Tyler Johnson Was Here(23)

The cop yells, “Everybody shut the fuck up.” He looks at the three of us. “You three better get out of here before you’re next.”

And now I’m wondering: What does next mean? Next to be treated like a punching bag or an animal? Next to lose my life? I could fucking throw up right now.

The cop slaps some handcuffs on the boy, and the boy wails, trying his best to break free.

“Goddamn thugs think you own this place. Fuck it. You’re gonna learn a lesson today.”

My gaze falls to the floor, and I watch blood pool around the poor boy’s mouth, desolation in his eyes, and he’s coughing and crying and choking and screaming and choking and crying and coughing and begging for this torture to just stop, until he falls silent, beaten unconscious.

My heart shatters into a billion pieces, my thoughts shifting and sorting, one at a time, unable to place themselves. Because nothing makes sense right now.





? 11 ?


The officer lunges out on us, pushing Ivy back onto the floor. He grabs me by my collar and squeezes, his grip feeling like a nylon rope around my neck.

G-mo tries to pry the cop’s hands away from my neck. “You comply when I command you to do something. You hear?” the officer barks as he tightens the grip on my collar, and I feel a bone in my neck crack.

“Holy shit, what the fuck is going on?!” Ivy shouts.

“Get the hell off him, yo,” G-mo says, still trying to pry away the cop’s hands.

“Somebody, help! Lady, help!” Ivy shouts back to the cashier.

She does nothing. Just stares. Just fucking stares.

And I’m left peering into this man’s eyes, somewhere between cobalt and iceberg, ’cause his glare is the coldest thing I’ve ever felt. I see all the hate trapped inside them.

He yanks harder at my shirt and then his hands go to my pants and pockets, in search of something.

“He ain’t got nothing in there,” Ivy shouts, helping G-mo try to wrestle the cop’s hands from me, his arms flexing, the veins in his biceps looking thick. His weight is just too much for them.

The officer shoves me back, pinning me against a rack of something that I can’t see, and it pierces my back hard. Then, in a moment, there is a fist punching my gut repeatedly, a knee to my crotch, and I’m tossed to the floor, hitting my face hard, and I feel the impact all over.

He’s trying to put me in handcuffs, but I wiggle, trying to break free. I tell myself to win this power struggle because that’s what this is: the ultimate power struggle. G-mo and Ivy are screaming for me, still trying to get this cop off me.

“You trying to resist, boy. You wanna resist, huh?” the cop keeps saying on a loop.

He squeezes my hands hard behind my back, and my skin is on fire. My heart is pounding in my chest, beads of sweat falling into my eyes.

“That’s enough, Joe,” the cashier woman finally says. “I think he’s learned his lesson today.”

And feeling nothing but pain all over and hands on top of my head and moving down my back, all I’m feeling is like I’m seriously going to die without having really lived, and all I am left thinking is: What lesson did I have to be taught?

Not to be a concerned individual?

Not to care about someone else’s innocent life, the boy lying unconscious across from me?

Not to care about my own life?

Not to be a member of my own race?

I don’t know what, but I know that in this very moment I’m starting to really hate myself, really feel sorry for myself, because I’ve been black for too long, because I’ve been such a menace to society because of this skin, because of the words that come to mind when some people see me.

“Get the hell out of here and don’t come back, or else,” the officer says into my neck, releasing me at once. He scowls. The hatred in his voice is scarier than anything I could’ve ever imagined.

Ivy and G-mo help me up off the floor, and, keeping eyes on the poor boy, we haul ass out of there, seeing cop cars and ambulances flying down the street toward the food mart.

We ride all the way back to the park in my neighborhood, our brains scattered and exploding into a million thoughts.





“You okay?” Ivy asks.

I nod at her, not actually feeling okay in the slightest. I’m replaying what happened at the store in my mind, my throat tightening. That could’ve been my brother, easily. How do I know he isn’t already lying somewhere, beaten unconscious, or worse—dead—because he’s black and looked at as a threat before actually being seen?

“Yo. What the fuck is going on with the goddamn cops, man?” G-mo goes.

“My mama say this world’s going to shit,” Ivy adds. “That’s just all there is to it.”

I have to catch my breath. I’m unable to say anything, horrified, still thinking about what just went down, still flinching from this nasty twinge all over me. I feel like my bones are legit on fire. Like someone ran a cheese grater over every single muscle in my body. But I’m reminding myself that I can’t allow pain to reign over me. I can’t handle another oppressor.

“That was some fucked-up-ass shit. He only had CDs and a dime bag. No one deserves to be beaten like that. He could’ve died. That isn’t punishable by death. What’s worse is that that could’ve been any of us,” Ivy says.