by Ben Sciacca
Uncle Keith shifted slightly in his seat and pulled out his wallet. He removed his driver’s license and placed it in the officer’s hand. “Like I was saying a moment ago, my nephew and I are driving to get my mother from work. She got off about five minutes ago, and she’s waiting for us just up the hill. I can get the taillight fixed.” Uncle Keith’s words were calm but with an underlying tone of agitation.
The policeman relaxed his hand on his gun but said nothing. He spent a long time looking at the license and papers. He seemed to relish the awkward lull.
Malik was confused. He didn’t understand why they couldn’t just leave.
“What’s in the back of the car here?” The officer outside Malik’s door squatted down a little bit and looked at the items in the rear seat.
Uncle Keith replied, “I’m a professor at Harpers College. Those are my books, my papers, and my computer.”
Two white teenagers in a blue BMW convertible rolled into the parking lot, blaring loud hip-hop music. One of them had an NY cap cocked sideways on his head. Both of the young men looked at the scene in front of them for a minute before jumping out of the car. One of them said something to the other, and they both burst out laughing before yanking open the door to the gas station and stepping inside.
“We’re going to need you to step out of the vehicle,” the short officer said.
“Why?” Uncle Keith replied defensively. “We’ve done nothing wrong. I can get that taillight fixed.”
“Please step out of the car,” the policeman said, tightening his jaw again. “Now.”
“I don’t understand,” Uncle Keith retorted. “If you want to give me a ticket, then give me a ticket. But I don’t need to get out of my car—that makes no sense!”
“Listen here.” The officer placed his hand back on his gun. “You can step out of the car on your own, or we can snatch you out of the car. But we’d rather not do that in front of your boy here. Your choice.”
Malik could feel the fear and the anger swirling in his stomach. He started to feel sick. Uncle Keith was such a big and respectable man, and these policemen were trying to make him feel so small. Malik’s fists tightened in his lap as he waited to see what his uncle was going to do.
Uncle Keith gripped the steering wheel, closed his eyes, and took a few slow breaths through his nose. His head was bowed, and he sucked in his lips. He turned and looked at his nephew. Malik felt like he was peering into a deep well of pain and anger.
Finally, Uncle Keith relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. “I know my rights, officer,” he said calmly. “A busted taillight is not a reason for me to get out of my car. That’s what you said this is all about. A busted taillight. You’re abusing your power. You’ve given no reason for me to get out of my car. So give me one, because I know that a taillight ain’t a reason for me to get out of my vehicle!” Uncle Keith stared hard into the officer’s face.
“John,” the officer said snidely. “Looks like this one isn’t going to cooperate. Go ahead and call in backup.”
Uncle Keith shook his head and erupted into laughter. “Backup! Over a busted taillight? This is absolutely absurd!”
Officer John raised his radio to his lips but paused for a moment to see what Uncle Keith would do.
“Backup! Wow!” Uncle Keith said slowly. He reached for the door handle.
“Easy. Easy, fella.” The officer opened the door and took one step back from the vehicle. “Keep your hands where we can see them.”
“My name, officer, is Dr. Keith Thompson.” Keith rose slowly from the car with his hands in the air. He towered nearly a foot and a half over the policeman.
“Spread your feet and put your hands on the vehicle.”
Malik could no longer see his uncle’s face, but he heard his two large hands come down on the roof of the car. He could see Uncle Keith’s barrel chest rising and falling with each breath. Then he watched as the short officer started patting him down and slowly searching his pockets.
“Hey John,” the officer said to his partner as he continued this search. “Go ahead and check the back of the vehicle.”
“Now hold on! Hold on!” Uncle Keith bellowed over the roof. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked. What does this have to do with a broken taillight? You two are trampling all over my rights! This is totally ridiculous! You have no warrant—no motive for this!”
As Officer John reached for the back door and opened it, Uncle Keith took a slight step backward. The policeman behind him sprang into action, wedging Keith’s arm behind him and driving him down hard on the hood of the car. Malik watched in horror through the front window as his uncle’s torso came crashing hard in front of him. Uncle Keith’s teeth were gritted and there was fire in his eyes. He wriggled and struggled for a moment but relaxed when he saw his nephew and the tears streaming down his face. The two locked eyes and just stared at each other.
Officer John was now behind Malik, rummaging loudly through the boxes in the back seat, tossing books on the floorboard and accidentally spilling one folder. Some of the papers fell out of the car and whisked down the pavement as the wind carried them away. The two young men from the convertible emerged from the store and stood on the sidewalk sipping large cups of soda as they watched the police. One had a half smile on his face. Malik wanted them to leave. When they finally got back in their car, their loud music erupted again, and they drove out of the parking lot.
Officer John gave up on the boxes and pulled out Uncle Keith’s satchel. He placed it on the hood just opposite of Uncle Keith’s head. He pulled out the laptop and a Moleskine notebook. He flipped through the notebook, frowned, and set it aside. In a side pocket he discovered a few pens and a clip containing Uncle Keith’s business cards and his college ID badge. The policeman looked at the business cards and badge for a moment and then up at his partner.
“You need to look at this, Stuart.” Officer John handed the cards and badge to his partner.
Officer Stuart still had Uncle Keith’s arm behind his back, but with his free hand he took the ID badge. As he had done with the license and registration, he took an inordinate amount of time to look at them. Finally, he relaxed his grip.
“Okay. Okay. Easy there.” He took a step back. “Looks like we had the wrong fella.”
Uncle Keith righted himself and, with angry jerks of his hands, tried to straighten his disheveled shirt. He turned on his heels and faced Officer Stuart.
“The wrong fella, huh?” Uncle Keith said icily. “What does that mean?”
“You fit a description of a man we’re looking for, sir.” Officer John scratched his nose for a moment.
“A description?” Uncle Keith asked angrily. “Care to explain?”
“Look,” Officer Stuart said plainly, “you’re free to go.” He handed Uncle Keith his ID, license, and registration. “Just be sure to get that taillight fixed soon.”
“No, sir!” Uncle Keith retorted loudly. “It’s not that simple. I need an explanation for all this nonsense!”
“And I said you’re free to go,” Officer Stuart said. “No ticket this time. Just grab your mama and go home. Come on, John.”
The two policemen walked back to their car and got inside. They cut off the swirling blue lights, drove slowly around the parking lot, and circled back out the way from which they had come. Uncle Keith just stood there with a clenched jaw as they drove out of view. His shoulders were heaving. Malik sat in silence as his uncle struggled to regain his composure.
An entire minute passed before Uncle Keith walked slowly around the parking lot to try to retrieve his scattered papers. Malik reached for his door handle to help but then decided to stay where he was. He watched as his uncle stooped to retrieve a few sheets that were stuck in a puddle of oil and grime. Keith scrutinized them for a moment before angrily balling them up and tossing them into a nearby trash can. He threw his hands in the air, giving up on the pointless exercise, then slapped them on his legs before returning to the car.
“I’m sorry you had to see all of that, son. Are you okay?” He spoke softly, though the fire was still dancing around in his eyes.
Malik said nothing.
“I don’t want you to tell your grandmother anything about this, you hear me?”
Malik wanted to speak, but he could only nod his head.
“I mean it, son,” his uncle said. “Not a word.”
With that he put the car in reverse and drove them out of the parking lot.
Jim looked at Malik as he finished his story. He didn’t want to speak without thinking for a moment. Malik wanted Jim to say something. The standoff of silence was unsettling.
Finally Jim cleared his throat. “That’s unfortunate,” he said. “It’s frustrating when the cops get the wrong guy.”
Malik chuckled. “The wrong guy?”
“I mean, they obviously got your uncle confused with someone they were looking for, right?” Jim said, throwing his hands in the air. “I mean, that’s awful when it happens, but they make mistakes.”
Malik tightened his lips, shook his head, and sniffed.
“A mistake,” he said coldly, “is something that happens once in a blue moon, man! That’s just one story. My uncle got pulled over three more times that summer just going to pick up my grandma. I bet you he’s been pulled over at least six to eight times on your side of town. And why? Because he ‘looks like someone’? Come on, man! We both know it ain’t that! It’s just because he looks a certain way. Period.”
Jim waited. He knew Malik wasn’t done.
“My uncle is more educated and more decent than most of the folks who live over in your neighborhood. But when’s the last time the cops rolled up on your ride or rolled up on one of your friends, huh? Probably never. Am I right? So yeah, we got reasons to be scared too. You think your neighborhood is like Disneyland or somethin’, where everybody is safe and happy. I don’t feel safe or happy over there. In fact, now when I’m over there, I can’t wait to get up and out of your neighborhood, man. Ask anybody where I live if they like it over where you live. Why do you think a lot of folks ride the bus? My uncle’s experience ain’t unique—happens all the time. In fact, if I’m drivin’ your car through your neighborhood, I bet you I don’t make it home without getting pulled over. Bet you!”
Jim grimaced. Silence resumed as the two stared back at the fire. Another gust of wind pried at the roof and quivered the walls. After a few moments Malik let out a soft chuckle. Jim turned slightly. “What’s so funny?” he asked.
Malik shook his head. “It’s cold, dark, and crazy out here, man. But I was just thinkin’. I bet we both feel safer out here right now than we do visiting each other’s neighborhood. I don’t know—that made me laugh.”
Jim turned back and stared straight ahead as he wrestled with his thoughts. As strange as it sounded, Malik was right.
13
THE EDUCATION
11:45 p.m., Monday before Thanksgiving
JIM GOT UP TO THROW ANOTHER LOG ON THE FIRE. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was creeping toward midnight. Malik yawned and stretched his arms behind his head. “How long you think this stack will last?” he asked.
Jim plopped back in his chair and brushed some wood chips off his hands on his pant legs. He looked at the pile that was left and shrugged. “There’s probably enough there to get us through the night and maybe a few hours into the morning. After that, it’s tough to say. If these temps don’t go back up, we’ll have to brave the outdoors and hope there’s some firewood around another cabin or something. I’ve never seen a storm or temperatures like this down here before in my life.”
“I guess we could burn these chairs if we had to,” Malik mumbled.
“Yeah, they’d buy another hour, maybe,” Jim said.
Malik took another look at the pile of firewood and then back at the fire. “It’s kinda funny, isn’t it?”
Jim rolled his eyes. “What is?”
“I dunno. I’ve thought about dying a lot of times. I just never imagined that my hope for survival would hinge on a stack of firewood. Crazy, isn’t it? I mean, you can literally watch hope disappear into smoke one log at a time. If things don’t change, we’re going to have to toss our last log—and then pray.”
Jim stared at Malik for a moment. The young man sucked in his top lip and rubbed his hands in front of his face. “I’ve already been praying,” Jim said.
“Yeah. For what?”
“I’m praying I can get out of here and get home.”
“If we make it through this whole thing,” Malik said, “everything turns out okay for you, man. I’m done no matter what happens. I can die of cold in this cabin, die once Mike and his boys get their hands on me, or die of loneliness in a cell block. One way or another, this does not end well for me.”
“Sounds kind of hopeless to me.”
“That’s because it pretty much is hopeless, dude.” Malik cut his eyes at Jim.
“Life doesn’t have to be that way,” Jim replied. “You made some bad choices. Bad choices come with consequences.”
“Like what’cha mean?”
“Take tonight, for example.” Jim stood up and rubbed his shoulders with his hands. “You brought a gun with you to the grocery store. Who does that? Probably someone who’s afraid of someone or something. But why is he afraid? When things got out of hand with your buddies in there, you fled. When a man runs from something, it always looks bad.”
“So you gonna go all lawyer on me now?” Malik growled.
Jim ignored him and continued. “But why did things get out of hand in the first place? Those guys were mad at you about something. I’m guessing it wasn’t random. I bet you did something specific that made them angry, right? Then you jumped in my car and used your weapon to coerce me into doing something I didn’t want to do. Once we got on the road, you had no plan or strategy. You just said, ‘Drive.’ ‘Where?’ I asked you. You had no idea. So hours later we’re trapped in a cabin in an ice storm—in a genuinely life-threatening situation. You made a series of bad decisions. And with those came some bad consequences.”
“So you think it’s that simple, huh?”
“Pretty much,” Jim said. “Bad decisions are like dominoes. They tend to tip things over in ways that we don’t want them to.”
Malik smiled and nodded. “Let me ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you carry an insurance card?” Malik asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You tell me why,” Malik retorted.
“In case I’m in an accident,” Jim replied. “It’s got me covered.”
“Right,” Malik agreed. “It’s for those ‘just-in-case situations,’ correct? I mean, you don’t pull it out unless it’s really needed.” Malik took the 9mm from the waistband of his pants and set it in his lap. “This is my insurance card, man. I don’t have any intention of ever pulling it out. Like that card in your wallet, it stays hidden away for just-in-case scenarios. I’ve never pulled it on anybody—never robbed nobody—”
“Until tonight,” Jim interrupted. “See? That doesn’t work, Malik. I can’t use my insurance card to hurt people or to rob them. It’s protection against something happening. That’s not how you used your insurance card tonight.”
“Exactly. I pulled out my gun ’cause Mike and those dudes in the store just beat down my friend in the gas station and they were going to rough me up next. I carry my gun for guys like Mike and his squad. I don’t know why I pulled it on you. That wasn’t part of my plan. I saw you and your car, and, well, you were a lifeline, man. I had to get out of there. I just reacted.”
Jim sat back down and crossed his legs. “Do you not get it, Malik? You carry a gun because Mike carries a gun. He carries a gun because so-and-so carries a gun. And it goes on and on
and on. What if all of you just put your guns away and went to school? Or what if instead of robbing each other or selling drugs, you got a job?”
Malik clenched his teeth, but Jim wasn’t finished. “You don’t even make any sense. Earlier tonight you told me that white people have this unreasonable fear of your neighborhood and that what happened to me tonight was an anomaly. And yet you carry a gun around with you because you don’t want those types of things to happen to you. Which one is it? No kid carries a gun in the back of his pants unless he’s afraid that everyone else has a gun stuffed down the back of their pants. Either that, or he plans to use that gun to take something or do something to someone who doesn’t have a gun.”
“I feel you,” Malik acknowledged. “But what I said was that you, a white dude visiting my neighborhood for thirty minutes to drop off some hummus and shoot some pictures, had little to fear. I didn’t say you’d have nothing to fear if you moved next door to me. But, man, you make it all sound so simple: Go to school. Get a job. You’re an idiot if you think you understand my life—”
“Here we go!” Jim slapped his legs and stood up again. “Let me guess. You’re a victim, right? The poor black kid with no dad and no options. Raised on Tupac. No good schools. Poverty. Blah blah blah. Cut out the excuses, kid! Your life probably has had some challenges that mine hasn’t. But at the end of the day, we all make choices. I have a hard time finding sympathy for people who continue to make bad ones and don’t own up to it—or who just keep making excuses. Your grandmother has a job, doesn’t she? Does she carry a gun to Mars each day? I doubt it. Why don’t you follow her example instead of being a thug and expecting people to feel sorry for you?”
“So I’m guessing you made all the good choices along the way, right?” Malik blurted out.
“I worked hard. I went to school. I studied. I respected the law. I went to college, then to grad school. I worked tons of different jobs from the day I was fifteen years old. I didn’t do everything perfect, but I made a lot of good choices, and it got me somewhere.” Jim stretched his arms and rested his hands on his head. “That’s how life works.”