them kicked me hard in the stomach. He had been trying to kick me lower, but I sidestepped and he missed.
They didnât book me. They merely harassed me, held me there just long enough that I missed my bus.
I brooded about this incident for a long time then, but put it behind me. Never funny to begin with, it is now even less amusing, almost absurd, slightly sad, and, when I think of the returning black soldier who had his eyes gouged out at the bus station in 1945, infuriating.
Like my fatherâs old stories, over time my own remembrances take on new shapes, gain in significance, alter my outlook. Whatâs most important, they connect me to my father in ways I had never considered. They connect me to so many others.
As I was driving in New Jersey the police pulled me over one evening, searched me, searched my car. My offense? I had changed lanes without signaling.
âWith all the maniacs out here driving a hundred miles an hour, since when,â I wanted to know, âdo you pull people over and search their cars for changing lanes without signaling?â
In Delaware, another cop, another search, another lie.
âCome on,â I said. âWhyâd you really pull me over?â
I was smiling. I wanted a good laugh and would have gone along with this joke if only they had guts enough to tell the truth. But what could they say?
âYou were speeding. We clocked you doing seventy-five.â
I had just gone through a toll booth. It couldnât have been more than five seconds from a dead stop.
âDoes this look like a race car to you?â I said. âIt doesnât to me.â
They looked through the car and told me to open the trunk.
âHave you guys got probable cause?â I asked.
They looked up then, paid me more serious attention.
âAre you a lawyer?â
Now it was my turn to lie.
âYou got it,â I said. âI sure am.â
They left me alone.
The police and I just donât get along.
I was arrested once simply for walking down the street in a high-incomeâwhiteâneighborhood.
âSomebody called in and said there was a black man walking in the neighborhood.â
âOh, yeah?â I said in a panic. âWhere? I didnât see him.â
The cop didnât find me amusing. When I refused to show him my ID, he hauled me off to the police station.
And then this last unfortunate encounter that came just before I left St. Louis on this motorcycle.
I had ridden the bike down to the Central West End to meet a friend for lunch. As usual, I was late.
The West End is described as a fashionable part of the city, crowded with chic little shops and cafés. In spring and summer when the weather is sunny and warm, people sit outside at these cafés and enjoy the open air and watch the goings-on. At one of them my friend sat and watched the entire happening.
I had parked my bike down the street. I was late and was walking quickly. As I crossed the street in front of the café, a tan car turned sharply across my path and into the alley. Two men jumped out, one black, the other one white. They were not in uniform. They never flashed a badge. But I knew right away they were cops. Their haircuts. The car. The way they swaggered when they walked toward me. They made sure I saw the guns hanging from their belts. The one cop kept a hand on his pistol.
The black cop hurried to me and yanked away the helmet I carried.
âWe need to have a word with you,â he said and shoved me toward the car. âLetâs see some ID.â
âWhat for?â
âYou match the description of a man shoplifting up the street.â
âWas he on a motorcycle? Was he carrying a helmet?â
âHe was carrying something. Could have been a briefcase, could have been a helmet. Let me see some ID.â
I refused. He threw me against the car and searched me anyway. He yanked my jacket off my back and went through it. He found
Learning to Kill: Stories