Rashaan and Juliet

By Amy

 

I'm on the bus for five minutes and already I'm dropping down into everybody's business like Spiderman on his thread. I have my sunglasses on and my face behind a magazine. Perfect cover for my mission. Hell, I'm so stealthy I should work for Homeland Security.

 

Two men in seats across from me are talking, but it's more like they're orating; their voices are loud enough for the benefit of all passengers. One's in his mid-20s at the most and wears a crocheted Muslim skullcap. A red T-shirt strains against his bulging, muscular chest and arms. The other's a long, lean elderly gentlemen in a black baseball cap, green Army-issue jacket and gold-lensed aviator sunglasses.

 

"So I gave her an ultimatum," the young man says. "You can choose me or the money. She chose the money.

 

"Her family was white and upper middle-class. They didn't like their daughter being with a black man, and they threatened to cut her off if she stayed with me. So she chose them."

 

The young man lets that soak in, and then continues.

 

"But for a while there it was cool. They lived on some property near Monmouth. Her dad had a boat. And they had horses.

 

"In fact, that was how we met. She came to Job Corps to teach us how to ride horses. That was the first time I ever touched a horse. I was good with them. I was the only one in the group who could back one up without it kicking."

 

"That rodeo talk," the old man says. "I don't know much about rodeos."

 

Outside, on MLK, a cop car guns past the bus, sirens wailing.

 

"I thank God for police officers, the old man says. Without them it would be the wild, wild West."

 

"People are jackals," says the young man.

 

"Well I thank God for the police. They saved my life," the old man says.

 

"I been in jail twice," the young man says.

 

"We all make mistakes. That's what we do," the old man says, with genuine compassion. "I thank God for police, lawyers, doctors. Authority. That's what they represent. Authority. Saved my life."