I am at the airport, waiting at the end of a long check-in line, when I see him from across the terminal: a lone police officer, pushing four enormous designer suitcases stacked on a rickety metal luggage cart. The cart’s loose front wheels dart from side to side like the eyes of the village crazy. The cop is wearing a dark blue uniform and matching hat. There is a nightstick hanging from his belt and a shiny badge over his heart. His polished shoes are standard-issue black. When our eyes lock he removes the nightstick from its holster and begins rapidly swinging it in the air in a circular motion. A mother grabs the back of her young son’s red suspenders and pulls the boy toward her. “Get out of the way, Jimmy!” she screams and shields his head.I squint at the police officer then glance at my friend Libby, who is sitting beside me. She is perched on her suitcase, wearing sunglasses, her head tilted back like she’s relaxing on a beach of fluorescent lighting. She turns over her piece of watermelon bubble gum, pops a pink bubble, then holds out the pack.
