Being with Roach is like being abducted by aliens: you seem to find yourself with a huge chunk of missing time for which you can’t account and an anal probe shoved up the old hoo-ha, for which you can account but feel the need to maintain plausible deniability. So when we parted ways and I took Abandon out to the park for our nightly walk, I was more taken aback that it was already 1:30 a.m. and not so much surprised that my ass was no longer cherry.
The last time I was in the park after hours a cop pulled her car up to me and asked for identification. I told her that I didn’t have any. She looked at me as if I was a non-Mexican dishwasher. “You don’t have any identification on you?” I told her that I must have missed the announcement that America was now Nazi Germany where we had to carry our papers with us wherever we went and produce them on command when a Fascist dyke asked for them. This seemed to work like a snake charmer and she gave me a blowjob and told me to be on my way.
I was hoping not to see any cops this time but instead of turning around I decided to carry on, my wayward son, figuring the worst-case scenario would be that I would be Abner Luima’ed and, frankly, as long as I get a reach-around I don’t mind a little ass play. Not a soul was in the park and it was quiet and peaceful, that is, until Abandon messed up our private sanctuary by wasting a raccoon and I decided that this was a sign that it was time to leave the park and that perhaps I should feed my dog more than once a week.
As I was crossing the little circle around which compulsive people repeatedly circumscribe like hamsters on a wheel in the name of health, I saw a parked cop car. She blasted over her car’s speaker system. “The park is closed!” I nodded in her direction and indicated that I was on my way out. “The park closed at 1:00 a.m. You must leave the park now!” I nodded again and this time pointed in the direction I was walking, making it even clearer that I’d be out of the park in just a minute. “You are considered to be trespassing. Please leave the park immediately!” This was the pestering annoyance that broke the camel’s back and was blamed on a piece of straw.
From my experience with cops through animal rights activism and my own personal street education projects, I’ve learned that no cop wants you to say anything but, “Yes, mass’er. I’m sorry, mass’er. I be going now, mass’er. Anything else I can do for you mass’er?” Since I was more of a “My name…is…Kunta Kinte” kind of activist, I often found myself in trouble with the law, a couple of times being led from the scene in handcuffs because I refused to be called “Toby.” But this intercom trigger happy cop was just pushing it and pushing it and…BAM! I lost it.
I shouted towards the car, “I’M LEAVING NOW! WHAT MORE CAN I DO?”
She ended up driving her patrol car in my direction but kept going past me and I thanked God for not only providing the stupid with something to idolize, but also for keeping me hassle and gonorrhea-free, at least for tonight. I thought better of going into my, “Yeah, keep driving!” routine.
I think it’s important to stand up for your rights and self-respect while working to maintain a polite, yet firm, demeanor, but I decided to kept my “Yeah, keep driving, beeyotch!” routine to myself. I also think that a well-thrown molotov cocktail sometimes speaks clearer than words.