I felt as if someone was following me and convinced myself
otherwise. A knock on the door told me I should have trusted my instincts. I ascending
up the stairs misplacing my trust again; in public service and the fact that I did
nothing wrong.
The stranger in the doorway barrages me with questions. I do
as I am told and answer them as truthfully. Honesty was not the best policy. Note:
I ask what I am being questioned for, at my home, and receive no answer.
The cold of the pavement on my bare feet is startling. So
are the screaming headlights of the running car and the tears streaming down my
face. A concerned crowd gathers at the window inside the yellow house and seeing
them makes me cry. I try my best to cooperate nonetheless. Someone tells me not
to call me sir because he “is only a few years older” than me, as we ride into
the night.
The two of us are alone in a cold concrete office/ parking
garage. I take a deep, deep breath and blow into a plastic tube connected to a
big gray computer. I’m tortured by the forty minute wait.
As the cold metal bracelets are taken off my wrists, I’m
told that eating starches soaks up alcohol, which is something I already knew. I
don’t have as much of a warning to return with. My parting gifts: bad memories
and broken faith.
Cops traditionally hate being called 'sir.' A lot of them come from the non-com ranks of the military whereonly commissioned officers are referred to as 'sir.'
ReplyDeleteThis was distancing in the right way--very visual for a piece that has so many thoughts and feelings in it, very much something your reader enters into, even as it slightly disorients. This piece is like being seasick: it is not pleasant, nothing feels right, but it is absolutely undeniable and insistent on its demands.