Cops and Robbers

I should have never went for orange juice. It runs through your head, over and over, like a broken record. I could have stayed at home. I could have gone without it. I could have picked another supermarket. I could have just said hi and left. But life doesn't work like that. Life can't be managed in the past. You make decisions in the moment and live with the consequences. That's life. On Sunday morning, my craving for Citric brand orange juice cost me a whole lot more than the $6.50 pesos sticker price. It cost me $450 pesos, a bit of my pride, and a hard-learned lesson about corruption, poverty, nationalism, and depravity. Ironically, I never even got the OJ.

It rained torrentially on Saturday night. It was the type of rain that happens in Buenos Aires during the spring. The type of rain that falls in streams rather than drops. The kind that floods streets, closes subway lines, and stimeys even the toughest of car winshield wipers. We closed the bar early because of it. After a quick game of darts and a trip to Burger King, my night was almost over. My friend Louis and I headed back to San Telmo just as the day, and the rain began to break. What had started out as an ugly Saturday had transformed into a beautiful Sunday morning. The outdoor Feria, or open market, was being set up piece by piece, as it always is on Sundays. The trees were green with week's worth of heavy rain and there was an odd silence in the streets. It was kind of like a tranquil calm before the storm of 4,000 tourists were to fill the streets. You would be a fool not to want to walk around and enjoy this type of morning. Even if you had been up working all night. So Louis and I did just that. We took a walk.

After a few quick passes of the plaza, a half of a joint, and some debate over whether or not pigeons could fly more than a few yards at a time, we decided to pack it in for the night. I knew I was thirsty, but a half joint will do that to you, so I really thought nothing of it. We got into the house and Louis went to his room directly. As the door shut on the basement room door, I had second thoughts. OJ. Fresh squeezed, no sugar added, delicious. Why the fuck not. It was 8:30am. The only place I knew where to get it was just opening, and a mere 3 blocks from my house. So I made a u-turn and walked to the store.

I got to the supermarket, doors just opening. Jackpot. I would be in OJ heaven within a matter of minutes. Then I heard my name called, loudly, from across the street. It was my roommate Jose, a bone-skinny 18-year-old Ecuadorian film student with a penchant for drinking, and a bad habbit of being a loud drunk. I couldn't ignore it, so I crossed. Jose was at the door of a 24-hour hamburger joint. These are pretty typical down here. It's generally a rough crowd that hangs there in the early morning, especially on weekends. They serve beer, cheap food, and most importantly, NEVER CLOSE. If the steel bars surrounding the food counter don't immediately turn you off, the smell of piss and the sight of sleeping drunks, whores, and lost-looking hippie travelers should. Almost as soon as I entered, Jose was kicked out by security for being too rowdy. "Security", and I use the term loosely, was man in his mid 20s, average built, with a shitty blue uniform and a police issued nightstick.

As I turned to make my exit and go back to the supermarket I heard my name again. "Andy, my friend!" yelled a short, well-groomed dark-skinned man dressed in a tuxedo jacket and pants, no tie in sight, and a white undershirt unbuttoned almost half way. It was Wilbur, a Peruvian man who works as a waiter in the plaza. I had met him 3 months earlier, ironically, in this very place. He's a fixture in the neighborhood, and one of those guys who remembers names, faces, where you're from, and what you do for work. He's quite remarkable in that sense, actually. Wilbur waived me to join him at one of the plastic picnic-esque tables that lined the sides of th walls near the windows. I obliged and pulled up a seat.

At the table with Wilbur were two girls, most likely in their mid-20s, and gorgeous. The skinnier one was from France. She had that look too. I knew she wasn't from around here. The shorter, darker girl was from Puerto Rico. They looked like they had been partying, but in a place like that, everyone did, including me. They had beer. Once again, I obliged. We were about halfway into our second glass, and the French girl's third cigarette, when Wilber motioned to the slender one to accompany him to the bathroom. Now, as a bartender, and a street-smart person in general, I knew exactly what that meant. Unfortunately, so did the security officer. As he glared down the aisle towards the bathroom he feverishly sent a text message and motioned towards the manager. In Argentina, cocaine is relatively cheap, plentiful, and unfortunately an all-too-normal thing to do at 9am after a heavy Saturday. I paid it no mind and started talking baseball with the Puerto Rican.

Within minutes of Wilbur's return, two P.F.A (Argentine Federal Police) patrol cars pulled up in front. My first thought was "sucks to be you Wilbur". He had witnesses, but he didn't seem to be phased. I gave the French girl a look as if to say, "you too". She was stone-faced. I will admit, however, that I felt a tinge of fear. You get used to that down here. The police have never rubbed me the right way, and as a foreigner, you can never be too careful. We've all heard of nightmare scenarios with police. Corruption, extortion, physical abuse, threats, planting evidence. This is an unfortunate side effect of a police force that is grossly underpaid, has very few checks and balances, and has a reputation for being dirty. As the two uniformed officers approached the table, I noticed that they weren't looking at the girls at all. They were looking directly at me and Wilbur. My nightmare had just started, and I already knew that this wouldn't end in a hand shake and an apology.

We were ordered to stand up and move to the back of the restaurant. The girls stayed at the table, and Wilbur and I went to a darker corner of the room, no windows. By the time we reached the wall, 2 officers had turned into 8. Four were in flac jackets, the others in plain uniform. One of them seemed to be the captain, but I couldn't really tell. The next ten minutes was like the movie "Groundhog Day". "Do you have any coke", the officer kept asking me. "No", I repeated over and over. I emptied my pockets about 5 times. Each time a different officer. I removed my shirt as well. Had my mouth searched and my pants shaken. Over and over this continued.

The officers did the same to Wilbur, had a bit of a huddle, and brought him into the bathroom. I asked if I could go and was promptly denied. Within minutes I was flagged into the hall where the bathrooms were. The bathroom hall looked exactly as you would expect it to in a place like this. The smell of urine was unbareable. The only light came from a solitary red light hanging from the ceiling. There was green mold draping the walls like it was painted there. Wilbur was in a stall with the biggst officer. He ordered me in. I panicked, and said no, trying to justify my innocence. Before he even processed his response, the other officer kicked me in the back of the knees. I fell fast. It took my breath. I was pulled up and shoved in the 5-by-5 stall.

Officer big man told me we would both be booked for cocaine posession. I gave him a look like he knew I was innocent and he was fucking with me. He didn't care. He said we were together, and that Wilbur was merely holding the coke for me. We all knew this wasn't true, including Wilbur, but the officer was fine with his story. He asked me if I'd ever been to an Argentine jail. I said no, as I've never been to any jail. He told me that if I didn't want to go he needed a favor. Money. Wilbur's pockets had been searched. Nothing. My pockets were filled with my weeks salary. Roughly $450 pesos after the Burger King and taxi costs. They knew how much I had. I had emptied my pockets a mere 10 minutes earlier. I tried to give him $100, but it didn't work. He reached in my pockets and took it all. Then he told us to leave seperately, not look back, and not be seen for the rest of the day. If I hung around, he said it would cost my legs. I didn't argue.

The walk home was short, but one of the longest ones I've ever taken in my life. "I hate it here", "I hate police", "I hate Wilbur", "I hate San Telmo". It all swished around my head like a bad dream. A confusion of anger, sadness, and the horrendous feeling of being violated. I didn't even notice that the Feria had started. No green trees, no pigeon talks, no OJ. Sleep felt good, and I settled in pretty well. I had to go back to work in a few hours, and I couldn't afford to be in a bad mood.

And so it was. I had my first real experience with police corruption. It was my first taste of what I'm sure thousands of people go through each year. In an eerie way, that actually helped me cope. I was unlucky, but certainly not an anomaly. I tried to think of it like an Argentine would. Wake up, smile, go about your life, and appreciate the good moments in your day. Move on. Hey, at least on the bright side, it made the ousting of my beloved Red Sox from the playoffs a bit easier to swallow. Life is short. I never want to forget that.