Harlem Heat

I can't front. I was nervous as hell. My heart was thumping a mile a minute, like it was about to jump outta my chest. The same goddamn state trooper had now been following us for more than three exits and I knew that it was just a matter of seconds before he was gonna turn on his lights and pull us over. So I put on my signal and switched lanes and prepared to exit the parkway, hoping that he would change his mind about stopping us. "Chyna, what the fuck are you doing?" my moms asked me as she fidgeted in her seat. "Ma, you know this nigga is gonna pull us over, so I'm just acting like I'm purposely exiting before he pulls us over. It'll be easier to play shit off if he does stop us." "Chyna, I swear to God you gonna get us locked the fuck up. Just relax and drive!" my mother barked as she turned her head to look in the rearview mirror to confirm that the state trooper was still tailing us. She also reached to turn up the volume on the radio and then slumped in her seat a little bit, trying to relax. Although my moms was trying to play shit cool, the truth was, I knew that she was just as nervous as I was. "Ma, I already switched lanes, I gotta get off now or we'll look too suspicious," I explained over the loud R. Kelly and Snoop Dogg song that was coming from the speakers. As soon as I switched lanes and attempted to make my way to the ramp of exit 13, the state trooper threw on his lights, signaling for me to pull over. "Ain't this a bitch. Chyna, I told yo' ass." "Ma, just chill," I barked, cutting my mother off. I was panicking and trying to think fast, and the last thing I needed was for my mother to be bitchin' with me. "I got this. I'ma pull over and talk us outta this. Just follow my lead," I said with my heart pounding as I exited the parkway ramp and made my way on to Linden Boulevard before bringing the car to a complete stop. I had my foot on the brake and both of my hands on the steering wheel. I inhaled and then exhaled very deeply before putting the car in park. I quickly exited the car, wearing my Cartier Aviator goldrimmed shades to help mask my face. The loud R. Kelly chorus continued playing in the background. "Officer, I'm sorry if I was speeding, but -- " "Miss, step away from the car and put your hands where I can see them," the lone state trooper shouted at me, interrupting my words. He was clutching his nine-millimeter handgun, that was still in its holster, and he cautiously approached me. Soon, I no longer heard the music coming from the car and I was guessing that my mother had turned it down so that she could try to listen to what the officer was saying. "Put my hands on the car for what? Let me just explain where I'm going." The officer wasn't trying to hear it, and he slammed me up against the hood of the car. "I got a sick baby in the car. What the hell is wrong with you?" I screamed. I was purposely trying to be dramatic while squirming my body and resisting the officer's efforts to pat me down. On the inside I was still shitting bricks and my heart was still racing a mile a minute. The car was in park at the side of the road and the engine was running idle. I was hoping that my mom would jump into the driver's seat and speed the hell off. There was no sense in both of us getting bagged. And from the looks of things, the aggressive officer didn't seem like he was in the mood for bullshit. "Is anyone else in the car with you?" the cop asked me as he felt between my legs up to my crotch, checking for a weapon, even though he was clearly feeling for more than just a weapon. My mother's BMW 745 that I was driving had limousine-style tints, and the state trooper couldn't fully see inside the car. "Just my moms and my sick baby. Yo, on the real, for real, this is crazy. I ain't even do shit and you got me bent over and slammed up against the hood of the car feeling all on my pussy and shit! I got a siAnthony, Mark is the author of 'Harlem Heat', published 2007 under ISBN 9781416549093 and ISBN 1416549099.