Sunday, February 22, 2009
"The Suspect Is Black And Skinny! I Repeat! Black And..."
In one of my last blogs I mentioned being handcuffed. I just thought I’d share the story here. I may start posting those blogs here as I have way too many. Yeah, I talk too much. Wanna make something of it? I have provided a picture of my mug during this time period.
And so begins the tale of me being handcuffed in high school with three guns aimed at my face and chest. How did this happen to me? Did I beat someone up? Was I acting crazy? No. Just cashing a check.
I was still a soldier during high school. I use that term all kinds of lightly. I never went to basic training. I only went to drills on weekends. It sucked because I would get paid hundreds of dollars and end up with a check for about $11. I didn’t have a job during high school so that $11 bucks was cool. I could buy dozens of packs of Winterfresh with that! I didn’t have a 6th period class so I decided to use that time to head to Wells Fargo and cash my big ass check. So I get to the corner diagonal from Eat-A-Pita and a cop car whipped by. Then another one. And another one. Is that the sound of tires screeching? Why, yes, it is. And they’re coming straight at me.
So the cars corner me and two chick cops and a dude jump out, guns aimed at me. I stop dead in my tracks and start smiling. The situation was funny to me. I couldn’t help it. “Put down your bag!” the dude shouted at me. And I did. Who am I to argue with three guns?
So there I am. Standing there with my hands in the air while people from school are now flocking to the basketball court to see who is about to get their face shot off. One of the chicks walks over and handcuffs me.
“Please stop smiling!” she said. I did but I know I still had a smirk on my face. They got my bag and started looking through it. They still had their guns on me while I stood there waiting for a nervous finger to pop a cap in my ass or something. “Where were you at…?” the guy asked me.
“In class” I told him.
“You got to school around here?”
“Yeah. Right here” I said while nodding towards Fairfax. They really cinched these handcuffs on tight.
“What’s your address?” one of the chick cops asked me. I told her and they all looked at each other like, “Aw, damn it.”
“What’s with the gloves?” one of the ladies asked. I had on my back luck outfit. Olive dress pants, striped olive shirt, and suede shoes. This is the bad luck outfit because nothing good ever happened in it. The hitch hiking story, telling an ex I liked her, being late for whatever, all happened in this outfit. Oh, and let’s not forget my trusty jacket Charlie.
“It matches the jacket” I replied. They took the cuffs off.
“Well, there was a bank robbery in the area and you fit the description…” they began. The guy they were looking for was like 6’2”. Had a red track suit. A beard and a jerry curl. Mind you, at this point in life I was about 5’10”. Totally shaved head. And couldn’t grow facial hair to save my life. The only thing we had in common was that we were both Black. I slipped my gloves on and picked my bag up. I still had a trip to the bank to make.So I walk into Wells Fargo and they all turn and look at me nervously. All I wanted to do was cash this puny ass check! I got my $11 bucks and walked back to school with a new story to tell. This was the third time I’ve had a gun pointed at me in my life.
The moral of the story is, if you have a bad luck outfit, an outfit where nothing good has ever happened in, get rid of the damned thing. Otherwise the police might mistake you for a rapper from the early 90’s and point a gun in your face.