It’s 5:30 p.m. on Thursday.
I’ve finished my work for the day, done my workout, bought my vegan, organic, gluten-free organic groceries for the week. Now I’m looking for some action. So far, I’ve seen a rat, gotten lost on the subway, and been out on a bad date. Now it’s time for something new. I’m out walking in downtown Brooklyn and see five cops up ahead leaning lazily against a couple of squad cars next to the old downtown city hall.
Several skateboarders are flying around on their boards, doing fantastical leaps in the sky. I sit down on the steps to rest my tired feet.
Off to my side is a group of young Black men and an older skinny white woman with long, brunette hair. The woman shouts at the police: “You see, here’s a white woman, getting along with black people. Imagine that!”
A Black guy next to her, stands up and announces, “We are not looking for friends. We are looking for allies and comrades!”
My ears perk up. As a Jew who comes from a long line of oppressed, persecuted people, when a Black person calls out for help, it’s my duty to offer assistance. I throw my grocery bags on the ground, imagine myself leaping into the air, twirling around three times, and emerge as Wonder Woman, clad in a gold tiara, red riding boots and perfect hair—the perfect hair being the most essential part.
I slide shyly over with my grocery bags and ask, “Do you mind if I join you guys?”
What I really want to ask if I can hit off the joint they’re rolling. But I save that for later.
The brunette woman practically throws her arms around me. “Yes, welcome! Join us.”
The young guy, whose name is Ghost, eyes me suspiciously.
“What do you think about cops? You like ‘em?”
I think back to when I was nine-years-old, climbing on top of my school roof looking for lost superballs and was dragged off by a cop who accused me of trespassing. I sobbed hysterically in the back of the squad car, terrified of what was happening. I think too of when was I was 25 years old in Istanbul, Turkey and four cops with submachine guns threw me in the back of their car and threatened to haul me down to the station for a virginity check. Then there was the time in Three Rivers when a SWAT team showed up at my door at 2 a.m., lights flashing and blocking off traffic in the streets, to arrest me and my then boyfriend for allegedly crank calling a suicide hotline. The commanding officer told my boyfriend and me he wanted to throw us in the bushes and strangle us to death instead of bringing us to jail. So, no, I am not a fan of cops.
I tell this to Ghost, and he high-fives me.
“Who do you date—white guys or black guys?” someone in the crowd asks.
I throw my hands into the air. “Um, uh, …. whoever,” I say.
I leave out how I am so sick of men I wish I was gay.
A little braver now, I ask Ghost, “Hey, can I have a hit off your joint?”
He laughs. “You want to smoke with the gangsters?” he asks, handing me the joint.
“Sure, why not,” I say, taking a drag.
“So, you want to join our protest?” the brunette asks.
“Of course!” I say, feeling powerful with the joint in my hand.
They all cheer for me.
“What are we protesting?” I ask.
I assume it’s a Black Lives Matter, or better yet, a women’s rights protest.
“We’re protesting Eric Adams,” she says.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
They look at me like I’m from Mars.
“He’s the mayor of New York City,” the brunette says.
“What’s he done wrong?” I ask.
They don’t say much. Just that he’s a former cop who hasn’t done enough for the Black community. They say they’re going to march over the Brooklyn Bridge and stop traffic.
Ghost and I pass the joint back and forth, and then someone hands him what looks like two Molotov cocktails.
“What are those?” I ask
“Uh, just something to attract a little attention,” Ghost says.
“Are those explosives?” I ask.
Ghost narrows his eyes at me, worried, perhaps, I might turn tail and tell the cops. He stops passing me the joint.
“Well, what are the chances, you think, we could run into trouble?” I ask
Another guy pipes up. “If you got the right motherfuckers by your side, you don’t gotta worry!”
“Right,” I say, beginning to worry. “Maybe I should call my sister and tell her I might get arrested on the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Not a bad idea,” Ghost says.
Still, I’m not sure if I want to get arrested for this. Eric Adams is such a benign-sounding name. If it were Donald Trump or Charles Manson, I’d be on board. Plus, I’m not properly dressed for jail. It gets so cold there. Last time I got arrested, I had to cuddle up next to a meth-addicted woman named Kit-Kat for warmth.
My boyfriend, meanwhile, narrowly escaped being thrown into the middle of a gang fight. The scariest part of all wasn’t the other prisoners. It was the cold, unsmiling, steely-eyed way the guards look at us--more like dogs in cages than people in cells.
The brunette tells me gleefully that we can walk up to any cop on the street, scan their badges with our phones and find out where they live as well as their wives’ and girlfriends’ names.
“We can call up their wives and tell them about their girlfriends,” she says.
“Wow,” I say, thinking this sounds a little invasive. It’s true most of my experiences with cops have been bad, but these particular ones haven’t hurt me.
I notice the corners of the brunette’s lips twitching a little. I wonder if she’s been smoking something besides pot.
If I get arrested, I wonder if the cops will put my expensive vegan groceries in cold storage so they don’t spoil. Probably not. The dozen or so protesters gather together and ready themselves to take over the bridge.
Maybe I’ll wait until next week when I’m better dressed for jail and don’t have expensive groceries melting. Yes, that’s right. I’ve done my part, shown my support, smoked pot with the gangsters. I’m good. I slink off into the shadows, order a Lyft, and slump down in the backseat as we drive on by.