…So I really don’t know and you know what? That’s a good question.
Yeah, like did he peel it, then freeze it, then use it?
I dunno I guess once the banana comes into play there’s choices.
Hell Yeah there’s choices. There’s nothing but! I mean right off the bat: does she bring it up? When? During or before, or weeks before. Like “Hey on the off-chance we end up fucking, I want you to use…”
Yeah, I don’t know. Why would somebody that hot even allow that sort of thing? That’s the thing that bothers me really, cause if you’ve met the girl…I mean, she’s good. She’s got the “Yes I’m super hot, but let’s not make a scene about it” sort of attitude ya know?. Not at all trashy. I can’t picture this girl even smoking weed much less asking to be rogered with a frozen banana. wouldn’t even have crossed my mi…Ohhhhh Fuuuuuck. There he is.
What? Cop!?
Samoan turns in to look back and, at the same time, attempts to fling a smoking two foot glass bubbler out the passenger-side window and into the soft brush beside the shoulder. M-hat gets a little blow-back bong juice on his face. The glass puts a spider crack in the not-rolled-down passenger window and implodes, noisily soaking Samoan with the smelly, dirt-colored mess. Dude.
Lights spinning on top of a roof three vehicles and a hundred yards back. M-hat doing a tennis-watch head move between the rear-view and side-view. Dude yanked a U in the middle of the street and he’s coming with lights and stereo sirens. The three sets of head lights behind them are ducking out of the way and exhaling boldly…Pheeeew, but the cloud-silver Prelude is dead.
***
Time is weird during traffic stops. The stop-ee doesn’t know anything but (possibly) why he was pulled over. The stop-er, likewise, is mostly ignorant of what conditions he will find once he gains the car. Most approach with their hands hovering a tight orbit around their service side-arm and a stern countenance. Then there are the x-factors: - the fluid context that basically dictates the choices available to all parties involved during the stop: Is their driver drunk? How about the passenger? How many passengers? Are they all drunk? Where are they going? Where have they come from? What time is it? Is there a weapon in the car? Are there females in the car, and are they wearing underwear, or even just regular clothes? How about drugs? What about the cops themselves? Are they drunk and naked? Both of them? Are sexual favors going to be leveraged, and who’s going to be doing the favoring? Are the officers good shots or will they even have the guts to draw down if things escalate? Has anybody involved ever killed or maimed another human being on purpose, and if so what the fuck is up with that? Do the people in the car have children? How about the cops? Are there children in the car? The Cop Car? And what about the cops anyway: Are they the white-horse-riding, good-doing, boy-scout, Frank Serpico type? Or are they the envelope pocketing, bribe-farming, meth-snorting kind who take blow jobs from street-trade and still haul them in, pocketing all heroin for their own personal use. Maybe they’re falling apart from the unrelenting torture, pain and pressure of a life spent foraging for and wallowing in shit and violence. Maybe they just don’t give a shit. Are they Nick Nolte in 48 Hours or Axel Foley in Beverly Hills Cop? Or are they Jimmy McNulty from “The Wire?”
All of this and much more in play during the 15 odd minutes of the traffic-pull. Each one snowflakey in it’s different-ness.
License and Registration..
Non-committal. Maybe timidity or maybe just cagey professional indifference that swallows the syllable “ation”.
OK. Just a…Ok
From behind a teeny tiny crack. Dirty mope hiding away in there with tenandtwo hands.
Sir your window…
Yep!
Muffled, ‘cause now the mope’s Gophering in the glove.
Sir. Open your window sir.
OK. Yes.
It takes a loooooong time rolling the crank-arm, 1970’s style windows levers. A face revealed in sections while illegal tint falls in slow motion. The cop is already pissed, and even though the citizens of the cloud silver Prelude are fucking dead already, they're getting more and more dead as we progress. Both parties take a minute to study facial areas. The cop completes his inventory (small driver, barely-a-man hands on the wheel, friend in the car staring forward, hands on lap, with bong-smell billowing out into the New England autumn) and cuts to the chase:
Get the fuck out of the car sir.
His partner, looking at the mess and illuminating with his Maglight: “Was that a bong?”
***
Dude what the fuck is this?
Pronated on the brushy border of the bottom of a high shoulder. M hat and Samoan eating dirt and smelling a rat.
Officer? Why are we down here.
You’re being arrested sir. And don’t call me “dude”.
Arrested for what?
Right now, only for smelling bad and littering but…
Littering?
When your shithead friend tried to eject the water pipe he ended up knocking some bong watered safety glass on the road. I found it and sent it to a lab.
A lab?
Shut the fuck up.
Officer?
I said sh…
I know, I know. But I just want say one thing.
Sir you may not.
That’s his weed sir.
Samoan going quietly ape shit in the prone. He mouths: Whatthefuck? Fuckyou!!
M Hat mimes a one handed spinny motion - encouraging: goalongwithit!
At the top of the shoulder a door slams and a stupid sounding voice carries into their valley.
Merry Christmas!
Everybody looking up and road-ward at once. The big cops partner is holding cellophane baggies in both hands.
Ah children. A brown and white night! What else is there.
That shit’s his too!
Dude what the fuck?
Shut the fuck up, both of you.
When he hoists them both up by their cuffed-behind-them wrists there’s yelping. The tall cop waves his heavy Mag-light toward the woods.
In front of me you roaches, and if anybody tries anything I’m going to put one bullet up both your asses. Walk!
***
It wasn’t the worst beating he’d ever given, but it was - no doubt - the worst his two victims had ever been subject to. Later on, well after shift change and well deep into the h and coke they’d liberated, The big cop had to laugh to himself.
What’s so funny Big John?
I’m thinking about the mopes. Not bad whiff they had…You know, years ago when I first started you could still get real rocket-fuel coke here. I mean this is OK - he motioned to a smallish white dune on his coffee table - but I’m talking about fine, fine yays. The kind where you do one or two lines and that’s it for the night cause there’s no fucking WAY you can get any higher. The kind where your face becomes numb for three hours just because you spent five minutes in the same room with it.
His eyes, already wet-glass and red lines, became misted, as if he remembering a sparkling family dinner from the holidays of his youth.
Same with the deez. Years ago it was China, like from China. Unloaded that morning from a boat in Central Falls and stepped on only to make it non-lethal. Nowadays your lucky if they don’t sell you a bag of brown sugar mixed with baby laxative. It’s a systemic thing I guess - the world moving on and all that - but sometimes I have to wonder if we’re not fooling ourselves. I mean, if the quality of illegal street-narcotics has fallen off by 70 or 80 percent then what the fuck is going on with our schools and hospitals? The laws of supply and demand are ever-evolving and degrading it would seem.
He snorted and horked aggressively, using his own uvula like a piece of white toast cleaning a plateful of breakfast goop. He grunted.
Yeah. I’ve thought that as well.
Yeah.
Anyway, Im gonna go set Dawn’s clock alarm cause I’d like a blow-job. When I’m finished let’s just cook the rest of this. I’d like to get an hour or so of sleep before I arm myself and take to the streets.
***
Dude, I have a black eye.
Dude, you have a black ear. And yes, you also have black eyes. Plural. You look like shit, because of when he rubbed your face in that pile of shit.
Stop man, stop. Let’s make a truce to forget everything that happened last night.
No. FUCK you dude. What was that about you hanging me for possession of all that!?
Especially lets forget that part. It’s late, I’m not at my best.
That much is obvious. Let’s not bowl anymore. Hand me the Sports Resort one and that bottle of aspirin.
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