.intermittent.musings.

well it seems that crazy things often happen in the beautiful historic city of Charleston. and if you venture over to west trashley or james island they get even crazier! my first date shenanigans from a few weeks ago reminded me of another night in charleston during which i was surrounded by no less than 4 police cars. i swear, this has only happened to me TWICE, and it’s not me, it’s them, you know, those beautiful, crazy Charlestonians. you can’t live with them, can’t live without ‘em—well maybe without this one, a man i’ve dubbed DreadGlock.

i was about 3 months prego at the time, and had just finished my first very shift waiting tables at the delicious Sushi Hiro downtown. i was super stoked, having made about $100 in 4 hours—but DAMN SON i was tired. being pregnant is tiresome. thus, standing up for 4 hours felt very similar to, i don’t know, workin’ on a chain gang bustin’ rocks in the blistering sun all day.

SO, i was driving home to my sweet ass apartment in west ashley—a nice place that rested on the site of what used to be low income housing. so yeah, lovely balconies, nice pool, but you know, a porn shop on the corner and some sketchy motherfuckers hangin’ out outside of the food lion on the reg. OF COURSE when you’re really tired and pregnant and your feet feel like useless painful stumps at the ends of your legs, you’ll suddenly notice that yes, you are almost out of gas, and you will have to GET OUT of the car, ON YOUR PREGNANT FEET and PUMP some gas (yes, my feet felt pregnant too, they had had a long night. all my body parts were FEELING my sweet fetus leech the life blood out of me). and naturally, it’s midnight. in the ghetto.

i pull into the hess station by my apartment. due to the less than safe nature of the hood i am in, this is one of those classy establishments where you’ve got to go prepay at the bulletproof window before pumping your gas. and yes, i’ve got cash money, so i’ve gotta do that.

in a disgruntled, pregnant haze, i drag my maternal ass over to the building, vaguely aware that some dude is ahead of me in line. i sort of zone out for a minute, gazing over at the porn store, scoping out all the creepy dudes sneaking around from the back where their cars are hidden.

a particularly painful throb from my feet jerks me back to the hess station and i realize that i’ve been standing there entirely too long, and that this SAME dude is still standing there shootin’ the shit or something with the hess station attendant. i don’t think i even really register much about him beyond his grizzled gray dreadlocks, because (once again) i’m tried and pregnant, and i really don’t give a fuck who this guy is or what he’s doing.

so i tap this dude on the back of his shoulder, put my hand on my hip, and when he turns around and settles his crack-addled eyes on me, i say:

“Excuse me. Do you think you could get the fuck out of my way so I can pay for some goddamn gas?”

it seemed like a perfectly reasonable request. after all, i just needed him to stop holding up my life.

as it turns out, he was holding up the gas station.

the hess station attendant is staring at me like i have two heads. i slowly register that i may have made a mistake. and i grip my keys in my hand in case i need to stab this crazy man in the eye (my other thought was to start screaming, “i’m pregnant, i’m pregnant, what are you, some kind of baby killer??”).

enter charleston’s finest. what timing! at precisely that moment four cruisers pull into the hess at top speed and surround us, slamming on their brakes and jumping out of their cars, guns drawn and pointed right at me and this beauty of a dreadlocked crackhead.

officer 1 yells: “throw down the gun!”

i’m pretty sure my eyebrows raise somewhere into my hairline. gun?

and so, DreadGLOCK pulls a gun out of his jacket and tosses that lovely thing right on the ground at our feet.

officer 2: “AND the knife!”

and at this point i actually say, “KNIFE?!”

and out comes a long—probably about 10 inches—bone-handled knife, which homie tosses next to the gun.

i step back a bit, remembering, hey dummy. you’re pregnant. you need to steer clear.

at this moment a couple of officers attack DreadGlock, and before i know it he’s on the ground and the officers are cuffing him and searching him for more goodies.

i stand there awkwardly for a moment, shifting my prego weight around to ease my feet, wondering what the hell i’m supposed to be doing and if anyone gives a shit about me in this particular situation.

turns out they don’t. despite being the only other person standing there and being pregnant and smelling like teriyaki chicken, the cops are just swarming around as if i’m not there.

so i turn to the hess station attendant expectantly, because, let’s not forget, i still need some goddamn gas. i knock on the window, to which she does not respond at all. she is still mesmerized by the swirling blue lights that are reflecting softly off of DreadGlocks grizzled mane.

so i POUND the window and she jumps about a foot in the air.

“LOOK. i still need some gas. what do i have to do to get some goddamn gas???”

I shove 10 bucks in her hand (remember when that got you more than a little ole baby bit of gas?) and march back to my car through the swarm of police officers, still, apparently, invisible. and that’s fine by me—i pump a few gallons of gas into my car while they jerk DreadGlock up off the ground and prepare to load him into a squad car. i briefly make eye contact with him, and suddenly realize that this man was my kindergarten teacher!!!.

just kidding. he was just some crackhead.

i practically fall into my car, drive the additional block home and then drop into my bed as soon as possible, where my significant other immediately notices, unlike all the cops, that yes, i do smell like teriyaki chicken. i don’t even bother to tell him about DreadGlock because DAMN SON, i’m still so tired.

i do decide, as i drift to sleep, that henceforth, i will refrain from harassing strangers at the gas station, seeing as how i’m with child and all. in related news, i will be penning a companion book to “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” called, “Things Pregnant Bitches Shouldn’t Do.” i’m clearly the most qualified person to do this. you’re welcome, future prego women of america.

Posted at 1:29pm and tagged with: charleston, crime, dreadlocks, pregnancy,.