The Blue Lightning. That’s what they called him. Cal Hardaway, the Blue Lightning. It was kind of ridiculous, actually. Ridiculous, not only because of his famous leisurely swagger, but because of how he got the name. There was a shirt that he used to wear. Not on the job, but when he was relaxing with friends. Having his gin and relaxing. A hideous yellow button-down thing with a pale blue lightning bolt. It was like a comforting thing to him; like a teddy bear or an old, tattered blanket. And that’s how he got the name.

I don’t pretend that I knew Cal all that well, but I was there when he got the news. It came over the phone while just before we were about to leave for the station, and when he heard, he dropped the handset onto the hard wood floor, sending shards of plastic scattering throughout the tiny studio. He smiled at first, and laughed a little, then sat down and just stared. He poured himself a gin and took it down with a jerk of his neck. Even if I didn’t know him, I could tell he was hurting. I told him that it would be all right; said that I would do anything I could to help him, but all he did was stared.

An hour or so went by, and I got bits of information, slowly, painfully, until I knew the whole story. Each shot of gin brought out a little more. And although I could see that he was going to make himself sick, I didn’t have the heart to tell him to stop. The whole time he just stared into his closet, his eyes racing from the ground to the ceiling, as if he was searching for something. I began to see how difficult it was for him, how few pleasures he had in his life. He was a lonely man. He was the job.

I had to run out and put another dime in the meter. When I came back, he was gone. He must have taken the back stairs while I was walking down the main ones. I watched him stagger out of the building from the window of his room, gin in hand, the world on his shoulders. On the table beside the bed was his badge and his gun. One thing was for sure. If the law wasn’t with the Blue Lightning, it was against him.

Then I looked in the closet. It was empty except for one hanger. A hanger that would never be filled again. Upon closer inspection, I could see that the hanger was labeled “The Blue Lightning”. How can one call from the dry cleaners wreck a man’s entire life? Good bye, Cal Hardaway. Good bye, Blue Lightning.