High Price

my choice. I continued my story about responsibility and helping out after Big Mama’s death. He stopped me. Carl didn’t often give me advice, but he felt that he had to speak up now.
    “Junior,” he said, “pussy is everywhere.”
    He had instantly discerned my reason for wanting to stay. I was getting way too comfortable back home, possibly setting myself up to fail by being sucked back into the life I already knew, rather than moving on and at least trying something different. He knew all too well how easy it was to lose sight of your goals and drift aimlessly.
    “You don’t have to get it here,” he said.
    I just nodded. I didn’t want him to know that he’d precisely pinpointed my motives. But over the next few days I thought about what he’d said and realized that he was right. The balance was back in favor of my success in college, which would truly begin in England.

CHAPTER 9
    “Home Is Where the Hatred Is”
    I came to the place of my birth, and cried, “The friends of my youth, where are they?” And an echo answered, “Where are they?”
    — ANONYMOUS ARAB SAYING
    S ir, we pulled you over because your taillight isn’t working properly,” the police officer said. He added, cordially, “We just wanted to let you know.”
    I had been driving into one of England’s ubiquitous “roundabouts,” which are similar to American traffic circles. I was on my second overseas assignment at Royal Air Force Base Fairford, in Gloucestershire, England. I was in my light green 1980 BMW 320; I’d purchased the car shortly after I arrived in the United Kingdom because I needed my own transportation to live off-base. It was around midnight on a summer or autumn evening in 1986 and I was on my way home from hanging out with friends to change into my uniform and work a night shift in the base computer room, where I was responsible for disseminating base supply reports. As always, it was drizzling.
    The cops asked to see my license. While I was handing them the appropriate documents, one of them smelled alcohol on my breath.
    “Have you been drinking, sir?” he asked, still respectful.
    I admitted that I had had a pint, and complied as he administered a Breathalyzer test. I wasn’t too worried that I’d fail: I knew that I wasn’t intoxicated. Indeed, I blew well below the level that indicates any sort of impairment and the officers simply thanked me and let me go.
    As I drove away, though, I suddenly realized that something was missing. I felt okay; my heart rate was pretty much normal. There was no dry mouth or sigh of relief. I’d just had an encounter with police that had involved very little tension or fear. It was peculiar.
    The police hadn’t flashed their lights at me; they hadn’t stiffened or puffed themselves up when they saw that I was black. They’d been kind and respectful, not assuming that a black man in a nice car must be a drug dealer or some other sort of criminal. Even when they smelled alcohol on my breath, they did not become confrontational or judgmental and assume I was drunk. While my military ID might have helped, I’d still been treated like an ordinary person, not a second-class citizen or sketchy foreigner. I’d never had such an experience.
    I thought back on a traffic incident I’d had with Florida police, which had also occurred late at night, in this case when I’d first returned home after boot camp in 1984. That had been completely different. Alex, my high school friend, had been driving his hideous brownish orange Pinto. I was in the front seat. The car—yes, it was the type that had been recalled for the minor problem of being at risk for exploding if rear-ended—was at least ten years old and probably looked twice that.
    We’d pulled into a convenience store parking lot: in fact, it was that same old U’Tote’M that we’d frequented growing up. The shop was garishly lit, which usually meant it was open. Just after we’d stopped, Alex came around to my side of the car. He was carrying a large screwdriver, which was required to pry the dented door open so that I could get out. But we soon discovered that there was no reason to get out: the store was actually closed.
    Just then, two cop cars pulled up and whooped their sirens at us, blinding us with their lights.
    “What you boys doing here?” one of the officers drawled, full of undisguised contempt.
    I produced my military ID, figuring that this might turn the situation around. After all, I was now