BAD BOYS. BAD BOYS...

About 5 years ago Bird and I started making a yearly pilgrimage to Bugfucknowhere, Maine to visit little brother Duke, for our version of a road rally- The Sandy River 500. We took whatever wrecked cars were still running and drove them maniacally around a field (where the garden used to be) until antifreeze was streaming out of hoses and parts were seizing up. With the price of scrap going through the roof, Duke's collection of junkers had disappeared, as had our race. So this year the women folk- Ginger, neice Betheroo, Smokie and sis-in-law Boola all came on board for a weekend of drinking and lobster devouring.
Bird and Smokie both drive big, shiny, gas guzzling, white trucks. We might as well have plastered them with yellow ribbons and McCain/Palin stickers. We looked like ugly American leaf peepers. So it was, stopped in Springfield, Mass., getting gas that America raised it's ugly head. I noticed the bubble gum top of a police cruiser tucked under an overpass, as Bird and Smokie filled up the rigs.
I didn't think much of it until the lights and siren came on and the prowler headed right for us. In front of the cop, walking briskly, then on a full run was a young, baggy pants, Black gentleman, with his hand in one pocket of his hoodie. In the blink of an eye cops (dropping sticks, grasping guns) and more patrol cars appeared out of thin air. Mr. baggy pants zigged, zagged, and then headed right between Bird and Smokie. I was sitting in the passenger seat of Bird's SUV. The engine was running. All that kid had to do was jump in and take off. I didn't think of this until later. I was too busy wringing my hands and squealing like a little girl.
Bird's first instinct was to stop the kid. Then he saw the bulge in his hoodie and thought better. Smokie actually made a move for him and Bird screamed "Smokie, NO!" Just like a good bird dog, Smokie stayed put. The kid crossed the lot, a few more streets and when he headed up the bank, for the highway, a Suburu clipped him at about 30mph. He went down hard. Cops, with guns drawn, kneed and cuffed him. Phew! We were all safe. Here's the thing. Maybe that kid was one bad, murderous mutherfucker. Or, on the other hand, he could've had nothing more dangerous than a little stash of pot in his pocket. Innocent until proven guilty obviously does not protect you from being blindsided by a Suburu. Bird and Smokie jumped in the trucks and off we went before they closed off the street. We were all giddy with the excitement, drawing different scenerios. What if Smokie and Bird had tripped him, and he had a knife or a gun? What if the cops had started shooting? Or what if he just had a little weed, escaped unharmed and was back home at his moms, watching the debate at 9pm? I told my brothers if they had needed me I had their backs. They both smirked. "What about the pot in your pocket?" Bird asked. Oh yeah. Better just stay put in my passenger seat. Pass me the melted butter. My lobster's getting cold.