Shakedown

On Main Street, two cops stop me in front of the tire store. One is big and burly and the other is lean and leathery. “You’re under arrest for theft,” the burly one says. Before I can respond, they lift and turn me upside down. Keys fall out. “Can’t arrest a man for a ring of keys,” I say. Not satisfied, they shake me until 20 silver dollars drop out, spinning and rolling on the asphalt. “My inheritance,” I say. Then a set of delicate porcelain teacups cracks on the pavement and dozens of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, not to mention a few moonstones and amethysts, roll into the street. “They’re not mine,” I say. “I don’t know how they got there.” “Shake him some more,” the burly cop says. Now two exotic jungle birds fly out almost hitting the wiry cop in the face. “How did you get these in your pocket?—they’re huge,” the lean one asks, but I’m not talking. A few feathers drift down, clinging to their shoes. When they shake me this time, two wrinkled Armani suits tumble out, and then a saxophone and clarinet clatter on the pavement. Next, out comes a set of Nokian all-weather tires. “We’ve got you,” they say. “You stole the missing tires.” “I didn’t steal them,” I say. “They came with my jeans.” Still, they decide to shake me again, but now a wind blows out of my pockets. And handfuls of salt fly into their eyes.