This past week Ely was in the car stopped at the red light with his girlfriend, at Sinclair Lane and Moravia, a quarter mile from my favorite ghetto liquor store, the Cedonia Inn, when gunfire erupted at the intersection. People were ducking down in their cars trying not to get shot as at least two innocent, unarmed, black youths fired at each other with 9 mm handguns.
Noticing that a police cruiser was behind them, Ely snapped to Theresa, “Move over, bitch—fuckin’ let ‘im through!”
His girl and one other driver pulled over so the cop, who now put his flashers on, could get to the intersection and “deal with it.”
[Ely never specified whether they were on Moravia or Sinclair Lane, the race of the cop or the specific day or time of day. He was telling this to another dude and I did not think to interrupt, but simply took notes.]
The cop pulled up to the intersection.
The gunfire stopped.
Ely breathed a sigh of relief, and said, “You see, Baby!”
The cop looked left.
The cop looked right.
The cop sped onward through the intersection.
The gunfire resumed.
Ely, on the floor of the small sedan with his girl, just groused, “Really, nigga—is you serious!”
Welcome to Harm City, U.S. Muvafuckin’—A.
Travel brochures are at the kiosk.
Cash, money order, or dope, please.
JL:
What a great post surge story!
Know what the po-leece was serving and protecting, huh?
Like our former allies in the 7th ARVN back in the Mekong. We referred to them as the "Search and Avoid" Division.
Thinking about that, the paralells are striking. Most of the functionaries of the RVN had relatives in the VC and the NVA. Intelligence was compromised, so operations against them usually failed. Corruption was endemic. And the war had been going on forever, with no end in sight. After a while, you just go thru the motions, and try to stay alive. Wouldn't want to croak uncle Nyugen, one day he might be in charge.
Not a happy picture.