Thin blue lines of the 7:52 Southbound
Jun. 9th, 2005 12:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonToday was a bum roust on the AM Southbound from Doraville. Three aryan wannabe supermen, strutting proud, up and down the aisles of my already badly delayed train sniffing out neer do wells and the potentaily unemployed. Each one of them pseudo-identical with their crew cuts, lifted chin , designer sunglasses doned (despite the fog & rain!?!), their gym guns flexing and their MARTA COP uniforms stinking of starch & cheap aftershave. These are the worst kind of badges a Johnson might run into: The badge given to the willing but incapable. These are the frat jocks who couldn't make the grade into APD. Too stupid maybe? For Police? C'mon...! Most likely an old football injury or perhaps one of them dropped the N word too casually in front of the wrong people at the academy. A prior record perhaps, too many rophies & cheerleaders in a pregame season. Or maybe, just maybe, someones come up with a piss test for detecting assholes. Hallejuah and thank you ERIS if there is. Well whatever the reason, they're here now, and making up for their bottom feeder status on the totem pole of badges, with the vicious zeal of the schoolyard victim made hall monitor. Their job is a thankless one. Their the thin blue line, between civilisation & anarchy, making sure fares aren't evaded or commuters sneak in a cigarette waiting for a bus thats running 45 minutes late. My Fucking heroes!
Thier inching their way up the aisle now, eye ball fucking anyone suspicious, any possible whiff of threat, i.e., anybody 'Possesing the Black'.
The cats sitting three seats ahead of me are about to get schooled in the ways of the rent-a-cop. Ones sleeping, ones reading. As the three uniforms approach this pair, they slow down, taking in the nature of the possible threat. The littlest of the three, mumbles something into the squawk box, I can practically hear it:
'Um Central, this unit 23, we have two negros, one of them reading, repeat reading on the train. Orders? Over! Pwsswhhzzzt!'
'Unit 23, subdue the negro with the book first. Back up is on the way! Pwsswhttt!'
They're crowd the seats and start asking the pair questions. The sleeper wakes. Shocked. Passed out around North Ave, getting the shake down by Doraville. The 'Reader' is pissed. He stands up. They tell him not to. He sits down. They need to see a pass or maybe an ID from the reader. He gets up reaching for his wallet. They remind him not to stand up. He explains in loud, slow words, that he has to stand up to reach his wallet. The three uniforms are now referees for a game their making up as they go along. They whisper to each other urgently.
On the one hand they need the wallet. On the other they clearly told the 'Reader' not to stand. Good God where's Supreme Court Justice Scalia when you really need him? They decide to let the man stand, but only to get his wallet out, nothing more. This guy tries anything crazy with that book of his and he's going down!
He produces a monthly MARTA pass. The one that lets him ride MARTA 24-7 through June, if in fact MARTA did run 24-7. The head uniform looks over the pass as if it were a test. He rotates it, flips it over, reads it and then hands it to the others. They take turns examining the document. Then hand it back. They move on down the aisle. Close but no cigar, but the mornings young, and they have all day to weed out the guilty. To hunt down the economic refugees seeking mobile asylum on the compass directions of public transportation. The Reader returns to his book, and the sleeper, who these geniuses of law enforcement overlooked, resumes snoring. They march by me now, six lenses of attitude framing me in their reflection. I smile and offer a relaxed salute, two fingers falling off the right temple. They accept and nod and make their way down the car. Their excited, maybe that hispanic looking woman with the kid is a terrorist or a drug runnner, or a drug running terrorist satanist! To the Bat-Cave Robin! There's homeless people trying to sleep... and meanwhile Americans slept a little better knowing they were safe from the terrors of the poor!
Thier inching their way up the aisle now, eye ball fucking anyone suspicious, any possible whiff of threat, i.e., anybody 'Possesing the Black'.
The cats sitting three seats ahead of me are about to get schooled in the ways of the rent-a-cop. Ones sleeping, ones reading. As the three uniforms approach this pair, they slow down, taking in the nature of the possible threat. The littlest of the three, mumbles something into the squawk box, I can practically hear it:
'Um Central, this unit 23, we have two negros, one of them reading, repeat reading on the train. Orders? Over! Pwsswhhzzzt!'
'Unit 23, subdue the negro with the book first. Back up is on the way! Pwsswhttt!'
They're crowd the seats and start asking the pair questions. The sleeper wakes. Shocked. Passed out around North Ave, getting the shake down by Doraville. The 'Reader' is pissed. He stands up. They tell him not to. He sits down. They need to see a pass or maybe an ID from the reader. He gets up reaching for his wallet. They remind him not to stand up. He explains in loud, slow words, that he has to stand up to reach his wallet. The three uniforms are now referees for a game their making up as they go along. They whisper to each other urgently.
On the one hand they need the wallet. On the other they clearly told the 'Reader' not to stand. Good God where's Supreme Court Justice Scalia when you really need him? They decide to let the man stand, but only to get his wallet out, nothing more. This guy tries anything crazy with that book of his and he's going down!
He produces a monthly MARTA pass. The one that lets him ride MARTA 24-7 through June, if in fact MARTA did run 24-7. The head uniform looks over the pass as if it were a test. He rotates it, flips it over, reads it and then hands it to the others. They take turns examining the document. Then hand it back. They move on down the aisle. Close but no cigar, but the mornings young, and they have all day to weed out the guilty. To hunt down the economic refugees seeking mobile asylum on the compass directions of public transportation. The Reader returns to his book, and the sleeper, who these geniuses of law enforcement overlooked, resumes snoring. They march by me now, six lenses of attitude framing me in their reflection. I smile and offer a relaxed salute, two fingers falling off the right temple. They accept and nod and make their way down the car. Their excited, maybe that hispanic looking woman with the kid is a terrorist or a drug runnner, or a drug running terrorist satanist! To the Bat-Cave Robin! There's homeless people trying to sleep... and meanwhile Americans slept a little better knowing they were safe from the terrors of the poor!