The cops were called; they claimed I was harassing customers at their store. I was just being weird, being myself and if they didn’t like it, well … I guess they could always phone the police. I left and went around back where the police spotted me ditching the scene. I wasn’t too hard to miss, in my tight jeans and white T-shirt on which I had written YOU MAKE ME SPEW. I might have been wearing a bowler derby or perhaps a fedora but who knows? My steel-toed boots were big, Doc Martins of course, and they might have had red laces too. The cop pulled up and he knew my name. He said: Jeremy, I knew it was you. Who else? He saw my shirt and said: I know that song. Isn’t that Chron Gen? I nodded, taken aback by this strange encounter. I recognized the cop’s face, but I didn’t know his name like he knew mine. I nodded. Said: Yeah. You know Chron Gen? His partner stood back and said nothing. You oughtta move to England, he told me. You’d fit in better. He let me off with a warning.
The cop who had arrested me cuz my bottom lip was bleeding and my boom-box played too loudly on his safe and quiet streets, wasn’t as nice, I suppose. It first started when Bell went in to the liquor store and the Indian clerk was spooked by Bell’s shaved head, braces, and boots. He pulled a baseball bat out from under the counter, hit the silent alarm, and refused to sell him beer. He jabbered an unfamiliar series of words, with an unrecognizable tongue that just went on and on and on. Me and Chunky stood out front. My arm was bleeding because earlier in the night I fell through a window while trying to sneak in to a hardcore show through the locked backdoor.
The cops showed up and were mighty pissed.
A few days later I was bleeding again, my boom-box raged, and I was a public indecency. It was the same cop. He told us that he clocked out an hour after he dealt with me the last time, and he clocked in just an hour ago. His last two hours of work he had to deal with me. And both times I was bleeding.
He arrested me for Contributing to the Delinquency of Minors because the boy I met outside the Store 24 was under 18 years of age and as I waited chained to a metal bar in an unlocked room, the cops searched my jacket pockets in hope of finding something they could charge me with. They found their reason: a lockpick set. I was further charged with Possession of Burglarious Tools, Contributing to the Delinquency of Minors, and Disorderly Conduct.
I ran after that man called the cops when I smashed a glass bottle down at the Newton Center train station; I ran because I just got back from purchasing a butterfly knife for the drummer of my band, a black boy named DP. DP was 16 and therefore not old enough to possess such a thing. We dropped the item off at his dad’s house, then met back up with Harry. When we got there, a cruiser was pulled over and the cop talking to Harry was a large black man who I had previously heard got suspended for shooting up a car for no other reason than to impose his dominance. They were looking for me. Last thing I heard was: “And Harry, keep your friend out of trouble, willya?”
When I was in my late 20s I heard the charges from when I got arrested for Possession of Cocaine were dropped. I remember that night. I was 19. We carried my Playstation 2 to the dealer’s house, made the exchange, and hopped back into Andrew’s pickup truck in the Staples parking lot. We each took a bump and Andrew saw the cruiser pull in. He dumped the contents of the bag out the window.
The police report stated that the cop had watched us leave the truck carrying a large electronic item which he assumed we had lifted from the store, and then 30 minutes later we entered the truck and the item we had previously carried was absent.
We later laughed in remorse because the amount of cocaine the labs had determined that we carried on our persons was a much higher number than that of which we thought we had. So we figured the cocaine was about as close to pure as it could get.
The charges were dropped because it turned out the lab technician who worked at that time was discovered to have lied countless times about the drug quantities in question.
When I had half-green hair I got pulled over for speeding moments after the light turned green, in a shorter time and distance than was humanly possible for me to have actually accelerated in my minivan.
I got drilled by a group of policemen and -women under a bridge as they threatened to kick our asses, hoping they could provoke us into throwing the first punch so as to give them a legal justification to kicking our heads in.
They called me tree because I had carved shit in my arms.
As much as I hate the police, I am grateful for the fact that they wanted me out of their town because if I had never left, who knows how many more policemen and -women would know me by name? And who knows where I’d be today….