There is a certain feeling that you get, unavoidably I would imagine, when you are driving down the street with a big bag of weed and a shotgun in your trunk. Even if your’e in a place where both are legal. The reason that comes with knowledge of the law seems to be superseded, no matter how hard you try, by that odd, vague sense of fear. No matter how much you try, you just can’t shake it. 

For me it’s always in the background, a static that plays in the background of my thoughts. I know for a fact that neither will get me in trouble, officially. Explaining that to a cop, though, will be weird.  If they are discovered in my trunk- I use discover lightly here, if asked I’d admit they were there, I’m sure it would behove the cop to ask why they’re there. Hell I’d almost consider it negligent if he didn’t. I expect due diligence out of the cop- more so that a white person gets hassled for a change,and I don’t get off for the lack of melanin in my skin. 

I watch every light I pass, slowing for yellows ‘d always blow right through. My speeding which is usual, habitual, and egregious is tamed to 3 or 5 over- just enough to look normalish. Again, I know I’m not breaking any law, but still, it feels illegal. 

Tonight in particular I feel paranoid. The headlights in my mirror all look like they belong to the old crown vics cops drove when I was in High School. Back then I would have gotten in trouble for the pot and I would have never had a gun. Back then every cop, to me, was just an anoying insect of a human that existed to bust you for breaking stupid laws. Like some hall monitor from a back ‘80’s movie about highschool where they are waiting to give you detention for breaking some stupid rule. I still believe they can be that way, just now I fully understand that the hall monitor can kill you if they’re having a bad day- and walk away scot free for it. 

On the radio some ‘60s soul plays out my rolled down windows. I try to put the thoughts aside, but I know they will stay on the edges of my consciousness until I get home. She’ll be waiting for me, and I’ll pass on this story- embellished of course. She grew up in a city without a car and where drugs and guns were only for criminals. She’ll laugh, then enjoy the smoke, and we’ll fuck till we’re tired in a blisful way. 

I smiled at the thought. High School was nothing like that. I guess that’s the joy of growing older. Girlfriends become roommates, illegal hobbies get legalized and your buddy gets a little weird and into guns and decides to give you a shotgun for your 30th birthday with a card that says ‘you’re finally a man.’ I smiled at that thought too, but the gun was going into the garage. It can rust, I’ll keep my quasi legal hobbies to just the one. 

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