Not a Genuine Black Man by Brian Copeland

Author:Brian Copeland
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Hyperion
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Waking Up Is Hard to Do

I was lying on a hospital gurney. A clear plastic oxygen mask covered my nose and mouth. My right leg was tethered to the gurney. Well, it wasn’t actually a tether; it was more like a belt. A leather belt with a buckle. That was so I couldn’t escape. It was a leather belt with a buckle so that I couldn’t escape.

I don’t know how many times in my life I’ve struggled with the belt around my waist thinking, “I have to go to the bathroom but I can’t figure out how you operate this goddamned thing!”

If they really wanted to keep me there, why didn’t they tether my hands together or something? I suppose that would have been too logical.

I lay there pondering various Houdini scenarios as two cops walked in. The first one spoke to me.

“Do you know where you are?”

His voice had a hint of Boston. Isn’t that the city where that husband shot his pregnant wife in the head and blamed a black carjacker? The cops spent days rousting every male over the age of twelve and darker than a brown paper bag until the guilty husband jumped off a bridge. I can’t get away from it, can I?

“Do you know where you are?” he asked me again.

Yeah, I knew where I was. A lot better off than I had been a couple of hours before. I had awakened in the garage to the firm grip of a hand on my shoulder. Through bleary eyes, I followed the hand up the sleeve to the mug of a freckle-faced police officer.

Do you mean to tell me, that after everything I’ve been through, that St. Peter is a white motherfucking cop?? This is some bullshit.

It turned out that one of the neighbors had heard music blaring in the garage and called the police because she thought that something might be amiss. That’s what white people do. They notice when things are “amiss.” Since there was no telling how long I’d been breathing in fumes, I was rushed by ambulance to the hospital.

“Do you know where you are?” Boston repeated.

“I’m in Highland Hospital in Oakland.”

Highland is the county hospital. It’s where they send the uninsured, the drive-by-shooting victims, and the crazies. Mom had worked there as a secretary in the ’70s. In the psych ward as I recall. I had come full circle.

“So,” Boston said, “what was going on out there?”

“I guess I fell asleep.”

“Why were you trying to hurt yourself?”

“Is that what you think? No. No. I was just having a cigar and a martini when I noticed that my car was in the driveway. I put it in the garage, started listening to music, and I guess I fell asleep. With the motor running,” I added, almost as an afterthought.

He looked at me with skepticism in his eyes.

“What were all the pictures?”

I’d forgotten that I’d brought pictures out there with me. Grandma, my kids, and Mom.

“My sister wanted me to get some copies made.

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