See the Dead Negro

See the Dead Negro

By Cam Reese

You got into your car, turned the ignition. It was nighttime and you were in a parking garage, it was dark and quiet. You began to go home, but you didn’t know where you were in this world. When you drove out and exited the parking lot, you emerged into the city and joined onto a main drag of road where other cars traversed down the soapy city streets. Overhead there were large buildings that lanced the grey night clouds, you saw the wet streets as well as the sidewalks that were sudded with needles and refuse. Strangers walked with their heads down illuminated by their phones, they dressed for a photograph taken by any idle eyes—including yours. You took a right because the sign said you could not go left, such was the law. You drove on and saw yourself in the reflection of the mirrored walls of the buildings, and you stopped when you came upon that first red light. Sirens sounded in the distance, lights obscured the stars. You heard all the instruments of the city, nameless it was. When the light turned green, you started back down the road until you caught another intersection. You saw an old man with a walker pass by the nose of your car, the sweaty streetpost told him to ‘walk’. You were alien to this city, you thought: Where am I going? The light turned green, and you started down the street again driving aimlessly into the night. A group of negro children played in the shadows of an alleyway, you saw them briefly as you drove past. Night was cold and lonely and queer and only fleeting scants of nightcrawlers made your acquaintance as you drove, and you judged it was after midnight upon the sight of the crescent moon. You came upon another red light, no others were around no people thereabouts. Behind you came the dark silhouette of a car, it pulled right up to your rear and kissed your bumper. In the rearview mirror you saw the rounded, masculine dome of the driver’s head. When the light turned green, you began to drive. The car followed so close behind, you thought you were towing it. It followed you down the barren streets, you splashed guttered rainwater onto the sidewalk. You kept looking to your rear trying to see who exactly was following you, you then thought it was a cop. Distracted, you swerved a smidgen and crossed the checkered white lines into the next lane. Blue and red lights flashed from its roof and illuminated the police car, see the white man grip the wheel. You pulled over to the side first chance that came, and you went to ready your information. But when you looked for your license and registration and insurance and stuff, you could find nothing of the sort. Your pockets were empty and your glovebox just the same, and your center console was hollow along with nothing wedged between your visors. Nothing at all, no papers to your name. You began to sweat, you heard the police door slam shut. You looked into the winged mirror where objects appeared closer the closer they neared, and you saw the big policemen come with his hand rested upon his holstered gun. He was tall and uniformed with his eyes shaded by dark sunglasses whose only nightly utility was to obscure all personage, and he approached you with caution like how wolves stalk the hillsides. You rolled your window down, he towered mightily over you. He said, License and registration. You told him, I don’t seem to have it on me. He looked you over suspiciously, he had a prejudice against you. He said, You’re driving without a license? It’s got to be here somewhere, you said as you reached around the car. But the sudden movement startled him, he grabbed his service weapon. Whoa, wait! Don’t move!, he shouted. You raised your hands up, up to your head. But it was too little too late, the policeman gunned you dead. He fired several shots through the parted window of your car and he shot you in an erratic, fevered malaise of unscrupulous nerves. Your blood smattered the window as your body and wailing limbs skewered akimbo, and your eyes went white and blank and motionless and you died a death unbecoming. When he opened the door, your body fell from your car. You lied faced down in the streets as your blood ran like tendrils into the gutters, and your legs half spread and askew pitched up like broken branches of a burnt apple tree. And as people came to pass, they saw you lay dead. People drove by with indifference, but they all had to view. See the dead negro, that person is you.