Five Guys

At the curve in the freeway past Stephens Road, I see five guys face down on the ground, on the grass.

Two cop cars.

Four cops.

Four guns.

Maybe the driver was speeding, doesn’t have a license.

Maybe a few of the guys have dope on ‘em.

Maybe flower.

Maybe powder.

I don’t know much, but I do know this.

At least one of those guys didn’t do anything wrong.

Five guys don’t do crimes together.

How many close friends do you have? Ones that you can really, really trust.

Less than four. 

And you probably don’t rob banks or sell dope or kidnap people.

You lie about how good you are at pickleball and claim you were at a seminar when you were getting your dick sucked at that massage place on 13 Mile next to Lucky’s Prime Rib.

You tell four friends you got your dick sucked by someone other than your wife?

See what I mean? 

You ain’t committing a felony with four other guys.

No way.

The grass is wet.

Cars are zipping by on that curve.

A cop could slip. 

A cop could spook.

A cop could just say fuck it, one guy twitched, and that’s it.

But five guys are on the ground with guns pointed at ‘em.

And at least one of ‘em hasn’t done shit wrong.

Maybe two.

Maybe three.

Maybe they didn’t know the driver had dope on him.

You tell your coworker you take Zoloft? Lithium?

See what I’m getting at?

Cars are rushing by.

Someone will talk about it.

Say the cops caught some bad guys.

How do you know they’re bad?

You don’t.

You see the cops and the guns and assume.

One of those guys is innocent.

Tonight he’ll tell his wife the truth about why he pissed his pants.

You won’t tell your wife the truth about that massage place on 13 Mile.

But you’ll tell her you saw bad guys, face down, that the cops caught on the freeway.

Liar.