The Law
The holding pen is cold as hell. The handcuffs dig into my bloodless white skin. We stand, as ordered, without dignity, while the motherfucker chains us all together. We stagger out of the precinct, like a bunch of captive animals. About 20 niggers, 8 mexicans and two white guys. I'm one of 'em.
We pile into the paddy wagon for the long dreadful ride down to central booking. It's about 4am. Someone lights a cigarette. The niggers go crazy. "Yo who da' magician?" one says. I've got to agree. How the hell could a guy manage to light a cigarette handcuffed, chain-ganged, piled into a paddy wagon like sardines, after being searched for contraband about eight times throughout the night?
It's the other white guy.
"Yes!" I think in a Marv Albert voice.
After awhile it becomes apparent that we are no longer moving.
"What the fuck?" one of the niggers protests.
Again I agree. Someone announces that the cops have stopped at Dunkin Donuts on the way to transporting us to jail. I don't believe it. When they get back in I can smell the coffee and crawlers. I wish I could've lit up a Hav-A-Tampa right there. I bet the niggers would've been impressed.
Finally they let us out.
"My ass hurts already," I say to the other white guy after the long ride.
My humor is appreciated, but the nervous uncertainty of what lays ahead gnaws at us both.
I learn the rules quickly. If you're white shut the fuck up. There was one guy who tried to be friendly, he wanted to be down. The niggers all thought he was a snitch, sent to spy on them and gain intelligence. I found this amusing yet oddly convincing. From the inside, rumors make more sense than the system.
Blacks only feel totally at ease in two places, the barbershop and the county jail. Go ahead, call me a racist. Have you ever been there? Then shut the fuck up. These are the only two places their dominance is unchallenged. Even in the locker room there's always a coach or a reporter making them toe the line, forcing them to conform, so they keep their guard up.
Outside, you'd probably cross the street a block away if you saw one of these young bucks approaching. But inside, in the bullpen at least, they drop all that. They're able to call on some conditioned response that enables them to relax in the most anxious of circumstances.
Some survival instinct learned in the awful galleys of slave ships, sailing through the middle passage. Re-kindled in the face of Birmingham firehoses and Chicago police dogs.
It's hard not to want to be a part of it. It's so free. But we're not welcome. Inside the rules are opposite. Outside, the law we all broke is written, codified. Inside it's wild and unspoken and could change without notification.
I learned this the hard way. I tried to join the discussion on celebrity justice.
"O.J. was so guilty," I announce.
Everything stopped, two dozen pairs of savage eyes glared at me. Whoops.
Luckily one of the biggest guys saved me. "He was mad guilty yo..." I guess he didn't quite know the score (thank god).
They proceeded to discuss the merits of the most radically implausible conspiracy theories regarding O.J.'s case and forgot about my transgression. Like I said, from the inside rumors make more sense than the system.
Never get out of the boat. "Absolutely goddamn right," I thought to myself. I had just stepped out to put my toes in the water and nearly stirred up a hornets' nest. I decided to just shut up and listen.
I listened to their stories about old busts, shooting people, how they got caught this time etc...
"I got that ole' country aim," one of the older cats says.
It's all bullshit and everybody knows it, but it helps pass the time.
"I remember back in the 80's, I was on tour with Run DMC, " the old cat went on. "And I hear this voice, 'Hey Red, come get your dick sucked!' They got these white bitches lined up... MAN!" he shook his head as the room dissolved into laughter.
One of the young bucks asked admiringly, "Did you bust a nut in like two minutes?" The old cat cut him off. "Shit, two minutes? I mean it was like fif-teen seconds."
Everyone howled. I'd never seen a room full of black males engage in self-deprecating humor before. I guess it's safer to just make fun of yourself when you're locked in a cell and not getting out for a good long while. You don't want to step on anyone's toes. Besides, everyone there had done something stupid and got caught or they wouldn't be there. Still, it was cool to see them drop the hyper-machismo for once.
One of the young bucks talked about how a girl from the neighborhood had tipped him off at the last second and he was able to ditch his stash. He claimed he had absolutely nothing on him when he was searched and this was just a little matter of routine harassment from TNT. The price of doing business I guess.
"I know you gon' bless honey when you get home," the old cat admonished with a smile.
"Oh man, I'ma hit her off with like five bags. She saved me yo, she saved me," he assured the old cat.
A cop walked by. Counting heads I guess, just reminding us where we were.
They don't have C.O.'s (correction officers) at this early stage in the game, but everyone called him "C.O." anyway -except me.
The youngest kid in the whole bunch stood up and started talking shit to the cop.
"I'm the smartest hustler out there," he said matter of factly, directly to the cop's face.
He then launched into a long discourse on the various methods of concealing drugs in different items of clothing and different parts of your body.
"Ya'll got me this time but I'll be back out there tomorrow, same place, and y'all ain't never gon' get me," he said directly to The Law with proud defiance.
I couldn't believe the balls on this kid. Not in a million years would a white guy like me ever, ever do something like that. I envied him. I hope he's still out there.
We pile into the paddy wagon for the long dreadful ride down to central booking. It's about 4am. Someone lights a cigarette. The niggers go crazy. "Yo who da' magician?" one says. I've got to agree. How the hell could a guy manage to light a cigarette handcuffed, chain-ganged, piled into a paddy wagon like sardines, after being searched for contraband about eight times throughout the night?
It's the other white guy.
"Yes!" I think in a Marv Albert voice.
After awhile it becomes apparent that we are no longer moving.
"What the fuck?" one of the niggers protests.
Again I agree. Someone announces that the cops have stopped at Dunkin Donuts on the way to transporting us to jail. I don't believe it. When they get back in I can smell the coffee and crawlers. I wish I could've lit up a Hav-A-Tampa right there. I bet the niggers would've been impressed.
Finally they let us out.
"My ass hurts already," I say to the other white guy after the long ride.
My humor is appreciated, but the nervous uncertainty of what lays ahead gnaws at us both.
I learn the rules quickly. If you're white shut the fuck up. There was one guy who tried to be friendly, he wanted to be down. The niggers all thought he was a snitch, sent to spy on them and gain intelligence. I found this amusing yet oddly convincing. From the inside, rumors make more sense than the system.
Blacks only feel totally at ease in two places, the barbershop and the county jail. Go ahead, call me a racist. Have you ever been there? Then shut the fuck up. These are the only two places their dominance is unchallenged. Even in the locker room there's always a coach or a reporter making them toe the line, forcing them to conform, so they keep their guard up.
Outside, you'd probably cross the street a block away if you saw one of these young bucks approaching. But inside, in the bullpen at least, they drop all that. They're able to call on some conditioned response that enables them to relax in the most anxious of circumstances.
Some survival instinct learned in the awful galleys of slave ships, sailing through the middle passage. Re-kindled in the face of Birmingham firehoses and Chicago police dogs.
It's hard not to want to be a part of it. It's so free. But we're not welcome. Inside the rules are opposite. Outside, the law we all broke is written, codified. Inside it's wild and unspoken and could change without notification.
I learned this the hard way. I tried to join the discussion on celebrity justice.
"O.J. was so guilty," I announce.
Everything stopped, two dozen pairs of savage eyes glared at me. Whoops.
Luckily one of the biggest guys saved me. "He was mad guilty yo..." I guess he didn't quite know the score (thank god).
They proceeded to discuss the merits of the most radically implausible conspiracy theories regarding O.J.'s case and forgot about my transgression. Like I said, from the inside rumors make more sense than the system.
Never get out of the boat. "Absolutely goddamn right," I thought to myself. I had just stepped out to put my toes in the water and nearly stirred up a hornets' nest. I decided to just shut up and listen.
I listened to their stories about old busts, shooting people, how they got caught this time etc...
"I got that ole' country aim," one of the older cats says.
It's all bullshit and everybody knows it, but it helps pass the time.
"I remember back in the 80's, I was on tour with Run DMC, " the old cat went on. "And I hear this voice, 'Hey Red, come get your dick sucked!' They got these white bitches lined up... MAN!" he shook his head as the room dissolved into laughter.
One of the young bucks asked admiringly, "Did you bust a nut in like two minutes?" The old cat cut him off. "Shit, two minutes? I mean it was like fif-teen seconds."
Everyone howled. I'd never seen a room full of black males engage in self-deprecating humor before. I guess it's safer to just make fun of yourself when you're locked in a cell and not getting out for a good long while. You don't want to step on anyone's toes. Besides, everyone there had done something stupid and got caught or they wouldn't be there. Still, it was cool to see them drop the hyper-machismo for once.
One of the young bucks talked about how a girl from the neighborhood had tipped him off at the last second and he was able to ditch his stash. He claimed he had absolutely nothing on him when he was searched and this was just a little matter of routine harassment from TNT. The price of doing business I guess.
"I know you gon' bless honey when you get home," the old cat admonished with a smile.
"Oh man, I'ma hit her off with like five bags. She saved me yo, she saved me," he assured the old cat.
A cop walked by. Counting heads I guess, just reminding us where we were.
They don't have C.O.'s (correction officers) at this early stage in the game, but everyone called him "C.O." anyway -except me.
The youngest kid in the whole bunch stood up and started talking shit to the cop.
"I'm the smartest hustler out there," he said matter of factly, directly to the cop's face.
He then launched into a long discourse on the various methods of concealing drugs in different items of clothing and different parts of your body.
"Ya'll got me this time but I'll be back out there tomorrow, same place, and y'all ain't never gon' get me," he said directly to The Law with proud defiance.
I couldn't believe the balls on this kid. Not in a million years would a white guy like me ever, ever do something like that. I envied him. I hope he's still out there.
posted by El Bozo at 3:13 AM
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