The Place to Be

Face down lying on the pavement, the small tar covered rocks dug deep into the bones of my chest as the knee sharply jabbed its way between my shoulder blades. The shouting that blasted over the radio from the officers hip inquired about the status of my containment. Before my heart could throb it's next beat in my compressed chest, my arms were thrust behind my back and the cold vice like clamps cut their way into the bones of my wrist. This maneuver was done with such force that one could only feel sorry for his wife; since this kind of sadomasochistic behavior must bleed it's way into this particular officer's bedroom. I had just enough time to painfully blurt out, "I won't resist!", before he ripped me to my feet as though he were a frustrated and under-appreciated housewife embarrassed by a toddler's temper tantrum in a store. Had I been aware of the misery I was about to endure, I might have pleaded to remain on the street with a knee in my back. Over the next hour, I would have plenty of time to decipher the exact combination of body fluids that were not only responsible for the assault on my nostrils but the film of filth that proved to adhere any skin of my bare back and feet that had the misfortune of coming in contact with the seat of the squad car. I became impressed with the ability my body had to contort itself, as though I were a street artist preforming for tips, though the only encouragement I received was to keep my skin from making contact with any and all surfaces. At this moment, contradictory to even my own belief, a shit-eating grin stretched wide across my face as I was struck by an epiphany and finally understood how so many people could end up on COPS with no shirt or shoes.