Short #5: Cracked Lives
I strolled into Kennedy Fried Chicken off West Boulevard late on a Friday night and stared at the menu above the cash register. I tried not to notice the various people staring at me. Kennedy Fried Chicken did not have a lot of white customers and the Pakistani owner seemed confused by my presence. He took my order with a whisper and kept an eye on the door. A few moments later I strolled back out of the cramped shop with a bag of hot chicken and a few biscuits.
Before I reached my car, a smiling and tall middle-aged black man called to me from the sidewalk. He wanted a piece of chicken and I didn’t think twice as I reached into the bag for a leg. A beat later, I felt a hand reach into the front right pocket of my shorts. I quickly jammed my free hand into the same pocket and spun around to greet my intruder. The unwelcome hand belonged to a squat, black lady with short hair and blood-shot eyes.
“What are you doing?!”
“Gimme my money!”
“What?! No!”
“Just give her the money man,” advised the man.
My heart began to race as what was happening began to dawn on me. Ok, Nik, who’ve been setup. They saw your wad of cash you idiot(from waiting tables.) They are working together. Do they have a weapon? I saw no gun, no knife, or piece of broken glass, and thus I refused to give up my earnings.
“She’s crazy man, just give her the money,” repeated the man now walking toward me.
“Fuck off,” I shot back as I began pull myself and my assailant- both of our hands still in my pocket- toward the door of the chicken shop.
“Gimme my money BOY!”
I said nothing as we inched closer to my goal. It was at this point that the man realized I was not a soft white boy- an easy target- and things might get messy. So, he changed tact.
“Let go!” He screamed at his partner.
“HE OWES ME MONEY FOR A TRICK!” she barked, the man now just a few feet away.
A trick? Did she really just imply that I entered into a pay-for-sex agreement with her?
“I’ve never seen you in my life,” I whispered to myself as I used my free hand to open the door, the intoxicated woman still clinging to my tips.
The obviously more sober man raised the stakes and now threatened his friend, “Bitch, you better let him go!” And he raised his right hand into a fist.
At this, she finally let go and ran up away. But, I didn’t see in which direction because I bolted into the shop.
Over the next hour I repeated my story for the cops and waited while they tried to gather witness statements. (In truth, close to ten people witnessed the event, but none were willing to speak up, including the Pakistani shop owner. That reality, the hood reality, hit me hard but I understood. The shop owner had a business to run and the other witnesses were probably known personalities in the neighborhood. Any statement to the cops would be interpreted as betrayal leading to consequences that far outweighed the benefits.) For my part, I clearly and accurately described my attacker. And, in seconds they were able to find her file in the CMPD database.
“This her?” They asked as they turned the laptop toward me.
Indeed it was her. Short hair, angry scowl, and bloodshot eyes.
“Yep, that’s her,” I answered as I continued to stare at her file, the number 76 popping off the screen.
“Excuse me, officer?”
“Yea?”
“Has this lady really been arrested 76 times?”
“Yep.”
“May I?”
“Sure.”
And I began to scroll throw her rap sheet.
Possession of a controlled substance.
Possession of crack cocaine.
Assault.
Soliciting.
Robbery…
I couldn’t believe my eyes at the volume and frequency of her criminal activity. And, for the second time, the truth appeared. This lady, this attacking cracked-out mugger, was a hopeless drug addict. She’d become a one woman crime spree. And I felt myself begin to sink into despair.
“Y’all need anything else from me?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Ok,” I replied, ready to be anywhere else than standing on the sidewalk in front of Kennedy Fried Chicken.
“But,” quipped one of the officers. “I wouldn’t come around here again, if I were you,” he said in firm but quiet voice- his tone communicating both the gravity of his advice while keeping it between us. I nodded my agreement.
From the safety of my car and out of sight of the shop, I let my tears flow. The whole scene was bullshit, a far cry from the vision the Lord had when He created our universe.
