Rights and Privileges (Short Story)

            I opened the door of Rob’s green Taurus, feeling a little unsteady on my feet. Not drunk, although I’d had a few, but tired and ready to get out of there. We were at our friend Phil’s place—it was a party, he just moved to a new house and invited his new neighbors, the two of us, and a few other of our buddies—and it was already near two in the morning.

            “Come on, let’s go,” I said, slapping the roof of the car.

            “Easy on my baby,” Rob said. It was a joke with all of us, that Rob treated his ten year old Ford rust bucket like it was a Murcielago or something. He swung into the driver’s seat, looked at his reflection in the mirror, straightened his tie, brushed some imaginary dust off his shoulder.

            “Okay, Roberto, cool out, man. You’re just taking me home, we’re not gonna cruise for chicks.”

            “You’re just jealous, brother. Your nasty-ass tee shirt and whatnot. You can’t compare to my smoothness.” He did look good. He’d come straight from work—he did human resources at a software company in town—to pick me up for the party, looking slick in dark pants and a checked blue and white shirt. He was vain as hell, but he did make it work. I, on the other hand, wore one of several gray t-shirts and pairs of blue jeans almost everywhere, the only really pertinent exceptions being work and church.

            “Just drive, come on Rob. Vamonos or whatever.”

            “You speak Spanish like a German.”
            “I am a German.”

            “Yeah, well, that was the point.”

            I idly smacked the back of his head. He punched me in the leg, then pulled out into the street. We cruised along for a few minutes toward the freeway.

            “Hey, check it out,” I said, pointing toward a little open field on the side of the road.

            “What?” Rob asked, not taking his eyes off the road.

            “We used to play there sometimes. Against Lakewood.”

            “That right? I forgot how crappy that field was.”

            “Yeah, it was pretty bad. They were tough, though. Always gave me hell.”

            Rob laughed. “They weren’t tough, they were just crazy cheap. Played dirty, elbows and pulling on shirts.”

            “I guess,” I said, craning my neck to look backward. “But they were quick and they were smart enough not to get caught. I scored two against them senior year, though, remember?”

            “I remember that one was a penalty that Steve won for you, that’s what I remember.”

            “Well, I choose to remember around that part.”

            He snorted. “And anyway, that was at home, it wasn’t here.”

            I grunted agreement.

            “Where’s the on-ramp?”

            “One more light,” I said.

            He sped up to catch the last few seconds of a yellow, put on his blinker and pulled into the right lane. A fat rain drop splattered against the windshield in front of me.

            “Hey, it’s raining,” I said, surprised.

            “Yup,” Rob said, drawing out the syllable. Yuuuuuup. He pulled onto the ramp.

            “Don’t get all sarcastic on me. I just never expect it here. It’s nothing like Maine.”

            “You moved here when you were seven years old, brother, don’t pretend like you know anything about Maine.” Out onto the freeway.

            “Whatever,” I said, “We go back every year. I know plenty.”

            “You go back for four days in July. I don’t act like I know a damn thing about Oaxaca just ’cause my great-grandma came from there and I’ve been there twice.”

            The rain was coming down heavier now, big, hard drops pelting against the glass. It was the kind of rain you can tell is cold from the sound of it hitting the car, a sharp, solid sound like marbles falling down stairs. We were pretty much alone on the road—one or two cars going on the other side of the divider and a big truck about half a mile behind.

            I switched on the radio. Rob had it set to a college station that played jazz all day. I listened for a few seconds. Ramsey Lewis Trio. A live cover version of that song from the sixties that half a dozen bands did versions of, “Hang on Sloopy.” I’d heard it before.

            “Do you listen to anything recorded since you’ve been alive?” I asked, trying to look up at the sky and see if the storm looked like breaking.

            “Don’t knock jazz, brother, it’s America’s music.”

            “So’s rock and roll,” I said, “And blues, and hip-hop. Why don’t you listen to them?”

            “I do,” he said, “Sometimes. I just don’t—aw, damn.” A pair of red and blue lights flared to life behind us. Rob pulled off to the shoulder and killed the engine.

            “Grab the registration from the glove box, please,” he said, and suddenly his voice was tight and serious. I fumbled around for a minute, got the registration out and handed it to him. He put it on his lap. He set his hands on the top of the steering wheel and sat silently.

            “Hey, man, what’s—” I started.

            “Be quiet, please, Bill.”

            I shut up. The rain was coming down harder than ever, fast and dense. I could hardly see out of the car.

            There was a tap on the driver’s side window. I could see the vague outline of a man in dark clothes and a hat. Rob rolled down his window.

            “Good evening, gentlemen,” the cop said, and turned his flashlight on Rob. I could see by the streetlights that he had really pale blue eyes and a gingery beard.

            “Good evening, officer,” Rob said, sounding wary. He didn’t turn his head or take his hands off the wheel.

            “Do you know why I pulled you over tonight?”

            “No, sir,” Rob said.

            “Well, you were doing seventy-eight. This is a sixty-five zone.”

            “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t realize.”

            “Well…” the cop said. “Could I see your license and registration, please?”

            “Yes, sir,” Rob said, “My registration is here on my lap and my license is in my wallet. May I reach for it, please?”

            “Go ahead,” the cop said, “Slowly.”

            “Crazy weather, huh?” I said, off-handedly. “Came out of nowhere.”

            The cop turned his flashlight to me and didn’t answer. Rob shut his eyes tight for a second, then slid his hand into his back pocket. He carefully pulled it back out, removed his license and handed it to the cop. He picked the registration up and handed that over, too.

            “Roberto Hernandez,” the cop said slowly. “From La Habra. What are you doing here?”

            “We were at a party,” I said, “Down in Lakewood. Our friend Phil, he—”

            “Have you been drinking tonight, Roberto?” the cop said.

            “No, sir.”

            “He was the designated driver,” I said.

            “Would you please step out of the vehicle,” the cop said, and waved back toward his car.

            “Wait, why?” I said. “I’m serious, he was the designated driver.”

            “Shut up,” Rob said, and he sounded angry. “No problem, officer, I’ll get out.”

            “And you, too,” the cop said, looking hard at me. I stared back at him for a minute. Rob smacked me on the shoulder. I unbuckled my belt and we both got out into the rain. The cop walked over to the trunk. Another cop had come from the car and was standing there, hands on his hips, looking military as all hell—blond crew cut under his hat, square jaw, bad attitude.

            “Step back here,” the first cop said, “And then put your hands on the vehicle.”

            Rob did. I hesitated a minute and then followed him.

            “Spread your legs apart,” the cop said. “Shoulder width.”

            He patted me down first, quickly. He took his time with Rob. The water started to seep into my socks through my flimsy, worn-out running shoes, and I thought about Rob’s immaculately shined and brushed wingtips. I turned my head to see the second cop. He stood extraordinarily still, expressionless and unblinking.

            The other guy finished with Rob after a while.

            “Don’t move,” he said, and he went over to the blond guy and said something to him, too low for me to hear. Blond guy turned his head a little bit, said something back. I can’t read lips, but I’m pretty sure I caught “probable cause” in there somewhere.

            The first cop came back, handed Rob his license and registration, and a ticket on that bright yellow paper. He straightened his cap, sternly admonished us to behave ourselves, and got into his cruiser, moving with brisk, precise strides. The blond cop looked at me and sniffed an exaggerated sniff before following his partner. Rob quietly went back to the driver side door and opened it. I brushed my by now sodden hair out of my eyes, then got back in the Taurus.

            Rob waited until the cops had pulled out and headed down the road before he turned the key. The radio came on softly, and he turned the volume up. The Dave Brubeck Quartet were blaring their way through “Blue Rondo a la Turk.”

            “Those guys were sort of assholes, huh,” I said, after a minute.
            “If you say so,” Rob said.
            The music faded  and the deejay came on to let us know that we were listening to KJazz, the official jazz radio of the University of California at Long Beach, and to remind us to tune in and contribute to their fundraising projects. Coming up next was Coltrane’s “Lazy Bird.”

            “For real, though,” I said, “That guy hassled you for no reason. I don’t know what—”
            “Shut up!” Roberto said. I looked at him. His shoulders were raised around his neck, and his grip was tight on the wheel.
            “Just shut the fuck up, alright?”
            I did. The band dropped away for a drum solo.

            “You just—you fuck things up, okay?”

            I didn’t answer him. He drove on, and the hissing of the tires over the wet asphalt began to drown out the sound of the music.