Last night I dodged a youth who was skulking through the backstreet and who grew discouraged with trailing me and headed back up Glenoak. Feeling my age, I hustled along the darkly lit base of this street.

I arrived at my bus top and turned around to see a large, slightly heavy victim of my oppression walking up behind me. As soon as he noticed me turn and check my pocket he diverted diagonally across the four lanes, walking over the wide, grassy median, looking at me the entire time. I thought he was behaving with prudence in response to what was probably me over-reacting due to my recent nightmares and hallucinations.

I then took some water from my bottle as I stood and awaited the #55, looking west.

An eastbound cop car—one of the new black ones—passed with the lights on.

This car then did a U-turn and lit off back west with it's sirens on, did another U-turn, and came slowly back to my position, lights only, stopping before the beginning of the concrete bus pad, about 30 yards to my east. If the concrete bus pad is not laid into the road the asphalt where the bus banks over to the side will develop into ridges.

A female cop, 30, short, with decent hips and C-pups [that is a typo but I like it] under her Kevlar, her long hair pony-tailed and banded in a topknot, steps out and around her car, looking all about, up at the house next to which she parked and then back at me.

She said something to me in a shrill, stress-cracked voice, and I shrugged my shoulders.

She screams something in a shrill, cracking voice at me and I shrugged my shoulders like an innocent monkey.

She looked at the porch and then back up at me, put her hand on her holstered gun and screamed in a clearer voice, "Did you call the police."

I said, "No."

There was no way I was moving my hands or stepping to her with her gun hand itching.

She screamed again, "Did you call the police?"

Again I said, "No," and shrugged my shoulders as well, as she stewed in anger and frustration.

Then a cop car "whewed," heading west, did a U-turn, and a black male cop about her age dismounted confidently, looked at me and shook his head, 'no' then looked at the porch above them, where a teenage girl sat on her mother's porch swing. As they conversed, I slipped my knife out of my pocket and dropped it into my pack at my feet as I drank from my water bottle. The two cops then walked up onto the porch, interviewed the teen, returned to their cars chattering and smiling, and then pulled off.

After they pulled off another cop car swung by, with a white pig in it, eyeballing me hard and then flipping on his lights and siren and streaking off back east.

I boarded the bus and the driver was polite and said I did not have to pay, but I paid anyway. A huge baby black man—I was the only white of a dozen patrons—sat upfront next to a lean, dark man of perhaps 35 who gave me vicious glares, seeming to desire a confrontation. I sat down across the aisle and behind him and replaced the knife in my belt. He offloaded with his two bags of groceries two stops down and walked off angrily into the night.

There was nothing more of interest, aside form the numerous cop cars scrambled down Old Eastern Avenue. As for why that ϲunt cop screamed at me, her nervous hand on her go-to tool, I have not a clue.

What a collective joke we are.