Shaking like a Magnum condom on an Asian swimmer...............

I'll let you in a little secret, I've got a couple of phobias. Mostly it's the typical things. Can't stand being too high off the ground. Small spaces, especially elevators, that 1 or 2 second pause right after the elevator stops and right before the door opens. I always have this moment wondering if the door is going to open, or if I'll have to shimmy out the trap door in the ceiling, if there is a trap door in the ceiling. I rarely get through an elevator ride without formulating an escape plan, even if it includes using some blue hair or dude in a wheelchair as a step ladder to reach the overhead hatch. Unreasonable fear of tight places, heights, spiders, divorce lawyers, closet doors slightly ajar at night. Those are pretty typical, no doubt most of you rubes have at least one unreasonable fear or three. No biggie, I'm not here to judge or analyze. On second thought, I'm always passing judgment and picking at peoples scabs, so scratch that previous sentence. Besides, we aren't here to talk about you.

I haven't used an ink pen for illegal gain since the latter part of 1995. It's been 15 years since I did any dirt. When I walk in a bank today it's for legit purpose, no criminal intent, although I do admit to scanning the employees to see if I can spot the easy mark. I can. My point is, the occasional stick of medicinal herb aside, I pretty much live like most of you L7 's.  No need to look over my shoulder. But I still do.  A couple days ago I had to go to a Police station in the burbs. Work related, pick up a package, take it somewhere else. No big deal.  So I step into the lobby, tell the woman behind the dispatch window I'm with Acme Whatever Company here to pick up a widget. She tells me Detective Whoever will be right with me. The guy comes out  opens the door to the inner sanctum and ushers me back.  For a millisecond, the time it takes for one breath, I hesitate.

A tiny voice says " Don't go back there. It's a trap."

I know what you are thinking. MM is a retard.

You also might be thinking. MM just said retard, that's a derogatory term.

Blow me.  Want nice ? Go read a mommy blog. And don't forget to wear your helmet.

Back to this phobia thing.  Now in my reasonable  rational mind, I know there is no way I'm being set up. For starters I retired from the life 15 years ago, and there is no way the cops would go through some long drawn out charade just to trick me into walking through that security door. Nevertheless, my heart rate increases the second I step through that doorway.  I'm pretty sure the Detective is giving me the fish eye as we walk down the hallway. We trade a little small talk, although I couldn't tell you what it was about. He leaves me in his office for a few minutes, Brooks and Dunn  singing about scooting their boots on a radio. As I'm waiting for him to return, I'm surveying the room, which smelled of Fritos, cheap cologne, and farts, I'm looking for possible escape routes. He comes back, I sign some shit, take the package for delivery, and he walks me out.  As I'm driving back to the city I replay the 7 minutes or so when I was behind that locked door, one I didn't have a key to.  Looking back, there was this moment when I'm signing his paper work. I  looked up from the paper as I slid it across his desk and we locked eyes. He knew I had some history, that we played on opposing teams at some point or another. You might think it's all in my head, but I'm pretty sure he knew. Most any Detective worth his salt can spot a guy with some history. Just like anyone who lived the life can spot a cop in civilian clothes.   True story.

I'm pretty sure I'm suffering some kind of Post Conviction Stress Syndrome. I can even trace it back, pinpoint the root cause. I blame it on the now defunct , at least I think it was disbanded, Career Criminal Unit.  I have mentioned Bob Guffy and his pockmarked partner who I only remember as Poncho, in this blog a time or two.  These two Detectives would sit in front of my house. I'd come out and there they would be. Just sitting there. Sometimes they would get out of their car, sometimes they would just roll the window down. We might  exchange a little small talk, not unlike the random exchange I recently had with the unnamed suburban detective. Other times, when they were getting under my skin I'd talk shit to them. Occasionally it included something unflattering about their mothers or wives. But those times were rare. More often than not we would just lock eyes for a second or two and they would either drive off, or follow me around for a little while. Our last encounter was behind a VFW or Moose lodge in Grandview after a lengthy car chase. I'd parked my car back behind the building, was sitting there waiting for them to fly past me. Sadly a dust cloud in the gravel gave me away. Guffy crept up on me, had his gun a couple inches from my melon, finger on the trigger, hammer back. For a second I thought he was going to punch my ticket. There was just him and me, no witnesses. Obviously he didn't splatter my brains all over the inside of my car ala Pulp Fiction.   At the time, when I was in that life, cops didn't really rattle me so much. They were just part of the equation. Now that I'm a Hoople Head like you square world rubes, just the sight of a cop behind my car makes me shake like a magnum condom on an Asian swimmers meat whistle.

I figure its some kind of stress related mental disorder. Soon as I figure out who to sue, it's gonna be on like Donkey Kong.   So is there a moral to this story, or was I just trying to figure out a way to use that line about a dick rubber and an Asian swimmer? Actually both, but there is a moral to the story, or at least a lesson of sorts.  Square world citizens, that's you rubes, often operate under the assumption that criminals get off too easy. Sadly that is often true, especially when it comes to the ridiculously light sentences that many sex offenders receive.  But going straight for your normal criminal types isn't exactly a cake walk. The entire time you are on parole there is always that threat of being sent back. Sometimes it's subtle, unspoken by the Parole Officer, other times it's more direct if that PO happens to be a douche bag, or if the parolee is a major fuck up.  Here's the thing, even after the parole is walked down, a small part of you is always waiting for the shoe to drop. There is always a concern that some old warrant will appear or that the cops will mistake you for some other knuckle head, especially if you have a rap sheet and a name like Mark Smith. The funny thing, the irony in this unreasonable fear, in a way it's a good thing. That little bit of unease and worry is like a rubber band on your wrist, the one  you wear to make you remember something, or to snap when you feel the urge to smoke or eat that box of zoo zoos and wham whams. That little bit of fear keeps your powder dry, makes you walk the mostly straight and narrow.