T H E T U S C A R O R A R E V I E W 2 0 2 3 1 1 Glass Bottles S I M I A H C H A R L E S A late, overcast sky hung over the abandoned parking lot where Tyler and I stood. Shards of glass from Hennessy, Tequila, and Corona bottles were scattered around our feet. The police cruiser’s tires crackled on the pavement until it came to a complete stop. It was silent, no sirens, no flashing lights. The officer got out of his car. His lips curled as he approached us. A daunting sensation rose from my feet to my heart then back down to my gut. We were silent, no words, no movement. “Come on,” The officer said when he got close enough. “What is this?” “We were going to clean it up,” Tyler said and pointed to the broom that was lying on the ground. The officer’s hands rested on his bullet proof vest. “This is not your property ...” The officer began. “This is vandalism—destruction of property. You are looking at a $150 citation.” I pressed my thumbnail deep into my skin, but I could not feel it no matter how hard I pushed. There is no way that this is considered vandalism. Perhaps littering at best. There was silence once again—the annoying kind. The kind of silence that happens when the game show host pauses before reading aloud who the winner is. The heart-wrenching kind. My eyes were glued to him. My attention bounced from his face to his black walkie-talkie, to his notepad, and to his gun. In those moments of quietness it did not occur to me that we were two black kids, doing dumbass stuff and not putting two brain cells together. What would my parents think? What will happen to my academic career? I cannot go to jail. Can we go to jail for this? A gust of wind weaved its way through my coily hair. I noticed that the officer had not looked at me once—just Tyler. I followed the cop’s gaze and I looked at my friend. Tyler’s hard facial features were unfazed. How was he so calm? I looked back at the officer.
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