6.

We love cops. They’re so nice. And the best thing about them is that they listen. They truly want to believe your story, your song and dance, your tale of woe. They see so much ugliness, so many stains of humanity that they begin to think that we are a race of ingrates and inbreds. So when they stumble upon our parched and dedicated souls, they are so willing to be easy with us, give us a pass, a chance to reclaim ourselves and our lives. And sometimes, we just amuse them.

For example: back in the day I found it convenient to not possess a driver’s license. I’d missed so many court dates in so many states that I figured I’d just walk, ride a bike, take buses forever. However, when Crazy A. and I were a team I often drove the getaway car. Sure as shit, one day my no-driver’s-license-suspended-seven-(or 8)-times-self was pulled over for running a red light. The motorcycle cop, a handsome man with an ermine mustache waved me to the curb, then continued to write a ticket for some other unlucky fool. I turned off the car and looked at Crazy A. We were both dressed for a Mardi Gras party, half drunk already, high.

“You’re going to have to fake an emergency,” I said. “Or else tomorrow you’ll be bailing my sorry ass out of jail.”

“Okay,” she said with a wicked grin.

As I got out of the car and began approaching the police officer she started shrieking.

“What’s the matter with her?”

“We’re on the way to the hospital,” I lied. “She’s having really bad menstrual cramps.”

“Where’s your driver’s license?”

“I left it at home,” I lied again. “We were in such a hurry I just rushed out the door.”

She let out a series of shrieks that made both the cop and I jump.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, writing me a ticket for running the red light. He have me a break for no license and thank God didn’t call my name in. “Good luck with that,” he said, gesturing to the car. Crazy A.’s shrieks had turned into profanity-laced grunts punctuated with long moans.

“You’re telling me,” I said. “It’s like this every month.”

Which wasn’t true. She was really only like that when I was egging her on.

Little Chris had his own good story about beating the fuzz.

“We were speeding through Iowa,” he said. “Cop pulled us over, made us kneel on the side of the road with our hands behind our back. He ripped my car apart but we didn’t have anything except some acid in a pill bottle. The cop opened the bottle, shook a few pills into his gloved hand, asked me what they were. I said ‘allergy medicine,’ which was true. Then the cop, he was a state trooper, I remember his mirrored sunglasses, he pointed at the sheet of acid all folded up and said, ‘What’s that?’”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said it was the moisture-absorbent paper that comes with the pills.”

“And he believed that shit?”

“Yes he did. He put the acid and the pills back in the bottle, gave me a ticket for speeding and sent me on my way.”

“What would you have done if he didn’t believe you?”

“Well,” said Little Chris, crushing his cigarette out in the car’s ashtray. “I figured I could make it to the nearest cornfield. After that, I had no plan.”