Does It Mean I’m Woke

Does It Mean I’m Woke

if I get pulled over, assuming it’s speeding but who knows, especially at night, and even though no as a matter of fact I have not had anything to drink sir, I do the nine and three with my hands because who wants to be in the right but still become a statistic, and intentional the only killing that occurs during this stop is committed by kindness, and even when the officer comes back, bad news in his hand, it’s not necessarily that you were going too fast but it’s a slow month and we all have quotas to keep (he doesn’t say), 67 in a 55 seriously (I don’t say), and here’s all the info in case you want to contest in court etc., and even after he walks away, smiling—nothing if not professional—I find myself thanking him for what exactly?

Talking S.

There was a retirement home across the street, so we had a flow of repeat business comprised of senior citizens known by face if not by name, and one in particular by smell. Which is to say she always smelled bad. Which is to say she always smelled like shit, literally. Indignant, we’d discuss her, saying things like “why can’t she keep that shit to herself?” Mostly taking umbrage that we had to suffer the double indignity of cleaning her plates while confronted with the sad reality she couldn’t even clean out her diaper. Even as bus boys making less than minimum wage and relying on tips from mostly cranky waitresses, we felt superior, our egos bolstered by what our parents had paid for. And my father, when I’d occasionally offer up reports from the front lines, was reliably infuriating with his very Catholic equanimity. “You don’t understand,” I explained. “This woman makes things embarrassing for everyone, especially herself.” My old man shook his head like I was the bad guy. “That’ll be you one day.” What a shitty thing to say, I said. To myself.

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This Post is republished on Medium.

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