Rodney King flies again!

I decide to walk home from work one dark winter night, understand this, where I live, sidewalks are a rarity on such quiet, narrow, Norwegian mountain goat country roads, where fat-ass American SUV’s and humans live side by side in perfect harmony, until someone dies. And so it has been since WW2, I swear to God I can still smell the German curse words mixed in with the asphalt. Anyway, I’m starting to sound like my grandmother, there I am, walking along, when suddenly the headlights of a car hit my face, and it rolls up beside me. “POLICE”, it says on the doors, and loe and behold, there are even two COPS sitting inside, rolling down their windows.

Just as my brain starts realising what those big, bold letters on the car door really mean, everything starts moving in slow motion. Panic floods me, adrenaline slides through my veins like ADD-children on a water slide, my impressive collection of back hair stands up in awe to get a better look, and my whole body goes into escape-mode. Suddenly, throwing myself, head first, over the fence to my right, tumbling down the grassy hill towards the concrete factory down there at the water’s edge, where the dogs are waiting with forks and aprons and tiny salt shakers, hitting the icy water and drowning like a pathetic villain seems just right at that moment, even though I’ve never done a scrap of evil my entire life. Weeeell, ok, there was this one incident when I was about three years old, in the sandbox, with a red plastic bucket that strictly speaking wasn’t mine, oh, like you haven’t ever experienced acute plastic colour blindness?? Look it up!

So I’m still standing there, my life flashing before my eyes, at least the three last hours I can still recall, toes curling in my shoes, cold sweat breaking through the deep and intense fear wrinkles on my forehead, and all I can think of is that I have two chocolates in my handbag that I can’t take full responsibility for not being loaded with marihuana or ecstasy by some angry chocolate factory employee with a grudge against blonds with intense chocolate cravings. Fucking factory workers, I knew they’d be the end of me!

“You’re wearing really dark clothes, so I want to give you a reflector”, says the female cop behind the wheel, and her male, pussy whipped feminism victim sidekick that’s not allowed to drive because he wee’s standing up, nods and backs her up with a “yeah, you are kind of dark”, and they proceed to laugh a little, probably some kind of calming behaviour they learned in Terrorism Class. Now get this, it’s not illegal to not wear a reflector in this country, but you get harassed by drivers and treated like a lepra patient if you don’t value your life enough to walk around looking like a neon-version of the Michelin man.

The female cop starts roaming her pockets for a reflector to give me, as I ponder whether I’m in the first faze of a new Rodney King episode, the way they keep referring to me being so “dark”, and the coppy way they make their hands look like guns, making those cheesy clicking noises with their mouths, like they were in a Beastie Boys “Sabotage” tribute video. In the dark all cats seem grey, or something like that, and cops still wear batons and have painful elbows, so I went for one of my all time trustworthy girlie-smiles, the kind that melts grannies hearts and make your uncles wanna touch you in inappropriate places, accepted the reflector bowing and scraping myself against the asphalt, and yes, I do admit, there wasn’t much keeping me from actually touching the ground with my bare lips, whilst I sobbing promised to never, ever, never do what I had done again, whatever that was all about, but I didn’t kneel for Zod. No, no, the inner strength you think you have, when watching American cop series where stupid murderers are grilled under a Gestapo lamp whilst they give away EVERYTHING in a high pitched girlie voice, laughing so confidently and being so sure that YOU would NEVER give away anything, that assurance is gone like a bar of chocolate in a woman’s hand.

I admit it now, I lied like I had never lied to anyone before, about how I hadn’t planned to walk home that night, and that the buses only came once every solstice out there in the country. I even made room for a cute chuckle I thought would make them fly at me, heads first and batons second, but they seemed convinced by my blond plaits and school girl smile, and let me run along, without taking me down to the sound of screaming sirens and emergency code callings, something I at times now find slightly disappointing. Grabbing my reflector and thanking them for it, I got out of there faster than any drug can make you think you’re running.

And the moral of the story?
Before the police threw themselves at me that night, it had never even occurred to be to lie to anyone, it’s simply too much for my simple female brain to hatch out, but my local Police District has made me a raging criminal! I’ve lied to the police, and I’m not even ashamed about it. Next step on the ladder to crime is smoking, drinking, crack and downloading music online. Next time I see a cop car I’ll know that trip over the fence and into a certain death in the icy water will be worth it, to stay an example citizen of my community.

And I never go anywhere without my reflector.

Bananasheiks