Category: Toward: A Memoir

Everyone ran from the cops.

They all say that. Here’s the thing though, they – – those middle class … or working class they like to call themselves these days but grew up not having to get a job once tall enough to pass for legal just to eat or expected to steal your own cigarettes at twelve to dull hunger no one cared you did, ones who played sports or joined debate team, whose parents didn’t look at them like they had spiky haired demons needing killing crawling out from their ears for mentioning college dreams  – –  never went to school the day after and seen a friend bent and impact-bruise bloodied on his face, purple collarboned, we could see, peeking out his stretch-necked tee at ten.

He was ten.

I was eight.

First time I saw proof up close about getting caught by cops. That boy didn’t make it to lunch. Got sent home by the nurse. Broken ribs. I realize now. Didn’t know then. That’s when the cops beat us. That age. By thirteen, they’d just hassle us and humiliate us with their state-bought dominance and take our weed. We’d have to hear from snobs, next day at school, when they’d say they got some weed off their cop connection. Our weed. Scavenged off us. Not dead yet, but buzzards circling. We’d just grumble and those kids in turn would call us scum.

Now that we’re all grown, now they scoff and say they all ran from the cops, like they was all downtrodden and knew dogged slog.

Everyone did, they say.

They did run. I’m sure. Jaunts. So they wouldn’t get “grounded,” for doing whatever it was they were doing, trespassing or whatnot, when Officer Friendly drug them home by the ear. Cops came to my neighborhood to hunt. They didn’t take anyone home. That would’ve been a risk, cops coming up on one of those dark houses. Little kids weren’t as dangerous. Chased to fainting. Especially not from a neighborhood where most kids would get a beating for getting caught by pigs. Least a smack.

Don’t bring the cops around here.

Even if you took your beating on the next block; hung back.

But when I was fourteen, they weren’t looking to beat me. Not that night. Someone must have gotten an eye on me. They had a plan. Came three cars swarming. Driven hot, like men coursing after new heavy tits on long lean. Radios coordinating. Oh, I ran. Sprinting. Twenty minutes. They came on every corner I turned. From every block. After me. One got fifty feet on foot behind. I heard the lust sweat dripping in his rage panting, in his steps thumping steady train-engined. Felt primitive swell up inside my ribcage. Carry me.

Originally published by Reed Magazine.

Photo credit: The Lazy Artist Gallery.