Not a Police Officer

Today's run was supposed to be an 8-miler, but since I already had a surplus for the week and had 18 miles scheduled for tomorrow, I stopped at ~ 7 miles and decided to walk back home. Home is in downtown Louisville, KY. The walk requires that I pass the site of the former Bojangles restaurant on East Broadway. While we were all sad to see Bojangles close it's greasy doors, the city rejoiced when The Chicken King moved in and started serving its delicious brand of southern keel, beans and cornbread.

Know who loves The Chicken King? Folks do. Know who else loves The Chicken King? Derelicts. Hobos. Bindlestiffs. Ragamuffins. Me. Mental defectives. The chronically intoxicated. A member of that last group (and very likely several of the other aforementioned groups) accosted me on my walk home. He, like many of the less fortunate, apparently has a tendency to directly address people who are wearing headphones and are clearly disengaged from their surroundings. Nevertheless he maintained eye contact and kept speaking. So, I removed my headphones. This did not render his communication at all clearer. Fortunately, he had a lady friend, who appeared to be Wanda Sykes and who was able to translate. I will now provide a transcript for all 0 of the readers of this fine blog.

Cast: Dennis "Oil Can" Boyd (OCB), Wanda Sykes (WS), Me (ML)
Setting: Parking Lot of The Chicken King

OCB: You a police officer!? (vaguely accusatory tone)

WS: He aint' no po-lice officer. Look at him.

OCB: Ain't all white people officers? You never know.

ML: I assure you, I am not a police officer

WS: See! I told you so, Oil Can!

OCB: I'm just tryna get something to eat, gnome sane, I'm just starvin' like Marvin, gnome sane.

ML: I understand. Perhaps you wouldn't be so aware of your hunger pangs if you and that strangely appetizing smell of secret spices and grease from the long-departed Bojangles weren't loitering in the parking lot of The Chicken King.

WS: Damn, I miss Bojangles. You ain't gwyne ta arrest us now, are you?

ML: I might. Oil Can Boyd just deputized me.

OCB: Don't you got a dollar or something? (Uttered while removing a handful of pennies from a frayed pant pocket and dropping all over the sidewalk)

ML: Actually, I was just out running and rarely carry cash. I would gladly give you a dollar if I had it, but I doubt that reassurance goes far towards satisfying your hunger. I am sorry about all of it. I promise not to arrest you, though.

OCB: Don't be sorry. Never be sorry for nuthin'. God bless you. (extending hand)

ML: Okay. I'm not sorry, Oil Can. Can I be sorry that Bojangles closed? (extending hand, attempting a handshake, which goes horribly awry when OCB suddenly initiates one of those new-fangled, three-phase handshakes)

That's pretty much how it occurred. It was the first time I've ever been accused of being a police officer. In Oil Can's defense, most whities are cops.