1996 PART ZERO: Inventory

[This was the first hint of the crap I was going to experience in 1996. Less than twelve hours later, I met the aforementioned Italian Stallion. Certain family members may want to skip this one. This may be too much information. I've told myself from the beginning that I was going to be completely honest and I had to get this out. If you read on, don't say I didn't warn you.]

December 1, 1995
1:17AM
The Suburbs, MN

The night is misty. One of those nights where an inch of crud builds up on your windshield just driving a few feet. The first snowfall of the season isn’t holding up to the bizarre spot of warm weather we are getting. I’m driving to pick up my friend Red after a hellish long night of inventory at Wal-Mart. I am sore. I feel like the dust imbedded under my fingernails will be my permanent companion. I am pissed at the world. The plan is to go to Perkins and get something to eat and for her to commiserate with me. Red is always up for late night talks.

When I see the flashing lights in my rearview mirror I am confused at first. I pull Brutus over to the side of the road and the gravity of my situation starts to slowly sink in. I see the checklist in my head. No insurance? Check. Bench warrant? Check. Unpaid speeding ticket? Check. Expired tabs? Check. It’s all over. Jail time for sure. Red will be pissed when I don’t show up for ten to twenty years.

I see him in the smudged side mirror; a mountain of a cop swaggering up to the car, but I guess they always look bigger than life when you are sitting there behind the wheel in a shitload of trouble. My palms are sweating all over Brutus’ steering wheel. I roll the window down. A car hisses past. My heart nearly stops when I look up at the expressionless man. His face is literally devoid of anything. Even in the dim I can see cold, glittering eyes.

“Do you realize you’re driving with expired tabs?”

“Yes, sir. Haven’t gotten around to that yet, I’m sorry.”

There is an odd, blank moment, as he studies me and I fidget under his gaze. I think he is looking for drugs and I try to remember frantically if there is a roach in the ashtray. “License and registration.”

A statement, barely a request. Monotone and commanding. My hands are sweaty and shaking as I fumble the information out of my wallet. My heart is thudding. He’s going to run my license number and all manner of horrible things is going to come up on his screen. He will call for backup and they will tow my car. They’ll probably bring me to the station and pistol-whip me too, just for good measure.

“Be right back,” he says as he takes my information in his leather-gloved hand and swaggers back to his car. I sink down so the spotlight isn’t in my eyes anymore and try to calm myself in those endless minutes. I watch cars hiss by, everyone staring at me. “They got you, sucka!” they are all thinking, shaking their heads and thanking god it isn‘t them. Maybe they are humming that annoying “Cops” theme behind fogged windows. I want to scream and cry.

They can’t hurt you, I tell myself. Not legally anyway. Rodney King was a tweaked-out freak when he got his ass kicked. He was trying to get up. Just cooperate and everything will be fine. It’s not like you’re some serial killer or something. You just got paid. Maybe there’s a fine you can pay for now. Money. Maybe that’s it. Didn’t some jerk in the break room just talk about getting out of some trouble with parking tickets by paying the fine in cash when he got pulled over?

He’s back at the window, looking even more expressionless than before. It creeps me out because I am so wrapped up in my thoughts I have no idea how long he’s been standing there. Panic does funny things with time.

I look up and notice that there are water droplets on his bulky leather coat. It’s dripping off the brim of his hat. He wasn’t wearing his hat before.

“Any idea how much trouble you’re in?”

“Some,” I mutter, fighting back tears. “I know I have a warrant for some parking tickets and a speeding ticket I haven’t paid yet. The thing is, I just got paid. Isn’t there anything I can do to get out of this?”

[Let’s stop here for a moment. Please take those last words in context. I was talking about MONEY. To the best of my recollection, those are the words I said. I was in NO WAY propositioning this guy. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I was utterly horrified and completely intimidated. Sexual relations were confined to the dustiest regions of the back of my brain at that moment and I was certainly not thinking of sexual relations as a mode of transaction. Not that I hadn’t fantasized about cops. I think it’s a requirement for gay guys to have the standard fantasies about cops and firemen. But fantasy is a world away from reality, as I would soon discover.]

There is the oddest, longest moment of silence and motionlessness from him. I think for one crazy moment that he is a robot and has just run out of battery power. He is staring at me, and his eyes are shaded by that damned dripping hat. I realize he is a live human being when he slowly crosses his arms over his chest, leather of his jacket squeaking. The red and blue lights are flashing on his face.

“No we’re never gonna survive unless we go a little crazy...” insists Seal, from my radio.

“How rude,” I think. “RUDE to have the radio on when you are pulled over. Plain rude.”
I reach to turn it off and hear him mumble something as I lean over.

“Excuse me?”

“Shut off your engine. Follow me.”

He turns around and walks back to his car without another word. He gets in and shuts the door. The spotlight goes off and it is suddenly too dark in my car. My brain is trying to process this. Follow him? Follow him where? To his car? Why? Oh, Jesus. I’m going to jail.

I check for traffic and there is none. I get out and will my knees not to give out from beneath me. I walk to the passenger side, chilly mist on my face. I am seeing all kinds of crazy spots from the damned spotlight being in my eyes for too long. I start heading to the backseat, but I see him quickly move some stuff out of the way in the passenger seat. He props the clipboard and papers up behind the headrest against the plexi-glass partition, unceremoniously.

I open the door and lower myself to the seat. I shut the door and try to settle into the cramped confines. There is hardly any room because there is a glowing computer thing between us. Time does that funny thing again, as I look around. I’ve never been in a cop car before. There’s a buzzing, crackling radio sputtering out gibberish and ten-fours, a pile of papers on the floor, and a shotgun in the window just behind my head. It’s definitely well-heated, because there is hot air blasting from the heater. It rapidly becomes too hot.

He shifts in his seat and it seems I am reminded that there is another occupant in the car for the first time. He’s staring straight ahead. I smell leather, and some type of cologne. There’s also the faint smell of cigarettes and something else, something oily. Kinda like motor oil. His hat is off, the hair beneath curly and damp. There is water glistening on his cheeks.

He flips some switches and I see that Brutus isn’t flashing red and blue anymore, he‘s just sitting there looking lonely on the side of the road. He pulls the car onto the street without even a backward glance. He doesn’t say a word or crack a smile or give me any hint as to what is going on. I am terrified, but when I try to say something he turns and looks at me. There is something so cold in that gaze, a gaze I know I will never forget. Nothing will make any words come out of me.

"Psycho cop", I think. "He’s crazy. He’s gone off the deep end. He’s going to fucking KILL me or something." My heart starts to pound so hard I can feel my pulse vibrating in my neck. I feel rushes of adrenaline all through me and consider briefly that it might be a good idea to throw myself from the car. Then I think of him dashing out and shooting me.

We end up behind a restaurant in a vacant lot where an apartment complex is being built. On a night like this, we may as well be on the dark side of the moon. Once he parks the car and turns the headlights off, it is all business. He turns slightly, and moves his seat back. I see him fumbling with his belt and hear the creak of leather as it comes off. Then his zipper comes down. He is glancing furtively around, which is the most human thing I have seen him do up to this point.

There is something very arrogant about the way he angles his hips toward me without saying a word. He’s more worried about getting caught. He won’t make any kind of eye contact or say anything. I’m no idiot. This is a man looking for a blowjob. A big man with cold scary eyes, a habit of turning into a freakish robot once in awhile, and a gun strapped to his hip. Not someone I care to argue with.

He seems very unconcerned about the lack of space in there, and very unhelpful. I try to lean across and discover that I can push the computer out of the way a little. I lean into his lap and know where that oily smell is coming from. It’s coming from the big gun a few inches from my face. Gun oil?

He doesn’t last long. The leather of his jacket makes my forehead sweat. I dimly see a few letters on his name badge, then close my eyes. Probably best if I don't know. My knees are shaking so bad I swear I must be vibrating the entire car. I am still sore and dusty from the damned inventory. At one point, he grabs me and I feel fingernails dig into the back of my neck. He doesn’t make a sound or give me any warning. It’s a race. I want this over with. I want him to drive me back to my car. I want to go home. I want that gun to stay where it is when this is over. I want out of this vacant lot. I don’t ever want to smell leather and cologne and gun oil again. I am furious that I am this helpless. And the car thing. Why is it always furtively in fucking cars? In fact, the anger seems to fuel the act forward and get it done.

Unbelievable. I am back in my car and I am more than shell-shocked. He never said a word. Completely unbelievable. I can still taste him. My stomach feels funny. He is gone without a word. I am alone on the side of the road. I reach over and numbly turn the radio up again before pulling back onto the street.

“Lie to me. I promise. I’ll believe. Lie to me, but please don’t leave...”

I thank god for Sheryl Crow. I light a cigarette.

I pick Red up and listen to her cuss me out about being an hour late and how she thought I was dead in a ditch somewhere. My jaw is sore. I spit out the window. I try to make my hands stop shaking. I am pissed. I am unbelievably pissed. The anger feels empowering. I am not responding to anything she says. I want to tell her. I want to say something. But who the fuck would believe this? I can hardly believe it myself. She gives up trying to communicate. I gave up before I picked her up.

When we enter the Perkins parking lot and get out, I cringe and almost vomit. Three cop cars in the parking lot. I feel this insane urge to scream. What if he’s in there? We don’t find out. I tell Red I don’t feel like Perkins. In fact, Perkins is about the last thing I want right now. Red asks me about the bleeding cuts on the back of my neck. Where did they come from? I reach back there and feel inventory dust and a warm trickle of blood.

We end up at Denny’s instead.