Simply Wild [Pt.2]

[Cont. from Simply Wild Pt. 1]

“What the hell is Kevin doing?” I thought to myself wondering what was about to happen next. I had nothing on me, I never do. I’m not hard and I don’t pretend to be. I’ve never carried a weapon on me and I was 39048729357 percent sure that I didn’t have one on me now, but I was just as sure, because of these sudden turn of events, that the officer was going to find something on me. I could only imagine what at the moment. “Man, this guy could find a ball point pen on me right now,” I thought. “And have reason to throw me in the back of his squadron car.” I was – how do they say it – federally fucked, and the worst part about it was that I still had no idea why the hell the officer pulled us over.

I moved my thoughts to the side, as if they were blocking the vision of my friend, so I could once again focus on Kevin’s actions. I watched as he drizzled the weed onto the Philly, roll it, then seal it with his saliva. It was surreal, and just got weirder when he put that one down and started another. He ended up rolling four of those mother fuckers – all while I was being searched by a cop who was determined to find something on me. After he rolled the four blunts, he put three of them in the bag with the rest of the weed then proceeded to pull out a lighter and smoke the mother fucker. I was being searched a cop, for what seemed like an eternity, while Kevin sat there in the drivers seat, Fishscale still pumping through the speakers, smoking weed – and none of this seemed weird to either of them. Then I heard the words that I had been fearing the whole time I was outside of the car.

“Ah ha ha, what do we have here?” the officer exclaimed, sounding more like a cop who had planted something on an unsuspecting civilian than being excited to have finally found something on me. I turned my neck around to see what the officer had been holding, my heart beating harder than the thumps Ike gave Tina. Give my body a minute of this punishment from my heart and I would be sure to have bruised ribs the next day. I got a quick glance of what he was holding before he made me face forward just to see Kevin calmly puffing away at that first blunt. It looked like a small metallic object, it could have been anything. “Let me guess, son,” the officer continued. “you’re the one who cut up that poor woman on Thursday, right?”

He reached around and showed me what he was holding, a damn unused box cutter blade. My little cousin worked for Big 5 and was always bringing those home on days they’d get their shipments in. I told him that it was exactly what he thought it was and he broke me off with a story that would make some of the least faithful husbands of this country blush.

“I thought so, maggot. We’re investigating an attempted murder case where the victim was cut numerous times with a blade very much like this one,” he said, not one word of it coming off as truth. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”

“Wait,” I said, stupidly speaking to this officer. “You have to be kidding me, you don’t really think I killed someone do you?” Instead of answering, he just hit me over the head with his forearm and moved me over to his car. I don’t think Kevin noticed any of this because he was on the phone, probably with Allison or Melissa, saying something along the lines of “I’ll be over there with time, baby,” as he puffed on that damn blunt.

As he closed the door I got my first real good look at him. He was a Mexican cat, about 6’2’’ with a thick mustache, ones usually reserved for that show Reno 911. He had a rather long face and his cheeks were a little chubby, he reminded me of a squash and his skin fade bothered me. He had that weird shaped mouth that a lot of fat people seem to have, think comedians Lavel Crawford and Monique, and his eyebrows were unusually thick for a Mexican. His name tag read Sgt. Sanchez but his face read prick with those fucking aviator sunglasses on with the sun dropping as fast Allison’s pants are sure to drop later on tonight, fucking Kevin. Sergeant Sanchez snarled at me before walking around to the other side of the car, getting in and speeding off to who knows where.

As we raced down the boulevard, Sanchez turned off his service radio and turned on the cities Old School station. I couldn’t make out what song was fading out immediately after he turned to the station, but just as fast as that one ended, Roger and Zapp’s I want to be your man came on. Just then I realized that I could potentially be spending a night in jail and decided on the spot that I hated that song. Sometimes irony is hilarious, and I guess this would be mirthful to me too if I wasn’t the one on the way to jail, but for me, that night, irony was a bitch – a bitch that I wanted to fight. I wanted to ask Sanchez to turn that shit off, but for some reason I didn’t want to test my already shaky karma. That night something came back to bite me in the ass, and it was only going to get worse.

We pulled up to the police station sometime between 9:15 and 9:30, the son had completely dropped, yet, this mother fucker’s sunglasses remained perched on his damn nose. He opened my door and pulled me out of the damn car and walked me into the office. It looked nothing like any of the police stations I had seen on TV shows like Law and Order or the movie Blue Streak. He walked me over to a bench between two desks. In front of me was a leggy woman wearing a light gray business casual suit/skirt thing. Her hair was cut short, usually not my style, but there was a certain sex appeal about beige skin tone and stern face that I liked. She wore very little make up and was still gorgeous, that’s almost rare these days. She looked up from her paper work and eyed me cold, I hadn’t shaven in a few days and I only had on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, she probably thought I was just some regular dirty nigga who got caught raising hell. For some reason, I didn’t want this woman to think that about me. It’s funny how much you care about what people think about you when the other person is attractive. I wouldn’t have given a flying fuck if she was the ugly broad sitting immediately behind me. She had very broad shoulders and a thick neck. Her hair was longish and had been pulled back in a sloppy pony tail, she reminded me of an Indian chief for some reason, and I think it was the mole on the left side of her face. I could tell she was comfortable with her appearance in the workplace and loved being a cop. I didn’t like her much.

As I sat there uncomfortably in-between the two ladies I watched as Sanchez, who appeared much larger in the lighted room walk over to the Chief of Police. The chief was an older white man who had the kind of uncompromising face that most would be forced to respect just by the sight of him, I did. You could tell he’d been there long because his hair had been sprinkled with a little more salt than pepper over the last few years and his face resembled the shirt I was wearing at the time, wrinkled. He looked bothered as Sanchez made his way over to his desk, he had a look on his face that read: what the fuck do you want now, Sanchez. I could see it from here and bean to realize why when Sanchez began to speak.

[To be continued. I got consumed researching for an article I’ll be writing for Talkhoops.net on why the Knicks didn’t work last year. I’m going to be using a Communication Theory to explain my thesis much like I did in my article on Michael Jordan’s greatness, so look out for that soon, I’m kind of excited about writing it. Hopefully this story/dream will be finished tomorrow, I didn’t expect it to be this long.]

Stay Hideous
-PB

(Word count to date: 51,770
40 days and 48,230 words to go)