Moodspins | Hodgepodgeatorium - It’s Been A Long Time

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Hodgepodgeatorium - It’s Been A Long Time

By mathan erhardt ⋅ July 17, 2007 ⋅ Post a comment | Email the author

I’m not supposed to be writing this.

I’m supposed to be working on my resume and cover letter for a job that I really, really want.

But instead, here I am writing this column as a means to vent my frustration.

Y’see in our household I’m responsible for buying the water for the house. So, for the past year and a half, once a week (or more during the summers) I’ll walk down the block to Smith’s and pick up a case of water. It’s a five-minute trip to the store, so it’s not like carrying the case back home is a really arduous task. It’s more of a sort of exercise; at least that’s how I look at it. Plus, I usually go in the early A.M. (between 1 & 4) so it’s really a relaxing walk.

Well tonight I got pulled over by a couple of cop cars.

I left my house at around 1:42am and had planned on being home before two. I was just going to pick up a case of water and some ice cream.

I’d made it down the block and was walking through the store’s parking lot. As I was ready to cross onto the cement that represents the path to the entrance I noticed a car in my right periphery.

Being an experience pedestrian, I ceded the right of way to them. As I looked up to both acknowledge and grant their passage I immediately recognized that it was a police car. And then I saw the one right behind him.

Now, as a Black man, my first instinct to even seeing a cop is to tense up. It’s a gut response and one I’ve had for as long as I can remember, regardless of the fact that I’ve a clean criminal record.

However tonight, I naively thought, “wow, I guess they need to do some shopping.”

The cop stops to let me pass. I make eye contact and gesture that they can pass me by. After all, they’re probably doing something important, like, oh I don’t know, protecting and serving.

But he doesn’t budge and since I’m kind of eager to get home before 2am, I walk in front of the car. Before I can take two steps onto that cement towards the automatic door, I hear a blaring car horn. No, that doesn’t do it justice. It’s a blaring police car horn that demands and causes a stutter step.

I freeze and turn around. Now in my mind I’m wondering that the problem is. Is there a hostage situation in the store that they’re responding to and they don’t want me to enter? That’s got to be it, right?

I guess at this point in time I should probably address how I’m dressed, lest anyone think that I look like a criminal.

I’m wearing an unbuttoned Van Heusen sky blue short-sleeved shirt over a plain white t-shirt, a pair of blue jeans, a red baseball hat. Oh and my Birkenstocks. Now I’m clearly not a gang member, unless I missed the memo about the Bloods and Crips uniting. And I’m also unaware of any type of criminal or criminal organization where Birkenstocks are part of the uniform. But hey, let’s just pretend that I fit a description.

After the horn finishes getting my attention, I turn around, still not grasping the situation. I take one earbud out and offer the attention that I give a tourist who’s looking for directions. He exits his car and I approach him, stopping at a polite distance.

Officer #1 asks, in a rather brutish manner “Where are you coming from?”

Finally I realize that I’m the suspect! I compose myself quickly.

“Um, my house?” I then run off my street address as though I’m a P.O.W. and it’s my name and rank. I thankfully retain enough composure to leave off my Zip Code as that would might make me actually look guilty. Or at least more so.

“Did you come out from behind that bank? Which way did you go?”

Uh, I walked through the drive-thru? I then gesture to the Wells Fargo drive thru ATM that I usually walk up to, to deposit my checks.

“Do you have your ID?

I always have my ID. I completely resist the genuine urge to announce that I’m reaching in my back pocket to withdrawal my ID. I’d hate to get shot when my dream job is within my reach. Plus I recently saw Sicko so I’m not really the biggest fan of the American health care system.

“Have you ever been arrested”

“No.”

“Do you have any warrants?”

“No”

I’ve still got one ear bud in and he’s easing into his car when Cop #1 asks me something that I don’t quite hear. I’d like to blame it on the Lupe Fiacso that I’m listening to or the fact that he’s moving away from me, but I’m pretty sure that the reason I don’t hear his question is because I’ve got the theme to Law & Order: Quota Unit running through my mind.

Regardless, since the previous questions were all answered with a negative response I figured I’d give this one a “No”, too.

It works! I’m able to deduce that he asked if he could run me through the system.

At this point Cop #2, who’s exited his car, speaks up. “Can you stand over there” he says gesturing to the area directly in front of Cop #1’s car.

As they run me through their system, I turn off my Ipod and take the other ear bud out. I mean the least I could do to these gents, who took the time out of their busy day to devote to me, is to give them my complete attention.

With the red and blues flashing I stand there, five feet from the automatic door that represents the quenching of my thirst.

A Latino gent exits the store, arms full of his purchases and looks at me quizzically, unable to connect the dots between those flashing police lights and the guy standing in front of the car.

In response to his look, I shrug my shoulders and do my best Woody Allen impression, complete with fiddling with my glasses; “I was just coming to buy some water.”

Obviously not a Woody Allen fan, he doesn’t laugh. But Cop #1 realizes that perhaps I’m not really worthy of his lights and turns them off.

A few minutes pass.

I’m still standing waiting for both my ID and permission to enter the store. Rather than being overjoyed that I’m not being beaten or in a chokehold, I’m getting kind of irked. I mean, are my tax dollars really going to support a computer system that’s this slow? It’s not as though my name is “Tyrone Johnson.” There aren’t that many people named “Mathan Erhardt” in world, much less in Las Vegas.

Being the type of guy who has a problem with authority in general and knows that he’s completely clean it’s taking every ounce of restraint to not stare them down or give them a smug look like “better luck next time!”

Finally Cop #2 goes back to his car. And Cop #1, without his rear parting company with his car seat, dangles my ID from his open car door.

I manage to stifle my “what, you can’t come hand my ID back to me” face as I walk around his open car door to retrieve my ID.

Not a word is uttered. Not apologies, no “have a good night.” No “be safe.” No nothing.

So while it’s been a long time since I’ve been pulled over by a cop, it’s not really an experience that I’ve grown to enjoy.

And I’m sure some of you are thinking that I, like Pac-Man Jones, was clearly looking for trouble. I mean I am a Black man and it is late at night. I’m clearly up to no good.

Except that I was making a trip that I’ve made more than 52 times in the last year, without a problem. Yet tonight, the trip took ten minutes longer than usual and debunked my long held notion that going shopping late night was a good way to avoid the heat.