You Look Good for 67

I hit a nigger with my van yesterday. Not on purpose. I was on a call with my little sister, in my noise canceling headphones. We were talking about her future. I was trying to convince her to take the first step towards entrepreneurship so that she can eventually break free from the shackles of employment.

I was in a tight parking lot. I rolled in looking for parking but there were no spots. The escape route was blocked off ahead for some hispanic popsicle stand, so I had to back up and turn out of the lot with very little space.

I was still on the phone with Sunny. I don’t know how the fuck this happened but I bumped into the rear end of this white sedan, hard enough to leave a gaping punctured hole in the frame. My first instinct was to just drive away pretending it didn’t happen, because the hit probably wasn’t that bad, and I have no insurance, and I’ve been living an extremely precarious life over the past year, and so rather than deal with the cops or give anybody my contact info I thought I’d just flee the scene. But unlike the last time I hit somebody with my van, I was not on the highway, I was in a tight busy parking lot on a Sunday afternoon. And the guy I hit was right there in his parked car when it happened. And worst of all, he was a real nigga.

Once I realized there was no escape I calmly rolled my window down. And there he is: a 6’2+ big ass black guy with a tough wrinkled face wearing a tight white gym shirt with the sleeves ripped off. I think he was wearing a white sweatband too. He greets me like a junkyard dog: YO, WHAT THE FUCK! WHAT THE FUCK MAN GET OUT THE CAR! YOU HIT MY FUCKIN’ CAR! FUCK, NIGGA, FUCK!

I’m screaming Fuck too. More-so once I get out to see the pierced hole in his rear bumper. There’s a more standard scratch too, and for the first minute or so of our screaming I can’t believe my metal tow-hitch actually caused the hole. I recollected those stories I read online about how African Americans jump in front of cars and collect insurance claims. I denied: THERE’S NO WAY MY VAN DID THAT, THE HEIGHTS DON’T ALIGN—

“SHUT THE FUCK UP NIGGA YOU THINK I’M LYIN? THAT SHIT WAS NOT THERE YOU HIT MY FUCKIN CAR MAN!” Yes Yes I hit your fuckin car but I didn’t do THAT… it was too ugly. It looked like an extremely expensive repair and I can’t deal with this shit right now… I’m almost out of crypto.

He could tell I’m not the type to pay for things like this, because my Chevy Astro is a real old piece of shit. So he wouldn’t let me leave. I said all right, I have insurance (lie) I guess we exchange contact info and—FUCK THAT NIGGA FUCK THAT SHIT YOU’RE PAYING FOR THIS YOU HIT MY CAR MAN! FUCK YOU! I’LL BEAT YOUR ASS RIGHT NOW, FUCK YOU TALKIN BOUT CONTACT INFO—

The security officer on duty in that parking lot was shaped like a human gumball. He was fluffy. He was Ernie from the George Lopez sitcom. He tried to mediate the situation but he was dealing with two niggas well past his paygrade. I’m sure the surrounding shoppers were watching too, my van in that screwed-up position was blocking anybody from getting out.

Ernie was telling Mr. T you need to let him go, that van’s blocking traffic. Mr T. was yelling FUCK THAT MAN! FUCK THAT SHIT, HE’S NOT GOING ANYWHERE! CALL THE PO-LICE WE’RE SORTING THIS SHIT OUT NOW —

He looked ready to beat the shit out of me. He was surely twice my weight. I look like Marty Supreme now. I’m sober but I took Molly last night and the adrenaline makes me sharp.

JUST TAKE MY CONTACT INFO SO I CAN GO, THAT’S HOW THIS WORKS. YOU’RE NOT A COP YOU CAN’T DETAIN ME —

FUCK THAT SHIT YOU AIN’T LEAVIN! We’re both appealing to the totally useless security guy. I’m trying to walk/climb back into the drivers seat of the van I live in and he’s blocking me pushing me off.

NO. NIGGA NO—

He’s distracted for a moment by onlookers and so I creep around the side to sneak in through the passenger side door. I can’t get my fingers to the lock button up front before he yanks the drivers’ door open to stop me.

FUCK YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING? I’LL BEAT YOUR ASS — SOMEBODY CALL THE PO-LICE …

I’m trapped. I’m holding my phone tight in one hand with my key between my knuckles in the other. I haven’t had a moment to end the call with my sister. I’m screaming at fat fucking Ernie: “HEY CAN YOU DO YOUR JOB MAN? THIS GUY’S GONNA BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF ME!” I’m yelling just as loud as the nig. I need to get out of here before the cops show. I have a lot more on me than this little fender and I have a strong suspicion I won’t be driving away from that interaction alone.

Ernie has no idea. He turns to the gorilla: “Technically sir you’re supposed to exchange contact, file a police report, and let him leave.”

Mr. T doesn’t give a fuck. He knows me, he’s seen me before, in another life, he knows he’s never getting that payout. He’s performing a Citizens’ Arrest. He won’t take my contact and he won’t let me back into my van, I don’t know what to do.

I’LL KNOCK YOU THE FUCK OUT BRO!

Some part of me wants him to swing. I’ve never been hit in my life. Now there’s a better-dressed black guy who’s blocked by my van saying: “Can you at least let him move so I can get out.” Mr. T says HELL NO! I try to weasel past him into the drivers seat again. Big Nigga puts his hands on me at last. Throws me out a few feet back but I’m still standing. “BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF ME! DO IT!” I’m looking right at him for some reason. I’m gesturing to all the people watching and the cameras that must be hanging above. “YOU’LL GO TO JAIL NOT ME!” The security guy mentions the word “assault” at one point. Everyone’s turning on Mr. T now, I’m not legally obligated to be here any more and they want to get on with their day.

The police have been called and are on their way. Security guy says, with some authority, “Sir when they get here all they’re going to do is have you guys exchange contact information and file a report, he really doesn’t need to be here. You are technically committing assault right now if you keep this up.”

I seize the opportunity for diplomacy. TAKE MY INFO, I’LL GIVE YOU EVERYTHING, I DON’T CARE, He says HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO THAT I DON’T GOT MY PHONE! I CAME HERE TO GET A NEW PHONE! THAT’S WHAT I WAS DOING! I say I have paper. He has no idea I’m such a brilliant writer. I scurry back into the van through the side door to grab my notebook and nervously find a blank page. I heavily consider misspelling my name or miswriting my number or miswriting my drivers license number but I don’t. It’s not worth him checking it and walloping me in my pretty boy face.

Write the shit on the paper and he double checks my license. He’s still standing outside leaning in and I’m on my knees beside my bed. He’s still screaming at me. YOU GOT A LOTTA NERVE MAN, YOU GON PAY FOR THIS, WHERE YOU FROM WASHINGTON? YOU LIVE AROUND HERE?

Uhh… it’s complicated…

YOU KNOW I’M 67 YEARS OLD MAN, FUCK YOU FOR THIS SHIT¹ — I just give him the tight-cheeked white guy smile. I can’t help but say: “You look good for 67…” he says WHATEVER MAN FUCK, and closes the door, and lets me get in the drivers’ seat, so that I can turn the key in the ignition, and make a three point turn, very slowly, and drive the fuck away.

Immediately I’m laughing. I don’t know what will happen to me, my license, or my precious Astro Van. Glanced at my phone to notice that my call with my little sister was still going. I never ended it and she just kept listening, horrified. She messaged me “whats going on” “are you okay” and I just said “Yes. I’m on my way to a dinner.”

So I was 40 minutes late to the dinner. My Agent/Friend Matthew who flew in from New York was tracking my location. He said what the fuck happened where are you? did you get in a crash? I said yes. This big nigga attacked me. But I got away. I’m on my way.

I rolled into Hollywood Forever to see Mark and Others peacefully observing some peacocks. Displaying their feathers, mating. They just stared at my van as I rolled in, blasting radio jazz out the rolled down window.

I was shirtless. Just a pair of black shorts on. I had been shirtless the whole time, and I’m really pale, so it must have looked pretty funny. Mark said why are you naked? I said don’t worry about it man, lets just get some dinner.

1. In retrospect he was definitely on steroids. Dude looked too good for 67.