You are welcome, District of Columbia.
Yesterday after work, I witnessed a presumably white police officer chasing a presumably black man out of the grocery store. The alleged criminal ran across New York Avenue as the officer, who was close behind, hand on radio, yelled, "Stop! Help! Police!" Not sure if he yelled, "Stop! Help police!," I abandoned my quest for sourdough French bread and followed the pair on my bicycle.
Maybe I would witness some police brutality? Maybe the man being pursued was yet another Harvard professor being roughed up by The Man's always eager, always forthright law enforcement system? Maybe I could capture the incident on my phone and post the video on YouTube and be interviewed by Glenn Beck the following evening?After running back and forth across the street, the pursued headed down 6th Street NW. I now stood at the corner as the man and the officer ran past me. I thought: Does the officer need my bicycle to catch this fleet-footed wrong-doer? Should I offer it to him? No, if he really wanted it, he would commandeer it like they do in the movies and in New Orleans during decimating hurricanes. As the two ran down the median, I pedaled alongside the traffic. How long will this last? Should I be doing something more than watching? The officer did ask for my help after all. For a brief moment I thought about riding up to the man and leaping off my bike and tackling him to the ground. This heroic act would surely be applauded by the likes of Greta van Susteren. But I thought better of it, fearing that the professor be might armed, hopped up on PCP, or pissed off from a five-hour layover after researching Yo Yo Ma in China.
As the two continued their early evening jog in our nation's capital, a car turned suddenly and deliberately into the on-coming traffic, thereby boxing in the professor and the policeman. The professor darted around the car and heading toward me. As he looked back to protest, blurting, "I didn't do anything," I hit him with the front wheel of my bicycle. He stumbled a bit, enough to slow him down. The policeman grabbed the man's t-shirt and spun him around in the middle of the street. The policeman screamed, "Get on the ground, mother fucker," to which the professor yelled, "I didn't do anything, man."
The professor was forcibly pushed to the ground. As he struggled, now face down, hands behind his back, the policeman gave the perp two swift kicks to the side. Police brutality at last, but I did not have my camera phone at the ready and missed my chance. Sorry, Glenn. By now five police cars had descended upon the scene. Somewhat expecting a knuckle-bump from the arresting officer, I looked around the sea of men in blue and decided to get out of their way.
As I stood on the sidewalk, I called my wife and told her that my trip to the grocery store had been postponed as I was busy fighting crime. After stating that she feared that I might have gotten injured or killed, she told me not to forget the French bread. "Sourdough, right?" I asked. "But I am a hero. You would think that one of the cops would have come over and shaken my hand and thanked me for helping them catch the bad guy." "Hurry home," she added. "Company will be here in 10 minutes." I lingered a bit and finally left the clampdown, but not before the shackled professor leered in my direction as he was pushed into the back seat of a police car.
To be continued? Hopefully not. But I was still pumped from the adrenaline. I should do this more often. I have a cape, some wrestling tights, black boots, and a luchador mask. Hey Five-0! Let's go crack some heads, I thought to myself in the Safeway checkout. On my ride home, to every law enforcement officer, I gave a knowing nod, a nod only a fellow member of the thin blue line would understand.
Nota Bene:
The image used above does not accurately represent the incident of August 13, 2009. But I am originally from Alabama and that image and the image of Heather Whitestone winning Miss America have been seared into my brain.
