I’m not racist but, who was that lunatic? I should have thrown his hands behind his back and frisked him. But then people would accuse me of racial profiling. There’s been enough war between white cops and the black community. I didn’t want to deal with the heat I would receive for questioning this dangerous and crazy black man. But in all fairness, he said he didn’t have a gun–it sounded pretty suspicious to me. A person with a gun would say they didn’t have one.
That’s how I got shot the first time. It was when I first became a police officer at the tender and useful age of twenty-one. I was doing my first neighborhood sweep. I was assigned Oakland because the last officer who worked there was fired after an undercover drug bust gone fatal. When I was out on my first night, I saw these three dark boys in hoodies and saggy pants huddled together. It looked pretty suspicious to me, so I got out of my car and decided to break it up. I was removed from that neighborhood after it ended fatal. Not for me, obviously, but for the boy who shot me in the leg with his bb gun after I pulled my gun and demanded they tell me what they were doing while emptying their pockets and school backpacks. He shot first, but because mine were real bullets, and he was a black minor, I was suspended for a year.
Today is my first day back after that shooting. The chief just made me watch a safety video, then he gave me back my gun and my patrol car. He also made me take anger management and the man in charge told me when I’m on duty to remember: anger does not mix well with possessing a gun. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe that’s why I accidentally shot the huddle of black boys–anger issues. I didn’t do it because I’m racist. I’m not racist but, there’s just something suspicious about those people. Those boys I went after my first night were huddled. They could have been planning something really bad. They don’t’ turn red like white people when there’s heightened emotion and action. That’s why you must always keep your guard up around black folks and interact with suspicion.
I definitely need to keep my guard up with this guy. He doesn’t look like he belongs in this neighborhood. I’m not saying that because he’s black, I’m saying that because of how he looks. He’s dressed in faded old camouflage pants, a too tight tee shirt, and flip flops that he probably got from the dollar store along with that dingy headband keeping his dreadlocks out of his face. He obviously doesn’t have money. He could barely afford the small coffee. So, why is he here in our neighborhood?
I better follow him and make sure he doesn’t have a gun. A police officer can never be too lenient. I slowly followed behind him like a silent, sneaky, shadow, as he walked down the street. The suspect kept straight on Beecher street then made a quick left at Amygdala. The suspect backed away into an empty and quiet alley, hidden by shadows of the buildings towering around it.
I hid behind a trash can that reeked of sour milk, sweat, and rat soufflé and continued to watch the suspect. The suspect reached into his pocket, and I could see the bulge of the gun pressed up against his thigh. His hand began to shake in his pocket.
I waited for him to pull out the gun to tackle him. I had to have probable cause for pressing his face down into the wet, dark, pavement and handcuffing his hands behind his back.
“Pull out the fucking gun. I know you have it, suspect,” I yelled, pulling out my gun.
What happens next? Thanks for reading! This was a small scene I created based off of a short story I already wrote, Heavy Metal. I hope you enjoyed! I may extend on this new perspective some time this summer, so stay tuned! Be sure to comment your thoughts below, and subscribe via email!