06 August Smoke · 6 of 7
I’m sitting in the car, driver’s seat, nice car, late model Lexus, Arctic White … or maybe Ultra White, either way, it’s whiter than me, not that I’m black. I’m not. Let’s be honest, nobody’s black, like jet black just like nobody’s Ultra White, except maybe that albino I saw at the state fair when I was a kid and even then my stepdad said it was talcum powder they’d caked all over the poor son of a bitch to make him look that way. Maybe yes, maybe no. Either way that guy looked as white as this page, and sure, exceptions make the rule but you don’t see those fair freaks out in regular life, which is what I’m talking about, the people you see doing everyday stuff, like this cop sitting in a cruiser, running a license check while I sit in this Lexus, waiting, fingers crossed, but I don’t know why. It’s not like I haven’t been here before, and it doesn’t usually work out so well—or at all—but what else can I do but wait for “Officer Ferguson”—I’ve learned to always read the name tag—to come back and start in with me?
She’s black. Pulled me over before, let’s just say more than once. It’s never good when the police officer calls you by your first name—“Good to see you again, Maurice”—before she’s even looked at your driver’s license. Still can’t get used to a woman being a cop. I know, I know, get used to it, and you’d think I would be by now, not that a woman shouldn’t be a cop, I mean, why not? it’s just that I can’t get used to it and that’s on me and God knows why she’s even calling Dispatch to run a check—it’s not like this is her first time pulling me over, so I’m guessing it’s because of the car, the Lexus, it being a late model and all, and I know this car and I are not going to match up in whatever computer Dispatch is running me through, but hey, you leave the key fob inside a nice car like this, what do you expect?— now there’s a good question for Officer Ferguson to ask the owner.
Once, after she’d run my license and returned to the car I was driving that particular day and started listing all the stuff—“infractions”— Dispatch had found, I told her that at least I wasn’t one of those goddamned illegals running around robbing and raping and stealing everything they can get their hands on and she just smiled—of course she did—and said, “No, Maurice, you’re a real American, aren’t you?” which I personally thought was kind of flirty and something I probably should have acted on. One thing I will say about Officer Ferguson is that she’s got those great high cheekbones and when she smiles—which she usually does when she comes back to whatever car I’m in and starts listing all the crap Dispatch has unloaded on her about me—bastards—but when she smiles, that’s it for me, whitest, straightest teeth I’ve ever seen and right away—and I’m not necessarily proud of this—but right off the bat, right after she smiles, I’m tripping into Fantasyland and she’s working that mouth all over me and I mean all over and why not, hey, nobody gets hurt in Fantasyland unless that’s what they’re looking for and I’m not looking for any real pain but when she cuffs me, and she has cuffed me at least twice as best I can recall, she squeezes the cuffs extra tight and I’ve got to admit I get a little off on that even though I know where it ends up is not where I want to end up.
It’s like I can already hear her when she gets out of the cruiser, walks over, and signals for me to roll the window back down: “So, Maurice—” and here she’ll pause and dammit I just want to pull her and that smile into the front seat with me, right on top of me “—I see you’ve ‘borrowed’ another car,” which, I will tell her, is correct and that I fully intended to take it back and why the hell do people leave their keys in cars as nice as this one anyway and why does she look so good in that uniform? And she’ll answer by saying, “Step out of the car,” which really isn’t an answer for the questions I just asked her, so I’ll start to say, “Yes, Officer Ferguson,” but instead it’ll come out as “Fuck you” because sometimes my mouth and my brain have a disconnect and she’ll cover the handle of her service revolver with her left hand, palm open, and I know it’s just reflex, but I’ll try to just shut up because I’m not completely stupid and I know what’ll come out next, so better to try to save both of us by just pressing the ignition and flooring it.