the racquet head.
"Yeah," the boy sounded as if he was asking a question rather than answering.
"That's where I learned how to play where I played my toughest opponents. You know what they used to call me?" Harlan questioned someone who could not possibly know the answer; knowingly he continued, "'Ace Arliss.'"
"Good running into you, Ace," the boy smiled warmly then watched him as he nervously played with the cross dangling from his short rope necklace, "So would you be my coach? I'd really like to learn more about tennis. It's been my favorite sport most of my life. I can't afford to pay for lessons or even to rent a court. Those courts are the closest I've ever come to the real thing except for the local tournaments, of course, which I fund from winnings from previous ones."
"You want ME to be your coach?" Harlan asked incredulously.
"Anyone who can serve like that has to be an awesome tennis player," the boy laughed, "So when do we start, coach?"
"Call me 'Ace,'" Harlan smiled warmly, "Be here tomorrow at 6:00 in the evening. I'll bring my racquet and we can start hitting. Your form looks great, but there is no such thing as too much practice!"
"Thanks, Ace!" the boy called as he ran down the alley, "Oh, and, by the way, my name's Bryan."
Harlan smiled in acknowledgement. Even turning back to the weathered courts did not dampen his spirits. Anxiously, Harlan sprinted home to find his racquet which was surely piled under a ton of junk. Looking back, Harlan remembered how intense his anger was when he went to shake his opponent's hand after he had lost his final match. After that, he never had the courage to play again. The continuous stream of jokes about his height had destroyed his self-confidence. He promised himself he would not let anyone destroy Bryan's spirit.
Harlan stayed awake most of the night developing drills and strategies which he could show Bryan. He was confident that with a little coaching, Bryan could rise to the top. "The kid definitely has potential," Harlan thought to himself. After a night without any rest, Harlan began preparing breakfast so he wouldn't be late for work. That reminded him that he had already agreed to go out with some of the officers that evening. "Oh, well," Harlan thought silently, "They'll understand that I have something else to do. Ponch double-books dates all the time."
Even once he arrived at work, he could not concentrate on anything but tennis. As a CHP mechanic, Harlan always had plenty of work orders and broken machines awaiting him daily. Usually, he enjoyed the work; today, however, Harlan sat down on a bench with a piece of paper, two wrenches and a nut in front of him. The two wrenches represented players in a singles match and the nut was the ball. With these crazy pieces of equipment, Harlan spent hours developing strategies.
"Harlan!" Gertraer's voice bellowed from the hallway, "What in the world are you doing?"
Curious to know, Gertraer took five long strides until he was standing over Harlan's shoulder. "I thought you were a mechanic, not a strategist! Is this how the State spends its money? Officers who spend hours on the phone, mechanics who draw pictures with tools"
"Sergeant, I was just taking my break," Harlan tried to wriggle out of the situation by using reason.
"Harlan, Harlan, Harlan" Gertraer shook his head, "Of all people, I never thought you would be the one I'd be saying this to, but put your toys away and get to work. And I think maybe you should stay away from Frank; he's having a bad influence on you," Gertraer replied rather tactfully considering the circumstances.
Harlan laughed to himself as he filed his tools and stuffed his paper in his pocket. "Why does everyone instantly assume that I am incapable of living life on the edge?" Harlan wondered silently, "It's time to change that."
When it was time to leave for the day, Harlan caught Jon in the hallway. "Jon, I have something I have to do tonight so Iím afraid I won't be able to make it. Do me a favor and let everyone know, okay?" Harlan asked hesitantly.
"Yeah, sure," Jon replied as he flipped through his mail, "Is anything wrong Harlan? It isn't like you to miss--"
"Everything's fine, Baker," Harlan interrupted, "I just forgot about this thing I have to do tonight."
"Harlan's got a girlfriend Harlan's got a girlfriend!" Ponch teasingly yelled from the lower end of the hallway.
"Ponch, I never said I was going out tonight, " Harlan retorted, "And if you don't mind, no one needs to know what I do after work."
"Hey, sorry," Ponch backed off, "I didn't know it was a touchy subject. Is everything all right, Harlan?"
"Everything is fine," Harlan turned and stormed off. He muttered under his breath, "Why does everyone always expect me to be good ol' Harlan?"
"What's with him?" Ponch turned to his partner searching for an answer.
Honestly, Jon shrugged his shoulders and smiled, "Well, partner, obviously it's something personal. He'll tell us when he's ready."
Although Harlan was not ready to talk, he sped over to the dilapidated tennis courts as soon as he left work. Once he arrived, he began to warm up by hitting a few easy ground strokes while time ticked away. All of a sudden, Harlan realized that it must be past time for Bryan to come. He pushed up his sleeve and glanced at his watch: it was 6:15 and no Bryan.
"I thought he was different," Harlan muttered to himself, "I thought he loved the sport enough to at least show up."
"Hi, I'm sorry I'm late--" an apologetic voice spoke to Harlan's back.
Harlan remained facing the wall of the uninhabited liquor store for a moment with racquet in hand. He tightened his grip until his knuckles turned white and took a large breath. Spinning around quickly, Harlan retorted, "You better have a good reason for coming late. If it's one thing I don't tolerate, it's people who commit to something, then blow it off for another more important event."
"Look, I said I'm sorry. It's just that--" Bryan stopped short as he watched Harlan's eyes burn in anger. Bryan felt his own eyes tear as he recalled the reason he was late; he would have much rather been practicing tennis with this kind man. "Some of the guys wouldn't let me go," Bryan continued truthfully. Whispering quietly under his breath, Bryan said, "They don't want me to change." For the past few months, his heart battled his mind with the ideas of both religion and his future; finally after a long struggle, his heart won and he decided to leave the gang for good.
"First time, it's ten laps. Second time, it's twenty. The third time, don't look for me again," Harlan stated flatly. He watched Bryan's sorrowful expression, but pushed him forward and firmly yelled, "Go on!"
As he watched Bryan run laps around the tennis courts, his police-acclimated mind began working. "The guys wouldn't let him go," Harlan thought to himself. He wondered if Bryan was telling the truth or trying to blame his tardiness on someone else. Harlan knew this neighborhood was not the best.
When Bryan returned from running about fifteen minutes later, Harlan stopped him from heading to get his racquet, "Bryan, is anything wrong? I mean, the guys that bothered you, are they part of a gang?"
Without more than a hurtful glare, Bryan pushed Harlan aside. "What does it matter to you anyway?" Bryan screamed, then a moment of silence enveloped them. Calmly, Bryan changed the subject, "So are we going to play?"
"On one condition," Harlan replied without hesitation, "That you tell me the truth right now. And let me inform you before you begin that your eye is beginning to swell and turn an awful color," Harlan continued as he handed Bryan an ice cube from the cooler.
"Thanks and yeah, you're right," Brian replied softly as he winced in pain, "Look, I'm not even supposed to be here. Last night--" he suddenly stopped. Bryan's deep blue eyes watched Harlan intently. Bryan fingered the cross around his neck.
Waiting patiently, Harlan waited for Bryan to continue. After a few moments of silence, Harlan prodded, "Last night what?"
Bryan began pacing in small regular steps. With his hands clenched in tight fists, he finally spoke, "Last night, the guys told me they know who you are. They never said how except that they had been watching you very closely."
"Who I am?" Harlan repeated slowly.
"Yeah, you know," Bryan kicked a piece of loose gravel laying near the courts, "That you're with the CHP."
"Bryan, that should not make any difference to you," Harlan instantly began lecturing then noticing Bryan's expression softened his voice, "Besides, I'm only a mechanic not a cop." His tone continued to inflate, "However, I do not excuse their behavior in regards to you. I am not a cop, but I am a concerned citizen and you can be sure I will report any offenses to the police."
"The guys aren't criminals or anything," Bryan yelled back, "And me? I just didn't want to be a part of it anymore."
"Assault is a crime," Harlan replied cautiously and waited for a reply. When Bryan did not say anything more, Harlan changed the subject, "So are you going to play today or tomorrow or ever?"
The ball was in Bryan's court. He surveyed the familiar scene around him which reminded him of his love for tennis. He remembered how wonderful it was to win his first local tournament. He realized how lucky he was to meet Harlan; Harlan was his key to leaving the streets for good. However, he knew that although he was not a part of this gang any longer, they would pose a constant threat to him. After this silent deliberation, Bryan finally began speaking, "I don't know, Ace. I love tennis and all, but--"
Harlan knew the end of the sentence: he was scared. Scared of these people watching his every move, waiting for him to falter so they can be the first to laugh. Scared of making a mistake which could cost him his life. Scared of the world. Harlan refused to allow fear to turn away another so he interrupted Bryan before he could finish, "We all have fears, but they must not control us. We want a mirror image of ourselves constantly so we can see what we look like to others. We mistakenly believe that is what is important in life. I've learned from experience that I had to stop looking to others for approval."
"Ace, it's just not the same for me though. Watching you cover the court, you obviously proved everyone's low expectations wrong. Besides, you had words stopping you I have weapons threatening my life," Bryan patiently tried to show that these two situations were incomparable.
"On the surface, yes," Harlan nodded his head in agreement, "But I gave up my dream of becoming a successful tennis player because no one believed I could make it. You have the option of pursuing your goals or allowing them to fall by the wayside."
Harlan watched Bryan's expression carefully. Finally, Bryan picked up his racquet from the cracked tennis court. Looking at Harlan for a long time in silence, he finally gained the courage to speak, "Thanks for everything, Ace." He then turned and began walking away.
"Are you leaving?" Harlan questioned in disbelief to Bryan's back.
Bryan continued walking a few more steps until he turned in acknowledgment. Bryan and Harlan intently watched each other for a few motionless minutes. It was as if time had frozen them in this gloomy, uninhabited alley together. Harlan watched in silence as Bryan walked down the long deserted cobblestone path to the main road. Harlan realized that this alley had opened a common ground for both of these men; this is where they left their hearts as well as their dreams.
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The following day, Harlan could not concentrate on anything except Bryan. Methodically, Harlan worked on a damaged carburetor in the garage. Even the sound of the wrench easily fixing the problem did not soothe his frazzled nerves. He wished his problems - and Bryan's - could be solved with the twist of a tool. Unfortunately, life is not as easy as machinery.
A loud voice from the hallway forced him back to reality, "Harlan! Where are you?"
"In here," Harlan called from the garage.
Grossman peered around the doorway, "Sorry to bother you, but you have a phone call."
"Thanks, Grossie," Harlan replied absentmindedly as he shakily arose from the damp concrete floor.
As he walked to the telephone, Bryan's voice replayed in his mind, "They said they had been watching you very closely." What if he was being stalked? What would he do if they came after him or Bryan for that matter? What ifÖ
"Harlan speaking," he answered calmly though his palms had begun sweating.
"Hey, Ace. It's Bryan," the voice on the other end wavered slightly.
"Bryan?" Harlan questioned, "You all right? Your voice sounds--"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Bryan interrupted in mid-sentence, "Maybe I'm catching a cold or something." He gave a half-hearted laugh.
Harlan knew Bryan was not telling the truth, but did not say a word. Suddenly, a loud crash erupted from the background on Bryan's end of the phone. The sharp sting of shattering glass overrode Bryan's deep voice. Screams sounded periodically from different areas of the room.
"Bryan!" Harlan screamed, "You're not okay! Where are you?"
Before Bryan could answer, the phone went dead. Practically flying into Gertraer's office, Harlan asked him to trace the call. Without wasting a minute, Gertraer discovered the call was placed from a café on West Fifth Street.
After alerting the LAPD about the possible robbery, Gertraer leaned back in his seat and asked, "Harlan, how did you find out about this?"
Time ticked away as Harlan described the situation to the Sergeant. Harlan had just finished when he heard a voice sound from the end of the hall, "I have some unfinished business I need to take care of with Harlan," Bryan explained, "Please. I really need to talk to him."
"Wait inside for a minute. I'll see if Harlan is busy," Jon replied kindly as he extended his hand to the empty room.
"Go ahead, Harlan, but make it quick. You have a pile of work," Gertraer answered Harlan's questioning eyes.
Jon met Harlan at Gertraer's door, "There's someone here to see you, Harlan."
"Thanks, Jon," Harlan replied curtly as he walked down the hall. Curious to know what was bothering Harlan, Jon followed him slowly and attempted to remain unseen. Ponch and Jon exchanged a look that explained both were concerned about Harlan's visitor. As for Harlan, his tense posture indicated he was uncomfortable with talking to Bryan again. Sensing this, Jon and Ponch moved just outside the door to listen as their duty required.
"Hi, Ace," Bryan began shamefully, "I know you're disappointed, but please hear me out."
Harlan sat down in the chair across from Bryan, "Disappointed does not describe it," he began coldly, "But I'm listening."
"First of all, I'm not part of this gang anymore. When I was younger, I used it for protection; they were just a bunch of guys who looked out for me. You need that when you're on the streets. Little by little, the crimes increased. I didn't want to hurt anybody, but they told me sometimes you needed to in order to get the job done and I believed them."
"If I do believe that, why were you there today?" Harlan questioned incredulously, "People were bound to get hurt and you just stood by and watched."
"Ace, you have to trust me on this," Bryan pleaded then he looked away. Deep in thought, he put his hand to his chin and avoided watching Harlan as he said with conviction, "I didn't want to be there. The guys literally forced me there. I thought about what you said before- about the fact that as a concerned citizen you would report the facts to the police. When I called you, I called to report that there was a robbery in progress. "
Dumbfounded, Harlan remained silent. The puzzle pieces fit together perfectly into one neat picture; Bryan must be telling the truth.
"What do I have to do to make you believe me?" Bryan screamed as he slammed the palms of his hands against the table, "I'm telling you the truth!"
"I believe you," Harlan whispered quietly as he reached over the table to pat Bryan on the shoulder, "I believe you."
"Ace" ©1999 Julie Radachy. "CHiPs" and its characters © Metro Goldwyn Mayer, Inc. All rights reserved. " No infringement of any copyrights or trademarks is intended or should be inferred. This is a work of fiction, and any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
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