vituperation

I cruised down the road, smiling like a fool and loving life. I was on the way home from a nice long hike, driving with the windows down and the air conditioning off, soaked in sweat. My arm hung out the window, and I drummed my fingers on the side of the car in time to the music playing on the radio.

Could life possibly get any better than this?

On a whim, I turned into a local neighborhood Robyn and I really like. Our plan is to get the hell out of the suburbs when the spud graduates, but we somewhat seriously say if we could get a house in this neighborhood we’d stay in Madison. I like to drive through the neighborhood from time to time, looking to see what’s for sale. Pickings are usually slim, because it seems everyone else likes this neighborhood too.

I spotted something out of place up the street. A man, walking with great purpose, strode from a side street in front of me. He wore a dark uniform, sunglasses, and held himself ramrod straight. In one hand he held an oversized gun. A gun for shooting people, but not with bullets. With radar.

“Fuck,” I mumbled as he motioned sharply for me to turn onto the side street. I did as directed and pulled to the side of the road behind a minivan parked there. Another cop stood at that driver’s window, scribbling in a citation book. He glanced up at me for a second, then resumed writing.

“Fuckity fuck fuck,” I said, for good measure. A third policeman sat in a cruiser opposite me, regarding me with suspicion.

In my rearview mirror I saw the cop who’d motioned me over striding toward me. He was young — under 30 — black, and looked like he spent his free time in the gym. I raised both hands and placed them in plain sight on the steering wheel so I didn’t look like I was trying to hide something or reach for a gun.

The cop drew closer, looking at my license plate. Something tickled my mind. Something about putting my hands on the steering wheel.

Don’t look like you’re trying to hide something…

Closer.

Hide something…oh fuck oh shit oh jesuschristfuckingalmi–

I turned my head to look at what lay in plain sight on the seat next to me.

30 minutes earlier

I stumbled out of the trees and into the parking lot, wheezing from that last big climb to get back up the mountain. Sunlight painted the asphalt and I squinted against it. The woods had been much darker. Much cooler, too. I shucked off my backpack and headed for the car, happy with the feeling of accomplishment I get after long hikes.

Something lying on the ground near the edge of the parking lot caught my eye and I looked over. Trash.

Damn litterbug kids, I thought, and the thought stopped me cold. I sounded like an old man. How long till I was standing on the front porch, shaking a cane and yelling for the neighbor kids to get off my lawn?

I walked over to the trash, which lay less than twenty feet from a trashcan, and bent to pick it up. When I saw what it was, my mind opened up and memories poured forth. I remembered all the times I’d seen men hanging around the parking lot alone, despite the “No loitering” signs. Men who never seemed to be dressed for hiking and always seemed to have a beer in one hand like a security blanket.

I remembered the times I’d seen men coming out of the underbrush together, from places where there was no trail. Remembered how I was impressed at the time that they’d been hiking off-trail. I remembered the time I encountered a beer-holding man just off the parking lot, and how he’d looked me head-to-toe with his glittery crazy eyes. I remembered what he’d said to me, and how it made me feel. What lay there in the parking lot brought back a lot of old memories, but it also answered some questions.

It also gave me an idea. I looked around to make sure no one was watching me, and scooped the thing from the parking lot up. Walking back to the car, I flipped open my cell phone and speed-dialed the house.

“Bessie, I’m done with my hike,” I said when Robyn answered. I grinned. “And guess what? I’m bringing you a present!”

I stared down at what lay on the seat next to me, my mind awhirl. The cop was close enough now that I could hear his shoes clopping on the pavement, getting louder and louder.

Just grab it and put it under the seat.

No, he might think I’m trying to hide drugs and make me go through the humiliation of a search. Or worse, he might think…

The policeman approached the man’s vehicle slowly, wary of any surprises. His hand rested lightly on the butt of his service pistol, ready for action. The man in the car looked like a twitchy little fucker, for sure, and the officer wanted to be prepared in case he tried anything.

Without warning, the man in the car ducked to one side, reaching for something on the seat next to him.

“GUN!” the policeman shouted, yanking his pistol out of the holster with such force his arm would be sore for days.

His partner, working the minivan ahead, dropped his citation book and slammed himself into the door of the minivan, getting out of the line of fire. He drew his weapon and slid down the side of the minivan. He’d known this fucker was going to be a problem, could see it in his beady little eyes when he’d pulled up.

Across the street, the cruiser door burst open and the third officer rolled out, pumping a buckshot load into the riot gun kept mounted under the dash.

“SIR, PUT THE GUN DOWN!” the first officer shouted, but it was like the crazy man in the car didn’t hear. Like he was desperate to do some cop-killing, messing around in his car.

The first officer fired his pistol into the car, and all hell broke loose. By the time the shooting stopped, all three were out of ammunition. The car’s engine ticked in the ensuing silence. The officer ejected the empty clip from his pistol, slid in a new one, and chambered a round.

He stepped to the window, keeping his gun pointed inside the vehicle. The man in the car lay in a blood-soaked heap, not moving. He held something clutched to his chest. The officer reached through the window and flicked the dead man’s hand away with the barrel of his gun.

“Goddamn,” he said, standing up. He swiped at his eyes and grimaced. “I thought he was reaching for a gun.”

“What was it?” asked his partner.

“This poor damn queer died trying to protect his gay porn.”

I decided it would be best not to try and hide the magazines.

The covers glared up at me, impossibly bright and colorful. Black Inches, one boasted, displaying a clean-shaven black man holding his obviously erect penis through a pair of thin underwear. He had it pointed left. The other magazine, Latin Inches, featured a similar cover, but with a latino man, who pointed his penis to the right. I’m not sure if that’s a racial or a cultural difference.

Inspiration struck, as it often does in moments of duress.

Of course, I thought. Just turn them over, so the covers aren’t showing. Then he’ll never know you were driving around town with gay porn laying on the seat beside you.

Casually, I reached over and flipped the magazines while I exchanged pleasantries with the policeman. He stayed a little behind me, I guess so I couldn’t suddenly turn and fling my gay porn at him.

“Sir, the reason I’ve stopped you is because you were speeding.”

He showed me the radar gun, and the number on it. He told me the posted speed limit, which I already knew because I was in a residential area.

I must say, I was a little surprised at the number on the radar gun.

“May I see your license and proof of insurance?” the cop asked.

“Sure thing,” I said, and leaned over to take out my wallet. I glanced down at the backs of the gay porn magazines.

Now the Latin Inches guy squatted nude at the side of the pool, his hairless untanned ass exposed for all who wanted to look at it. He gave me a come hither look.

Black Inches showed two shirtless black men kissing, with a stunning amount of tongue. One man had a hand down the other man’s pants.

Seeing this did not make me feel more comfortable.

I took out my wallet, extracted my driver’s license, and handed it over, doing my best to look heterosexual. I thought about asking him if he’d seen the game last night, but let’s be honest here. I don’t even know what sport season it is. I think it’s baseball, but you know what? It might be basketball. And even if he’d seen this game, and mentioned the teams by name, odds are good that I still wouldn’t have a clue as to what sport it is. I’m not a sports watcher.

However, I know the names and dates of every Broadway musical coming to both Huntsville and Nashville over this upcoming season, and which ones I want to see.

“A-ha,” I said, finally finding my insurance card after several moments of digging through my glove box. I handed it over.

He took it, looked at it briefly, and held it back out to me.

“Sir, this card expired almost three weeks ago.”

Double fuck.

“I know I have insurance,” I said. “Can I call my wife and see if the new card’s laying around the house?”

He leaned down and propped himself in the window.

“I believe you have insurance,” he said in a kind voice. “But the law says you have to have proof in your vehi-”

His head jerked slightly, as though he’d suddenly caught sight of something that threw him, and he stared in silence for a beat.

I felt the heat rising in my face.

“Vehicle,” he said after what felt like an eternity.

“If my wife brought the card over to me — we don’t live far away — it would be in the vehicle.” I tried a smile.

“Sir, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

I thought about offering him some gay porn as a bribe, but thought better of it.

I ended up getting not one, but two tickets. One for speeding, and one for having no proof of insurance. The policeman never mentioned my gay porn.

For the insurance ticket all I have to do is show my current insurance card (which is now in my glove box, believe you me) and they’ll void it, but for the speeding ticket I have to actually appear before the judge because that’s mandatory if you speed in a residential area.

I’m sure it’s so the judge can ask me if I realize how many children I might’ve killed speeding through a neighborhood.

I wonder what he’d do if I said, “It depends on how closely they were grouped.”

Robyn wasn’t even interested in the gay porn mags, after all I’d been through to get them home. She took a quick look, made a couple of comments, and threw them in the trash.

Hmph to her.

In the interests of posterity, and because I know you’re interested, I dug them out and had her scan the covers. Click at your own risk.