Leaving Isn't the Hardest Thing(51)

It happened at the high-heel race, one of those charity events where straight people get to laugh at the queers and somehow money is raised for something. It’s held every year around Halloween. I’d never gone because I always had to work. But Autumn invited me, then changed her mind; she was going with Karen and I thought, fuck it. I’m not letting them ruin my night.

I don’t know what happened exactly because, while I was completely sober, all I remember is seeing them on the street. Depends on who you ask. I asked Autumn the next day. She said I’d shoved Karen. That it was sloppy. Karen went down hard and broke her wrist on the landing.

Here’s a funny thing: I was relieved. After four years as a bouncer and bartender, I can tell you lesbians getting into fights, shoving matches, outright brawls is a running joke, like scissoring but real. I’d never been that lesbian, only because I was the lesbian breaking up the fights that lesbians got into. Didn’t have time for my own version. And it was Karen, who was an asshole. I’m not saying it should be legal to assault an asshole. But up until that moment, I can’t say it had occurred to me that it might not be legal. I was more worried about the fact I had no memory of the event, and figured at least it was something minor, and Karen was an asshole.

When Autumn said Karen had called the cops, my first reaction was, what kind of asshole calls the cops?

Officer Foreman, the cop who’d taken the report, laughed when I called her ma’am. She said it was no big deal, just a misdemeanor. She would call when she was finished with the paperwork and I could turn myself in and be out in a couple hours. I made dinner and stayed the night at Autumn’s and thought…(Jesus, I can hear how stupid this sounds) I thought we were getting back together.

   Here’s the last thing that’s funny: I also thought Officer Foreman was all right. She seemed really nice on the phone.

Then, the Friday before Thanksgiving, someone pounded on the door, and for the life of me, I don’t know why I answered. Who answers their door at eleven p.m.? But the way they were pounding made my mind think “emergency” in capital letters.

I opened the door to see Fairfax County cops and thought, Oh, y’all are definitely at the wrong house. Then I saw Brett Parsons, everyone’s hero. Parsons was the cop who’d march in the Pride parade. The cop who led the unit we could call, who’d understand LGBTQ relationships, who wouldn’t call us names, who wouldn’t say we brought it on ourselves. Whatever “it” might be.



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When I try to explain the Gay and Lesbian Liaison Unit to the inmates in the cells next to mine, they react like I’m telling them cops are heroes and marijuana will kill you. They say, “Honey, gay po-lice is still a po-lice. We don’t think a Black po-lice isn’t a po-lice because his skin’s the same.” I say working at a club will give you funny ideas on the kind nature of police.

The voices said, “Yeah. White’ll do that too.” They have a point. The voices debate my intelligence level. The consensus comes to “dumb as white.” The voices find this hilarious, and I wait for the chant to die down before I continue, knowing the next part will be punctuated by the new slogan.

   Brett had said he never pegged me for a troublemaker. I said, “Officer Foreman said I could turn myself in.” I explained being arrested was inconvenient. I had to go to work in the morning. I had a dog. Brett let me call Autumn to come get the dog. He said I’d only be in jail a couple hours. No big deal. It’s just a misdemeanor. (Dumb as white.)

Here’s where it gets confusing: I lived in Virginia. Autumn lived in Maryland. I committed my crime in D.C. In theory, because it was a misdemeanor, I could’ve decided, instead of turning myself in, to never cross the bridge back into D.C. and might’ve lived a long life never seeing the inside of a cell. But then Officer Foreman never called me back. So in order for the D.C. police to arrest me in Virginia, a couple things needed to happen—they needed a warrant, and not for a misdemeanor. Or they needed to be a little shady. Since they didn’t have a warrant, Brett helpfully drove out to Fairfax and brought the Fairfax cops to my house.

The Fairfax County cop who drove me to the jail said, “Listen, I don’t want to say anything about D.C. police, but you’re charged with a felony. You better get a lawyer before you talk to those guys again.” My brain stuck on the word “felony”—felony will do that to you. I didn’t believe him. Told him there must be some mistake. He waited for a light to change and showed me my name on his laptop. “FELONY.”

   When we got to the jail, Brett Parsons, everyone’s hero, said, “Well, yeah. We just bumped it to a felony so we could come get you. It’ll get knocked down as soon as the marshals come to transfer you to D.C. Couple hours. You won’t even get processed here.” (Dumb as white. This is the funniest story the voices have ever heard.)

The deputy at the Fairfax County jail didn’t want to take me. He said, “We don’t even have a warrant in the system. Yes, I can see the charge. What I don’t see is a warrant or order to detain.”

Brett said, “Nah. This is standard procedure for a felony arrest.”

The Fairfax County cop said, “I don’t think this is proper.” He was the sort of overgrown Boy Scout who’d make a great cop or a terrible cop, depends on your viewpoint.