Standing on the narrow sidewalk of Randolph Street overlooking the Chicago River, she lit another cigarette, took two long draws, and then flicked the cancer stick over the side, watching the orange ember disappear.
Damn. She hated the taste of tobacco and how it smelled when she lit a cigarette, but loved the nicotine hit. She was no idiot because she also understood the health risks of the screwed-up habit, her addiction of choice. Of course, unless one counted money, hard whisky, boy toys, and power over life and death as addictions. She supposed some would, but she could take or leave all of them to one degree or another. All, except one, that is.
Leaning against the brown safety fence, she continued watching intently what was going on below her at the river’s edge.
Addiction. It was simply another word to allow people to ignore responsibility for their own actions. Something she never hesitated in doing. She liked overseeing her life and embraced the decisions she made. All of them.
In that respect, her life was about choices, things she’d learned to enjoy and things she hated but were necessary.
Take money for instance. It added legs to whatever needed to be done. And there was never a shortage of people who would do what was requested for the proper amount of cash. She’d seen it over and over again. Yet, after a while, and hoarding large amounts of money, she had come to realize that money was only a vehicle and not a destination.
The same could be said of whiskey and hard-bodied men.
There was no question that she loved getting buzzed. It helped with the stress of what she did. And there was nothing quite like a warm, willing, lean man who would do whatever was asked of them. Contrary to most schools of thought, men were built to please women. They were at least good for something.
Yet, after so much of both the drug- and alcohol-induced highs and the incredible sex, they became little more than something to indulge in and with. They offered no real path to the next step, her destined next step.
She reached into her pocket and began to finger the twenty-dollar gold piece, rubbing it between her finger and thumb, eyes still glued to the people below.
And what of power? True power?
Power was a beast of a different color. It was infinite and temporary. Passive and aggressive. Indulgent and solitary. Vocal and silent. Kind and cruel. It bred fear and cloaked those holding it with comfort. Above all, it was evil and good, something she was all too familiar with.
Shifting her feet, she continued touching the coin in her jean’s pocket.
Power held the many appetites of the men and women who possessed it and formed that power to their desires. She’d seen that as well.
Yet, there was always one intoxicating attribute about power over the other obsessions; one never had enough of that incredible elixir. Never.
People sought in on every level. In every culture. Most wanted to control their own destinies. Some wanted more.
The power to control one’s own life was addicting enough, but to control another’s was beyond sublime.
Ask any politician or dictator what they desired the most and they would tell you. They wanted the power to do what they saw fit, to wield an axe of absolute control over their intentions, lives, and indulgences. Then to take it a step further and control others. All under the guise that they knew what was best for those beneath them.
She reached for another cigarette, then resisted.
Make no mistake, that decision came first. The one that said other people weren’t as able to run their lives and needed help from those who could.
She was no politician, yet, but was no different in that thought, particularly living in the world she had chosen.
Power held the key and was the source of everything she desired in this life. And come hell or high water, she’d have it.
Have it? No, she’d take it. Like she’d taken everything else she’d ever wanted. Even if that meant recruiting people she considered more vile and demonic than human. But she didn’t truly care about someone else’s appetites or perversions. Everyone had a cross to bear, even the righteous. Even Clergy.
Whatever it takes.
She watched the man and woman finish what they had started on the banks below her as they were joined by two other cops. She then began strolling south on Randolph toward downtown, rubbing the coin and humming an old Bette Midler song.
Wings beneath her feet indeed.
In the end, they would all serve to lift her high.
That was how it should be. It was the nature of true power and who better than her to reap the rewards that power had to offer?