cop asks.
“Just trying to clue you in, man,” I say.
“Yeah,” Bark shouts, louder this time. “Y’all need to open your ears and learn from
us elders about how to be cool.”
“Maybe you should show me how to be cool out here,” the cop says. “Maybe you should
get your lazy ass out of this truck and stand in front of me like a man and tell me
why, in this country, any guy, of
any
age or color, can’t
jokingly
call another guy whatever the hell he wants.”
I clear my throat as an excuse not to swallow. He’s blabbing on like this, I’m sure,
because he’s power tripping if not looking for probable cause, and I’m all the more
sure that, by now, Bark’s got a finger on his trigger, too.
I say, “Officer, you need to know this about my friend: He’s had a history of unjustly
being called lazy.”
“I don’t give a shit about anyone’s history,” the cop says. “All I know is I’m looking
at an overweight black man being driven around with a six-pack on his lap. If that
doesn’t strike you as lazy, pal, you’ve got some serious self-respect issues.”
“Just chill, man,” I say.
“
Fuck
chill. I got a job to do, and I’m doing it.” The cop swallows now, the nose of his
gun rising. “So get out of the car,” he says quietly. “I want to see nothing in your
hands, no bottles, no phones, and I want both of your lazy asses standing still out
here.”
And being the let’s-just-get-along guy I’ve long tried to be, I wish that all three
of us—Bark, this cop, and I—could go back and start over, not back to five minutes
ago, but to our grammar school days, when we all could have grown up more mellow.
And it’s just after I wish this that Bark shoots the cop.
24
JAN
“WHERE’S YOUR FLASHLIGHT?” Tug asked me.
“It’s broken,” I said.
“Let me try fixing it.”
“You can’t,” I said, now directly beside him. “I mean, there isn’t one. I just didn’t
want you to think I was weird.”
“How could you be weird? That’s simply not possible. All I wanted was to know what
you were doing out here.”
“I told you. Getting in shape.”
“So you
are
running.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why at night?”
“Because. My father did, to help him beat fear.” I kicked at a pebble, more butterflies
in my stomach, but somehow they felt smaller. And, really, that’s what I loved about
Tug Corcoran: Beingaround him excited me yet made me feel altogether solid. “Because when you’re winning
a lot and getting tight mounts,” I explained, “jocks on long shots will box you in—because
they’re envious and they’ll do what they can to beat you. And when you’re boxed in,
you might luck into seeing an opening, which could scare you because you know you
could get bumped and go down. But you can’t fear going down. Because if you do, the
hole will close and you’ll lose.”
And it was obvious what Tug was thinking then. Everyone knows that, he thought.
Grandstanders
know that.
“Which means you have to trust,” I said. “And running in the dark helps you trust.
Because trusting means forgetting your fear, which running in the dark helps you do.”
Now Tug was the one kicking at pebbles. “How do you know all this?”
“Your dad told me some. That last part—about trust and forgetting fear—I made up.
But it makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose,” he said.
“Why wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know. Because trust can mean fearing but going ahead anyway?”
I went silent right then, and despite myself I kept still. But Tug seemed to feel
patient with me, all of me including my theories and habits whether they’d prove weird
or not. And it hit me that no one had ever felt patience like this for me, not even
my saintly mother.
And I asked, “Is that what it’s like for you?”
“Let’s put it this way: If I ran with you right now, I’d be afraid.”
“Because you can’t see the
“Just trying to clue you in, man,” I say.
“Yeah,” Bark shouts, louder this time. “Y’all need to open your ears and learn from
us elders about how to be cool.”
“Maybe you should show me how to be cool out here,” the cop says. “Maybe you should
get your lazy ass out of this truck and stand in front of me like a man and tell me
why, in this country, any guy, of
any
age or color, can’t
jokingly
call another guy whatever the hell he wants.”
I clear my throat as an excuse not to swallow. He’s blabbing on like this, I’m sure,
because he’s power tripping if not looking for probable cause, and I’m all the more
sure that, by now, Bark’s got a finger on his trigger, too.
I say, “Officer, you need to know this about my friend: He’s had a history of unjustly
being called lazy.”
“I don’t give a shit about anyone’s history,” the cop says. “All I know is I’m looking
at an overweight black man being driven around with a six-pack on his lap. If that
doesn’t strike you as lazy, pal, you’ve got some serious self-respect issues.”
“Just chill, man,” I say.
“
Fuck
chill. I got a job to do, and I’m doing it.” The cop swallows now, the nose of his
gun rising. “So get out of the car,” he says quietly. “I want to see nothing in your
hands, no bottles, no phones, and I want both of your lazy asses standing still out
here.”
And being the let’s-just-get-along guy I’ve long tried to be, I wish that all three
of us—Bark, this cop, and I—could go back and start over, not back to five minutes
ago, but to our grammar school days, when we all could have grown up more mellow.
And it’s just after I wish this that Bark shoots the cop.
24
JAN
“WHERE’S YOUR FLASHLIGHT?” Tug asked me.
“It’s broken,” I said.
“Let me try fixing it.”
“You can’t,” I said, now directly beside him. “I mean, there isn’t one. I just didn’t
want you to think I was weird.”
“How could you be weird? That’s simply not possible. All I wanted was to know what
you were doing out here.”
“I told you. Getting in shape.”
“So you
are
running.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why at night?”
“Because. My father did, to help him beat fear.” I kicked at a pebble, more butterflies
in my stomach, but somehow they felt smaller. And, really, that’s what I loved about
Tug Corcoran: Beingaround him excited me yet made me feel altogether solid. “Because when you’re winning
a lot and getting tight mounts,” I explained, “jocks on long shots will box you in—because
they’re envious and they’ll do what they can to beat you. And when you’re boxed in,
you might luck into seeing an opening, which could scare you because you know you
could get bumped and go down. But you can’t fear going down. Because if you do, the
hole will close and you’ll lose.”
And it was obvious what Tug was thinking then. Everyone knows that, he thought.
Grandstanders
know that.
“Which means you have to trust,” I said. “And running in the dark helps you trust.
Because trusting means forgetting your fear, which running in the dark helps you do.”
Now Tug was the one kicking at pebbles. “How do you know all this?”
“Your dad told me some. That last part—about trust and forgetting fear—I made up.
But it makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose,” he said.
“Why wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know. Because trust can mean fearing but going ahead anyway?”
I went silent right then, and despite myself I kept still. But Tug seemed to feel
patient with me, all of me including my theories and habits whether they’d prove weird
or not. And it hit me that no one had ever felt patience like this for me, not even
my saintly mother.
And I asked, “Is that what it’s like for you?”
“Let’s put it this way: If I ran with you right now, I’d be afraid.”
“Because you can’t see the
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