There's this black dude standing in front of the White Hen begging for loose change. He's almost always there. When he's not there there's this other black dude. I sometimes picturing them punching in and out on the time clock.
"Morning, Harold."
"Good Day, Winston."
So he's there; smiling and shaking his cup. He doesn't see the unmarked squad car waiting at the light with two corpulent vice cops seated comfortably inside.
Not until the passenger squeals out the window, "Gotta quarter? Gotta quarter?" His voice taking on a rugged and desperate sound as he mocks the black dude standing in front of the White Hen begging for loose change, who replies, "I wish." Then the cops laughed, as their fat rolls threatened to leak out of the sides of their bullet-proof vests, and they drove off through the intersection.
Isn't there crime in the city? Are you doing your best to serve and protect? Should you really be wasting your time, Mr. Officer, taunting the less fortunate?
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