Issue 22 - 1992

Coe Review • Issue 22
As we pulled onto the Drive, J. floored the car. In no time we
were doing 90 mph. “Hey, cool it,” I said, “It’s the middle of the day,
slow down, J. Geez, when I’m doing 85 in my Fiat, it’s buzzing like
hell, and it feels like I’m about two feet off the ground. This is like
a fucking limousine, you don’t feel anything.”
We slowed down by the time we got into Uptown. By then,
the traffic was heavier. Then we swooped around the North Avenue
exit curve and went west to Milwaukee Avenue.
“Ah, yes, the Neighborhood,” I said. “I can smell the dope. I
can see the junkies. Look, there’s Kenny. Remember the time he
took my $20 and said he’d be right back?”
“Shut up,” J. whispered loudly as we turned on to our side
street. “Do you see anybody? Do you see Jose?”
As we cruised slowly down the street, I could feel that
something was not right. Suddenly we saw three cops jump out of a
car parked against the curb. They ran straight for Jose who was
sitting outside on the top step of his front porch. He knew enough not
to move when he saw them coming. They grabbed him by his arms,
drug him over to their car, and threw him face down on the hood.
They kicked his feet apart, and when he tried to lift his head, they
grabbed him by the hair and pushed his head down onto the hood
again.
We sped up a little, turned our heads straight ahead so the
cops couldn’t see us gaping as we drove by, and disappeared around
the corner.
“Oh shit, now what do we do?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” said J., “They won’t bust him, he never has
any dope on him, or inside his house. They can’t do anything.”
“Well, let’s get out of here. We don’t want to be sitting
around the corner when the cops leave. Let’s go over to Armitage
and get an Italian Ice, then go back.”
As we sat on the curb chewing frozen lemon rinds our
thoughts turned to ‘What if’s.’
“What if they’re still there?” I chimed in first. “We’ll be sick
as dogs at work tonight. What if no one is there? Then what do we
do?”
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