Afterwards, I hopped on my trusty steed and ride off into the night, my muscles trembling with exhaustion. At this point, I was sweaty, tired and hungry; my fridge beckoned and my shower was shouting crude cat-calls, telling me to get my sexy ass inside of her.
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| "I'm soooo wet." |
Eagerly, I peddled. For about 50 feet, before a car with red and blue flashing lights pulled over just ahead of my position by the sidewalk. Good grief, here we go again...
A little over two years ago, I was accosted by an overly eager police officer as I was riding through the Alderwood Mall parking lot, heading for a late night gym session. I even wrote about in this very blog.
As you can imagine, I was suffering from a crazy sense of deja vu as the cop climbed out of his car and said, "Kind of late for a bike ride, isn't it? Where you headed?" in an intrusive tone that no doubt was meant to be casual.
My eyes rolling back so far I was certain I could see grey matter, I responded tersely, "Home, officer. How about yourself?" Normally it's my policy to be as polite as possible to anyone with a badge; it may be 2016, but anyone who thinks that law enforcement looks past color is a fuckwit. I get at least one suspicious look from a cop anytime I find myself in downtown Seattle. At this point, I had worked a full 8 hour shift at a job that in the best of times leaves me short tempered and then spent another hour lifting weights. I wanted to be home, in my room. And this ass-hat was standing in the way of that goal.
By this point, he was standing a few feet away from me on the sidewalk, shining his flashlight in my face. Never you mind the fact that we were standing under a bright streetlight; I guess pigs don't have good night vision. Since I couldn't see the name on his badge, what with the blinding glare, let's call him Officer PigFace McBaconsnout.
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| I snapped a quick pic of him for you. |
"Do you have a license on you?" McBaconsnout asked, his tone was so overly friendly I knew it had to be fake.
Before I could stop myself, I snidely replied, "Why would I need one? Have bikes suddenly become motorized vehicles?" Even as I said this, I was pulling out my I.D. I handed it to him and he mumbled into his radio, giving my name and number.
"What are you doing out so late?" He asked.
Not harassing people minding their own fucking business. Out loud, I said, "I just got off work."
Officer McBaconsnout raised an eyebrow. "Where do you work that's open this late?"
"In that red brick building just up the hill," I said, pointing behind me. "I'm a teleradiology imaging assistant. Hospitals are open 24/7, and so are we."
And of course, he looks frankly disbelievingly at me and asks if I have some form of I.D. Biting back a nasty comment, I point down at the badge hanging around my neck, complete with the company name and my oh so handsome mug smiling on it.
McBaconsnout mumbled into his radio again, no doubt seeking confirmation that such a company actually exists. He then proceeds to engage me in small talk for the next twenty fucking minutes. Yes, you read that right. Twenty minutes of the kind of bland conversation one reserves for uncomfortable and awkward visits with the relatives you never speak to. He asks about the gym I go to, what sort of bike I have, the works.
"Sorry about the delay," he says about 10 minutes in. "We seem to be having some kind of hiccup in the system. It's running a little slow this evening." Translation: We are digging as deeply as we can in an effort to find some kind of dirt that we can stick to you.
Well, sorry fuck-face, but you're in for disappointment. My record is spotless.
Finally, the pork patrol gave up. Officer PigFace McBaconsnout wished me a good night, trotted back into his car, and drove off.
Now, I try to give people the benefit of the doubt about these things. I'm not the sort of guy who automatically screams racism whenever something like this happens, but come the fuck on! To review, I was riding a bike with bright lights on both ends, complete with helmet and bright clothing so I could be seen more easily by oncoming traffic. What exactly was I doing that warranted pulling me over, interrogating me for almost half an hour, and treating me as though I was guilty of some vaguely defined crime?
Not a damn thing.
At most, he could have bothered me about riding on the sidewalk; some counties allow that sort of thing, and some don't. But it was not once brought up in our inane conversation, so clearly that wasn't it. Nor did he ask me about seeing or hearing anything suspicious in the immediate area.
I'm forced to conclude that he pulled me over because I was riding while black, which as you all know, is a punishable offence in this country.
The worst part is that I hardly fit the stereotypical appearance of those "criminal minorities;" my skin tone is so light that most people assume I'm mixed (I'm not), and I certainly don't "talk black"- whatever the fuck that even means. I'm probably the least intimidating black man you've ever seen; I make Wayne Brady look like Huey P. Newton.
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| If you don't know who he is, I suggest taking a visit to your local library or search the interwebs. |
But the joke is ultimately on him. Because the next day, when I went grocery shopping, I went to the self-checkout and totally rang up my Honey Crisps as Red Delicious. That's right, bitches, I technically stole about $4. You might as well start calling me Michael Jackson, because I'm a smooth criminal.
