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Tag Archives: cops

Fresh Socks For Homeless Walter

27 Tuesday May 2014

Posted by Smaktakula in Crime, Culture, Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

≈ 34 Comments

Tags

Beaverton, Chicago, cops, mustach, Oregon, police brutality, police officers, rogue cops, The Untouchables, Travels With Tardsie, Union Station, Walter the Homeless Man, white people

By Tardsie

And There’s No Better Friend To Have! Unless, Of Course, He’s Not Your Friend.

My encounters with police officers have largely been, if not pleasant, then at least hassle-free. It helps that I’m friendly, polite, and never in my life more caucasian than when I talk to a cop. I think most cops are pretty decent dudes.

Sadly, the cops I remember most clearly aren’t the officers who’ve helped me when I was in a jam, or even those who had to deal with me when I’d done wrong and had it coming, but rather the jerks who wore their authority like a crown and acted like thugs for no reason other than that they could, the bullies and punks getting off on the power of their station.

It was my displeasure to meet a particularly shitty cop on November 5th, 2002.¹ I’d left my job and apartment in Beaverton, Oregon to bum around the country by rail, and now found myself in Chicago’s historic Union Station, notable for the “baby carriage” scene in The Untouchables.

Tardsie Poses For A Photo On The Steps At Union Station.

Tardsie Poses For A Photo On The Steps Of Union Station.

***

Filthy and bedraggled, I wander into the men’s restroom to clean up. Union Station is an Amtrak hub, so the bathroom is busy, but I manage to find sink space next to a wretched-looking homeless dude–a black guy with wild, unkempt hair and an eye-watering aroma. His emaciated hands and head jut twig-like from an artificially bulky frame, created by layer upon layer of filthy clothing. He yammers ceaselessly as he washes what appears to be several pairs of socks.

Yes. Completely, Totally, 100% Just Like This.

When the guy says “Can I have those socks?” I think at first that it’s just another facet of his apparently unending dialogue with God. But when he says it again, I realize he’s talking to me. He’s looking down at the open travel bag at my feet, atop which lie several pairs of clean socks.

After a span of time that seems longer than it probably is, I reach down to grab a pair socks, and hand it to him. “Here you go.” “Thanks, Brother” he says, and his ongoing conversation–which fortunately, no longer includes me–begins again. Not long after that, he gathers up his things, including his new socks, and wanders off to a stall.

My Unforgettable Act Of Charity Puts Me In Some Pretty Rare Company.

I have just about forgotten about him when the cop comes rumbling in, his black and yellow police windbreaker flashing in the mirror just before our eyes meet.  His small shaven head, bullet-shaped, with its tiny piggish eyes and ridiculously oversized mustache is poorly matched to his expansive, well-fleshed body.

“Whaddaya doin’?” he asks, and not at all nicely. My stomach tightens as I turn to face him. There is a uniformed cop behind him.

“Shaving,” I tell him.

“Shaving.” He spits the word back at me like an accusation. Then: “You sure you weren’t washing your feet?”

I tell him I wasn’t, and because this situation is so intense and because the cop is still smirking under his mustache and because I don’t know what else to say, I say “Jeez.” It is the wrong thing to say.

“JEEZ?” he says, seeming to swell as he steps toward me, either side of his mustache punctuated by the edges of a feral smile, and just like that I am fucking terrified.

“Only One Of Us Is Gonna Enjoy This, But That One Guy’s Gonna Enjoy It An Awful Lot.”

Then the uniformed cop says something and points down to the stalls. I do not have to know what he said to know where he is pointing, and at whom. As they both charge off in that direction, the bald cop’s little head swivels to face me and, not stopping, he says, “Sorry.” It is a reflex, a word completely devoid of meaning, and he cares not a bit whether I know it. Then he is gone, carried along on a wave of black anger.

“WALTER!” he bellows at the homeless man in the stall, “Get your fuckin’ ass out here, you goof! You’re goofy, you know that?”

Suddenly awash in a rush of relief that feels an awful lot like shame, I slink out of the bathroom, but not quickly enough to miss the firecracker bang of a locked stall door shattering under the force of a boot.

You Got It, Bro.

***

¹The reason I’m able to recall the date so specifically–as well as the dialogue in the story–is because I wrote the details down minutes after the event. ∞ T.

Helpful Hints For Everyday Life: Legal Education

13 Wednesday Jun 2012

Posted by Smaktakula in Crime, Stupidity

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

Arizona, California, cops, helpful hints, Johnny Law, police officers, poor judgement, Yosemite

By Smaktakula

It Can Sometimes Be Helpful To Remember That Not Every Situation Is An Ideal Forum For Your Rapier-Keen Wit.

Sometimes, when Johnny Law pulls over an out-of-state driver for one of a variety of offenses such as speeding or gun-running, he likes to preface his presentation of the offense by professing ignorance to the legality of the issue in the arrestee’s home state. For example, “Son, I don’t know how they do things in Arizona, but hit and run is against the law in California.”*

The outcome of the encounter will largely be determined by the first words out of your mouth. It is therefore a bad idea to say, “Really? You didn’t know that striking something with your vehicle and then fleeing the scene is illegal pretty much everywhere in the world that they have laws?”

The officer will not appreciate your helpfulness.

*This profession of ignorance is the verbatim statement of a police officer in Yosemite, California.  ∞T.

OJ’s Appeal Denied

27 Wednesday Oct 2010

Posted by Smaktakula in Celebrity, Crime, Culture

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

cops, death by OJ, double-homicide, Fred Goldman, guilty of beating the rap, injustice, it couldn't happen to a nicer guy, Las Vegas, murderers, Nevada, Nevada Supreme Court, OJ Simpson, Orenthal James Simpson, patsies, police officers, sports memorabilia, that fucking mustache, the Juice, unpunished, vendettas

By Smaktakula

The Juice Prepares For A Career After Prison.

Orenthal James Simpson, the unpunished murder-turned-sports memorabilia patsy, recently received some unwelcome news.  The Nevada Supreme Court refused to overturn his recent conviction for successfully beating an ironclad double-homicide rap 1995 as well as for a minor incident in Las Vegas.   It seems the Juice won’t be loosed any time soon.

Understandably, Fred Goldman Has Mixed Feelings About Seeing The Murderer Of His Son Locked Behind Bars And Thus No Longer Able To Provide Him With An Income.

"Jes' Don' Make The Cops Look Stupid, An' You'll Be Awright."

This is it, folks–OJ’s making his break!  He’s on the 10! . . .the 5! . . .the 405!

Promethean Short Short Stories: Singlewide Symphony

23 Friday Apr 2010

Posted by Smaktakula in Crime, Culture, Literature, People, Promethean Short Short Stories, Relationships

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

cops, Crime, flash fiction, Johnny Law, Jose Cuervo, living in squalor, police, Promethean Short Short Stories, Single Wide trailers, trailer parks, trailer trash

By Smaktakula

Heather sat outside on a chaise in deep sweating darkness, keeping company with her old friend Jose Cuervo.  Occasionally she slapped at the mosquitoes orbiting her thighs, which shone from under cutoff Levis like marble in the moonlight.

Travis couldn’t meet her eyes when he finally returned home reeking of engine oil and bad business.   

Not long after, she saw lights in the distance, watching them grow for a long time before the police cruiser arrived, wishing all her troubles could be so overt and so slow in coming.

Red and blue strobes lent the trailer a beauty she didn’t understand except that it reminded her of Christmas. 

Her heart broke a little watching them recede.

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