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An Open Letter to the Lady with a Dog

Daniel Mark

    To the Lady with a Dog,
    You don’t know me and probably don’t remember me but I remember you. I cannot imagine what you thought when you saw me pressed against the hood of my car by a police officer while another held a gun on me. You were drinking coffee, dressed in seasonally appropriate jogging wear. You were probably out walking your dog that morning, maybe before work. I didn’t even know what day it was. The officer knew. He knew a lot more than me. He knew that someone had called in a report of an unconscious man in a car. The driver side door was ajar. He was possibly injured. Possibly dead.
    It was a cool spring morning, I could feel the dew on the hood of my car as my face was pressed against it. So I knew I wasn’t dead. At least I knew that. You probably knew what day it was. The officer bounced my head a couple times, maybe hoping it would help me know something else. Maybe to help me understand why I chose to pass out drunk in a strange neighborhood. It didn’t help. I didn’t even know how I got here. Maybe he just wanted me to know that it’s a terrible idea to reach for your pockets when two police officers are about to search you. The gun added punctuation to his point. So he bounced my head off the hood a couple of times while his partner yelled and pointed the gun and yelled some more. I didn’t say anything and the officer was gentle enough not to leave any dents on my hood. I wish he had. Maybe a little reminder of the things he wanted me to know, the things I should have known. I looked up from the yelling and saw you looking at me. They kept yelling and unseen hands groped my body and I saw you and you saw them and I looked away in shame. I hope I didn’t scare you.
    I hadn’t bathed in a few weeks and it was obvious that I was living in my car. I was still drunk and when I shuffled out to greet the officer, a half empty bottle of whiskey fell out of my lap onto the ground. My keys were in the ignition. The officer saw all of this. I hope that you didn’t. The officer saw that I was terrified, confused. He also saw that I was in my twenties, cooperative, spoke well even if it were in a slur and white. The last part, he noticed the most. He noticed it because he was too. And so was his partner. And so were you. He wasn’t happy about me being drunk and asleep in a car in a family neighborhood but he would have been less so if I hadn’t been white.
    He didn’t put handcuffs on me and he didn’t write me a citation. I hope that you didn’t see when he opened my trunk and threw the bottle in, when he gave my keys back to me with a smile that said These things happen sometimes. I really hope that your dog had tugged you away from the scene, insistent that it continue it’s walk so then maybe you didn’t hear him say, “I want you to get some sleep and when you are sobered up, I want you to head home. Don’t drive and don’t let this happen again.” He patted me on the shoulder and told me to have a good day and be safe, like I was a son.
    I’m sorry.

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