333 Miles (14 page)

“Ah, shit. He clowned you big time,
Chris-dog,” the big guy said, laughing.

Chris-dog didn’t think it was very funny.
“You think you are some type of hero, bitch? What the fuck do you
know? You think you are right and we are just a bunch of dumb
niggers? Is that it?”

Roger did not have time for a reply. Chris
swung with his right hand. Roger, who was nearly unbeatable at
ping-pong, always had quick reflexes. He was able to move away from
the girl and block the punch with his arm. Before Chris had a
chance to swing again one of the other members of the group came
from behind and connected with a roundhouse that landed on the back
of Roger’s head and bent him forward. Chris then hit him on the
side of the jaw with a weak left that was just enough to send Roger
to the ground. The next blow came from the side and was an
unhindered kick to the ribs that partially knocked the wind out of
Roger and rotated him so he was flat on his back.

From head to toe, fists and shoes began
pummeling him from every direction. Roger instinctively curled into
a fetal position, using his arms to protect his head. The Corona
bottle, still wedged into his pants, stuck into his abdomen and
produced a sharp pain before falling to the side and rolling away,
unbroken. He wet himself a little. The remainder of the beating
only lasted nine seconds, but it seemed much longer.

“That’s enough!” a deep voice boomed from
above. The blows immediately ceased. Roger looked up between his
elbows to see where this divine intervention came from. It was the
biggest of the group, who obviously held authority and had
apparently refrained from participating in the beating. It occurred
to Roger later that if this man had chosen to join in, or had not
stopped things when he did, that he may not have walked away from
the incident without serious permanent damage.

No one moved for about ten seconds. Roger
looked from the big guy to his friend Steve who stood about fifteen
feet away and was completely frozen with a look of shock on his
face. Chris-dog saw who Roger was looking at and took a step in
Steve’s direction. “What are you looking at, nigger?” he
shouted.

At this point, eight concert security guards
wearing ridiculous yellow jackets arrived on the scene along with
six baton-wielding members of the Los Angeles Police Department.
The police shouted for everyone to lie face down on the ground and
put their hands behind their back. Their instructions were barely
issued when they began using the batons, relying on their training
to beat anything black, including Steve, until it was on the ground
and motionless. They faced little resistance. Roger watched as two
officers beat down the big guy in the Dre shirt who had saved him.
The big guy stood as long as he could, his own way of protesting,
but he did not hit back. Roger’s thoughts were still overwhelmed by
rage and adrenaline and he found himself hoping the police would
continue to pound on the other six, but they stopped as soon as all
were handcuffed.

Once back in a normal state of mind, it took
him five minutes to convince the police to uncuff Steve. He tried
and failed to persuade them to also uncuff the big guy, who he told
them did not participate in the assault.

Roger refused to see a doctor and insisted to
the police that he was all right. Because of the adrenaline, it was
not until several hours later that he was able to sum up the extent
of his injuries – one black eye, three large bruised bumps on his
head, a fat and bloody lip, a loose tooth, a cracked rib, and
numerous bruises on his body and legs including a deep blue circle
where the Corona had tried to penetrate his stomach.

It took a few weeks for his body to
completely erase all signs of the incident, but from that night he
would never again live his life among his fellow humans in a
color-blind manner. If anything, he became more acutely aware of
the extent of the racism in the world and in his country, and more
convinced of the ignorance of its roots. But he no longer imagined
a world where it would be fully overcome because he realized that
in some way it would now always be alive inside him.

Chapter Fifteen

Breakin’ The Law

7:18 p.m.

“
Breakin’ the law, breakin’ the law . .
.

– Beavis
,
Beavis &
Butt-head

With the port-o-potty incident now safely a
dozen miles behind them, the moon began to assert itself in the sky
to the north of the freeway. On this night, however, it appeared as
a sliver of its entirety, only dimly lighting the vast expanse of
cacti and dirt below.

Inside the BMW, Alex had agreed to put the
Stanford game back on. Roger and Mike were sitting quietly in the
back listening while Alex and Gary discussed who they would rather
have, Jennifer Anniston or Angelina Jolie. Both quickly agreed they
would rather fuck Angelina but would rather marry Jennifer. A
consensus was also reached that Brad Pitt was stupid to leave
Jennifer Anniston even if Angelina was more desirable sexually.
Gary referred to him as a douche-bag, but agreed with Alex’s
positive reviews of his performances in
True Romance
and
Fight Club
.

Conversation halted for the next few minutes
because Stanford had taken the ball inside the three-yard line
after a forty-eight-yard gain on a broken tackle on a screen play.
The Cardinal tried to run it straight in on first and second down
but managed to gain just a yard on both efforts. However, on third
and two, the Stanford quarterback drew one of the linebackers in
too far on a play action fake and then spun and hit his tight end
in the back of the end zone for a touchdown and a six-point
lead.

Roger’s parlay was looking better and
everyone was happy for it, especially Roger.

“I think we are in for a prosperous weekend,
fellas,” he exclaimed while mentally figuring which NFL games he
could bet on Sunday. “Hot-Damn! I feel lucky. Very lucky,” he
added.

As if to punctuate his statement the car
suddenly exploded in bright blue light. A loud siren pierced the
air.

Alex’s widened eyes shot downward to the
needle on the speedometer, which had secretly crept just to the
right of the 100 figure. “Fuck me,” he exclaimed as his foot flew
from the gas pedal to the brake. The BMW slowed from one hundred
and two to sixty-six in the same one-point-eight seconds it took
for Stanford to successfully add the extra point.

Alex quickly made an appeal to God that the
California Highway Patrol car would pass him and pursue other
business, but instead it turned off the siren and settled in just
twenty feet behind him with its side lights still flashing. It
maintained this posture as Alex moved to the right lane and then
slowly onto the shoulder, decelerating until the BMW reached a full
stop. During the process, Gary, Roger and Mike frantically tried to
hide their beers. The task was complicated by a very bright white
light emanating from the patrol car.

To avoid it, Mike slouched down below the top
of the back seat and tilted his head back while chugging the
remaining four ounces left in his Budweiser can. He then shoved the
empty receptacle under the seat in front of him, causing a
crunching sound as another empty already there put up a futile
resistance.

Roger’s beer was still half-full and he did
not think he could rapidly finish it. He saw Mike’s sweatshirt
lying between them and tucked his beer under it in a position he
hoped would not spill too much. With the beer now basically out of
sight, he reached over his right shoulder and pulled the seatbelt
strap over his chest while trying not to move his head or
shoulders.

Alex once heard from an old high school
friend who became a cop that the best way to get out of a speeding
ticket is to be firm but polite and also to have your license and
registration ready to hand to the officer when he arrived at your
car. The other choices were to act like you had a really bad
stutter or were slightly retarded, but Alex didn’t feel confident
he could get away with either of these in the current situation. He
pulled the registration out of the glove box and his wallet out of
the front pocket of his sweat pants.

“Make sure the booze is hidden,” he
commanded, suddenly very glad he had chosen not to commence
drinking with the guys.

With that, he saw that both of the officers
in the patrol car were approaching the BMW. He began rolling down
the driver’s side window as one officer arrived at the front of the
car. The cold air struck him in the face and filled the car almost
instantly. Alex extended his hand out the window, offering his
drivers license and car registration. The CHP officer was tall, his
uniform immaculately pressed. He was also wearing one of those
goofy police hats that were like cowboy hats but with the perfectly
straight brim. Alex thought only park rangers or Smokey the Bear
should wear these, but he didn’t say this. He noted that the
officer looked quite a lot like Jeff Kent, longtime second baseman
for the New York Mets, San Francisco Giants, Houston Astros and Los
Angeles Dodgers, and the National League MVP award winner in 2000.
The look included a neatly groomed mustache that wasn’t quite
blonde and wasn’t quite brown. “Good evening, officer,” he said as
he exchanged his documents.

The Jeff Kent cop took the papers while
keeping his eyes firmly on Alex and Gary. Meanwhile, officer number
two approached the back right of the vehicle where Roger was
sitting. He rapped on the window by Roger’s head. Roger responded
by rolling down his window as well. Lacking creativity, he said,
“Good evening, sir.”

Officer number two spoke first while officer
number one finally took a look at Alex’s license. “Generally, we
recommend you fasten your seatbelt before getting pulled over,”
said officer number two. “Please hand me your identification,” he
added.

As Roger and Mike were fumbling for their
wallets in the back seat, officer number one shined his flashlight
into Alex’s face and asked him if he had been drinking. Alex
indicated that he had not. He was then asked if anyone else in the
car had been drinking. Alex could not remember what the potential
penalty was for having open containers in the car but he really did
not want to find out.

“No, I don’t think so,” he responded
stupidly.

“You don’t think so?” Kent-cop asked.

“Well, no, I mean, not that I know of.”

With this, Kent-cop shined his flashlight
toward Gary’s feet. Alex followed the beam of light and was happy
to see that there was no evidence of any beer, though he wasn’t
sure the illuminated display of two women about to engage in
lesbian sex was helping the situation. He guessed not, due to the
cop’s complete lack of reaction.

Kent-cop: “Do you know how fast you were
going?”

Alex: “No, sorry. Perhaps it was a little too
fast. Maybe eighty-five?”

Kent-cop: “Yes, perhaps. Actually, we got you
at one-oh-two. It took us five minutes just to catch up with
you.”

Alex: “Oh jeez, are you sure? I don’t think
we were going that fast.”

Kent-cop: “Yes, son. I am quite sure.
Technically, this is considered reckless driving, meaning you put
yourselves, other drivers and us in considerable danger.
Additionally, I have a strong suspicion that you have been drinking
and it is quite obvious your dipshit buddies here are.”

Alex had a bad feeling about where this was
going and it did not get any better with the cop’s next
question.

“Maybe you can tell me one good reason why I
shouldn’t take you into jail right now?” he asked.

Not sure of the best response, Alex decided
to stick with the truth this time. “Well, Officer, the fact is we
are going to Vegas and we are kind of in a hurry.”

He realized how dumb this sounded the second
it left his mouth and wondered if the bad karma from lying to Blair
and the outhouse incident had already come back to kick his ass. A
quick vision of himself sharing a Barstow jail cell for the night
with a large meth-head in a Hells Angels jacket ran through his
head.

“Son, Vegas is open twenty-four hours a day,
seven days a week,” the cop responded. He ordered everyone to stay
in the car and remain still and then the two officers retreated
back to their vehicle. The guys used the opportunity to double
check that the beer cans were fully out of view. Alex cursed
several more times.

A few minutes later, the two cops
re-approached the car in the same formation. Kent-cop went to the
driver’s side window while cop number two returned to Roger’s rear
window. In the back, cop number two handed back Roger’s and Mike’s
driver’s licenses. They didn’t say a word.

Kent-cop, however, straightened his mustache
and his hat and leaned in to ask Alex a few more questions. “Do you
boys know anything about an incident at an outhouse at the Chevron
a few miles back?” he asked in a tone that suggested a mutilated
body had been found.

“An outhouse, sir?” Alex questioned, doing
his best to sound incredulous.

Kent-cop stared at him for about thirty
seconds without saying a word. It was really freaking Alex out, but
he simply maintained eye contact without trying to look like he
thought he was a tough-guy.

Finally, the moment of truth arrived and
Kent-cop began to speak again. “Okay, son, here is what is going to
happen. I am going to give you a ticket for going ninety-five. You
are going to consider yourself very lucky. Also, you are going to
slow down the rest of the way to Vegas. If I see you again tonight,
or on your way back home, you will deeply regret it.”

Although the ticket ended up costing $545 and
required wasting a few hours on an online traffic school course,
Alex did indeed feel lucky.