Reflecting on my time at Midtown Central Division, I recall working with Heather Maddox. Maddox moved through the building like she owned it—long-legged, gum-smacking, and loud enough to shatter the silence two hallways away. Standing at 5’10”, she was all muscle and noise, with a face that seemed untouched by softness. She had the kind of presence that filled every square of inch of a room—from her platinum blonde lion’s mane of hair to the way her voice carried, even when she wasn’t saying much. Behind her back, people called her “Hoss,” but she embraced it. She even called herself that.
“Shee-Maan from Midtown Central, baby,” she’d say, flexing her biceps, slapping her thigh, and laughing as if she had just entertained a room full of frat boys.
I tried to avoid her, but that wasn’t always possible.
“Hey, it’s Dream Girl,” Hoss announced one day, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Still walking like you’re in a movie or something?”
The breakroom fell silent.
I didn’t respond. I had learned that reacting only made things worse. Hoss thrived on discomfort.
“She’s one of those weird ones, you know,” Hoss continued, turning to another officer. “Doesn’t say much. Probably writes poetry about us after shift.”
There was laughter. Not from everyone, but enough.
I stared at my coffee cup and remained silent. I refused to give them the satisfaction.
Rumor had it that Hoss had been in Vice, doing undercover work. The story went that she got too deep—blurred the lines. One night, she got drunk, hooked up with her suspect, blew her cover, got into a fight, and someone broke her neck. She wore it like a badge now. Some even said she still partied with that guy.
The details were murky, as they often are when the department doesn’t want them documented.
Still, she carried herself like a war survivor. Like no one else had the right to complain about anything, ever. Especially not me, who once got injured on duty and became “the weirdo who limps like a poet.”
A friend from another division once asked Hoss how I was doing.
“She’s weird,” Hoss replied without hesitation. “Too quiet. Doesn’t talk much. Always looks like she’s lost or thinking about sad stuff. Midtown Central needs soldiers, not daydreamers.”
My friend tried to laugh it off when telling me later, but it stung. Because that was the story being told about me—and I wasn’t allowed to tell hers.
In the locker room, Hoss was even louder.
“She thinks she’s better than us, huh? She doesn’t say anything. Stays in her little bubble like she’s got some secret life. Probably writes love letters to the sergeant.”
More laughter. Always in front of others. Never alone. Bullies never strike in silence. Elle Delio posted up beside Hoss like a bulldog that had memorized its owner’s moods. Delio never spoke to me directly—she only spoke around me. She’d stride to my table with her morning-run sweat still drying on her neck, greeting everyone but me with exaggerated cheer, the kind that tries too hard. She’d stare first, always stare, like I was the stray cat Hoss forgot to chase out. I never understood her problem. Her husband—a detective at Midtown Central—was actually decent. Soft-spoken. Professional. She was the opposite: a loud, insecure M&M in tactical boots, performing belonging while making sure I knew I didn’t. Hoss and Delio, together they were like two malfunctioning vending machines—noisy, broken, and permanently out of service.
I changed in the corner, my back turned. My locker felt like an insurmountable wall.
I could feel the room watching. Not all hostile. Just… complicit.
Later that day, as I left the breakroom, I passed the “Midtown Central Girls”—Hoss, Delio, and C.C. sitting together, cackling about something. Probably about me. I didn’t stop to listen because people who live on signals always attack the ones who don’t need them.
But as I walked away, I heard the tail end of it: “Dream Girl’s floating again.”
And then laughter.
I just logged it. Another page in a book no one else would ever read.
