Where I work, at Free Food For Fat F…s we are used to seeing cops, usually two at a time, coming through to buy their groceries while on duty, which is fine with us, as it sure beats getting robbed. Until last night here were a dozen cops from this Harm County precinct that I recognize on sight, none of whom I know by name.
Of these 12 4 have actively harassed me while walking to work or have violently glared at me as I go about my toil and they shop for groceries.
3 of these 12 law officers have been courteous and polite, as a knight should be when he passes by one of us serfs in the field who toil to feed his horse and fill the war chests of his master.
Of these 12 5 have never acknowledged my existence, which is how I like it.
Last night—this morning really—at 1:15 a.m. two very large cops were packing boxes full of doughnuts as I rotated the yogurt case. After my experience last Friday [I’ll get to that] I now look over my shoulder at blue uniforms behind me. Until this past Friday, at the glimpse of a blue uniform, I would instinctually look to the floor like a peasant with downcast eyes before his lord unless I was caught unawares and accidentally made eye contact with a cop, which is slightly more likely to result in the cop becoming uncomfortable than it is for him to greet me cordially, by the 4 to 3 margin cited above.
As I broke down a Dannimals strawberry/kiwi box and glanced over my shoulder a second time at the 2 beefsters the larger older one, a man with light brown wavy hair who stood 6’ 4”, weighed about 260, had drooping man-breasts, and a heavy brow ridge glared at me harshly. Our eyes met and he went into stare down mode, straightening up his slouching shoulders, knitting his brows, clenching his jaw tightly, and squeezing his hands together into fists.
I immediately knew that I had slipped into my normal work posture, which is one of easy confidence, as I am a renowned expert at this lowly task. The body language is similar to a tennis pro serving, nonchalant and kind of arrogant. I normally, on sighting a cop, make a conscious decision to dump all surety, confidence and serenity out of my being, to roll my shoulders and lower my eyes before the might of my earthly lords—seriously, cops never hassle you when you adopt that kind of pathetic posture and sambo gait—but this guy just happened to lock eyes with me when I was calculating the time—which I do by comparing my breathing rate to my work rate. My timer is breaking down so I do it more often these days to stay within 5 minutes of true time.
If you want a cop to get aggressive you do one of three things: back talk him, run, or look him in the eye like you are an equal. I accidentally did the later and he started eye-fucking me; boring those eyes into me, perhaps trying to elicit a comment, perhaps unthinkingly expressing his need to dominate, just as I had unthinkingly forgotten to feign submission and had permitted him to see the real me, the me that feared his uniform and despised him. I don’t suppose I was any more guiltless in this adolescent moment than he.
But someone needed to grow up in a hurry. I picked up the case of raspberry Dannimals and began freighting that while I checked the dates on the lid of the 32 once Dannon plain nonfat yogurt. I did not look up again until my master’s loyal slave and his squire were on their way. I admonished myself for permitting myself to slip into a human moment during my brief time as a robot which provides me with writing and training freedoms I had previously only dreamed of before going into reverse retirement.
Besides, Officer Manbreast was just
Probably
Intuiting
Guilt
I have had this same stare down with many a red neck on county parking lots, many a violent black man on ghetto sidewalks. I knew immediately what this was. For some reason this guy did not think I feared him enough and wanted me to say something stupid that would justify his feeling of uneasiness—the thing about these types is they don’t have a plan, but are impulsively violent. He is the 13th cop I can visually recall that I have had eye contact with on this job, and he is vastly insecure, and likes to hurt people. I know this with a certainty. His witless partner, the younger more fit version who has yet to earn his man boobs, was goo-gaaaing over the chocolate éclairs. This thug at least had the instinctual need to dominate and has surely been effective under pressure. I suppose he is what a certain number of his kind need to be.
Yes, last Friday night, I once again had my back to the shopping world. I have been attacked from behind twice by people while stocking shelves in food markets and have never entirely gotten comfortable with a lurker behind me. If the person is looking over my shoulders for more than say 10 seconds, I will turn and say, “Can I help you find something sir?”
As I did this I found that the customer behind me was a rather quiet cop, a cop with some sneak to him, not a clomping hard shooed batman utility belt jockey, but a tall muscular, athletic black dude in his early 30s.
He put his hands on his hips and said, “What’s your name.”
I immediately felt that sense of clarity when one knows if he says the wrong word, he is going to the floor. Obviously an employee, working away at cleaning the yogurt shelf, this cop decided I was a suspect! I answered “James. Can I help you find something?”
“No, I’m just looking for someone.”
Then he was off into the stockroom. Moments later this cop and another NFL tight end sized human Doberman, but Caucasian, came out of the stockroom laughing and smiling. In their wake little Anthony, the 120 pound doughnut maker, staggered out onto the floor holding his heart and looking at me, “Jesus, I thought I was getting cuffed to a water pipe—what the hell! They just walked up on me.”
Anthony and I both had the misfortune of wearing gray shirts on the night that some jerk in a gray shirt hit his girlfriend down the street from our job site—never mind that he was half my age and twice Anthony’s size. I have fought since 1976 in various sports and in altercations, and have trained hundreds of fighters. I know when a guy is thirsting to beat some other guy down. I had just met him again.
This morning, on my way to the bus stop, as the sun rose over Eastern Baltimore County, a black man—a small heavyweight—walking the other way on the far side of the street seemed to recognize me, stopped, glared at me, and then began crossing the street to intercept me, putting his thick hotdog-fingered hands up in a combative posture. I switched my umbrella to the right hand, slid my right shoulder out from under the backpack strap so I could use it as a shield in my left hand, and lowered my gait but kept walking. He took one step into the gutter, registered my preparation with a time lag indicative of a drunk, and backed off, grunting to himself, “Uhugh, uhugh” and continuing on his way.
This is the problem with living in the middle of a world at war with itself. The same visual cues that keep that jerk from attacking me will send the cop after me like a heat-seeking missile—because the cop is conditioned to deal with that asshole. Imagine if I had maintained the cowering body language I adopted at 4 a.m. to keep the third pair of cops to shop the doughnut section from getting edgy with me? That would have encouraged this guy.
The rest of the way home I engaged in some self-examination, paid more attention than usual to how other bus patrons regarded me, and came to the conclusion that I have been too deep in thought considering how best to archive my online writing into a POD format, and have been guilty of wearing a single face; have been letting the world see me for what I am instead of what it needs me to be.
I have given up on most of the things people strive for. But I currently have 6 years worth of work ahead of me to complete the books I have outlined, and would like to make it to 58. If I’m going to pull that off I’ve got to have at least three phony faces on hand at all times or I’ll end up under some younger man’s shoes.
