It was a typical Monday. Typical in the sense that it was a Monday, and it sucked. In that regard, it lived up to its reputation as the worst day of the week. It was, however, atypical in that I strayed from my usual Monday routine. Naively, this divergence was intended to alleviate or avoid the spirit-breaking effects of “The Mondays” (*shoutout to Office Space*). That said, I am man enough to admit that it was my audacity, and not the cruel irony of the cosmos, that inevitably invited this trouble. Mea culpa.

It started like any other Monday. Up at 4:30am, then off to the throne for Q-time. In today’s mental preparation it was decided that we owed ourselves an easy Monday due to the fact that we did not have an easy Sunday (again–my fault). On a typical Monday, we would shower, shave, coordinate some sort of fly AF neckwear/shirt/pants/suit combination, iron said clothes, don said apparel, caffeinate, then hurry out the door full of anxiety because we’re at least 5-10 minutes behind schedule.

But this was an Easy Monday; a concept that was, heretofore, undiscovered in my life (and, henceforth, remains so), and on an Easy Monday, we do not dress to impress. In fact, we care very little about the opinions and perceptions of others. Yes, Easy Monday would be a self-care day… and a half-day. Jeans and a branded polo would suffice for such a limited appearance. Comfortable, casual, but still professional. It was decided.

Wardrobe worries aside, I decided to check in with my personal assistant, Lopez iPhonese. As fate would have it, he hurried me out the door right on time, full of anxiety and about 5-10 minutes behind schedule. I grabbed a hoodie just before leaving because it’s Missouri, and although the high was forecasted to be near 60, winter had not yet released its grasp, and at 6am it was still near freezing.

Hoodied, with a jacket and jeans on, I set off on my (futile) quest to build generational wealth through traditional means. The mile-long journey to my bus stop was appropriately aggravating for a Monday. The first third is downhill and always makes me feel good for the forced exercise. The next two-thirds is uphill and on this frigid morning, ambient temperatures were perfect for building up a good sweat that would then immediately freeze once I retarded at the bus stop. It was a good Monday morning. Good in the sense that it was a Monday morning, and it sucked.

It’s always a gamble on whether or not Bus #106 will come. It traverses through the poorer parts of KCK before reaching its terminus in downtown KCMO. From a city planning perspective, it is more of a courtesy route, not a priority, and it is often one of the first to be nixed in the event of staff shortages or inclement weather. On this particular Monday, however, fate had other plans for me with the 106, so leg one of my morning commute came and went without a hitch.

From there the trip to work is usually uneventful unless you get a particularly foul-tempered or untrained bus driver. There’s a 30-minute ride with a two-block transfer window of roughly 10-15 minutes that gives me just enough time to meet up with Mary Jane downtown at the YMCA. That’s where we hop on the 229 to the KCI Airport which, thankfully, is one of the few lines that never shuts down and pretty much always runs on time. Priorities. So I arrived at work at 7:35am ready to fuck shit up and then get the hell out of DOGE! That’s how the saying goes, right?

Mondays are never particularly memorable days. They serve mostly to lengthen my To-Do-List, making them just as counter-productive as they are unremarkable. I set the intention to leave before noon, and failed. At 12:10pm, I watched the bus I should have been on drive down the street. Unwilling to abandon my dream of an easy Monday, I had Lopez arrange pickup with Iris Transit–another poorly operated city service that charges $3 to ride short distances in a carpool lottery. I could use her to intercept the 106 downtown and go home. With luck, I could be home by 2pm.

As a rule, I only gamble with my life, not my money. Iris was a bit of both, but these were desperate times. Thus far it had not been the easiest of Mondays, and it sucked.

Lopez informed me that the pickup would be between 12:45-1:00pm, but the drop off would not be until 1:45pm. I frowned at that schedule. It would be no different than waiting for the next bus–which was free. I puzzled over the dilemma. Every dollar counts when you have a debt to society, unless you wanted to be a debt to society. As a productive and tax-paying Menace II Society (1993), the irony is not lost on me. It is simply buried.

I decided to hail Iris. I would at least have a more comfortable ride downtown than the always crowded 229. Unfortunately, my comfort came at the cost of my sanity and safety. The driver struggled to understand his own GPS but had the good grace to drive slowly and distractedly in order to compensate. I eventually made it downtown and pleaded with Mr Iris to drop me off at least six blocks away from my final destination (literally and figuratively). He made some comment about needing to find a safe place to drop me off, hilarious considering how many laws he violated in our commute. Graciously, I hopped out the car and walked the remaining blocks.

It was 1:41pm when I arrived at the 12th & Jefferson bus stop. If the schedule was to be believed (it wasn’t), the 106 would be arriving in 14 minutes (it didn’t). Fortunately, Mary Jane was waiting at the bus stop with me and, having finally escaped the hotel, we were ready to discover the pleasures of an easy Monday.

After 40 minutes under the zenith of a late winter sun, the hoodie & jacket combination started to seem like a bad idea, but taking it off would just mean more to carry because, fun fact, I decided to take work home with me. I fully intended to ignore it while I was there, but carrying it provided a sense of security to control the anxiety of playing hookie–as if you, foolish Q, truly deserved an easy Monday! The nerve.

The 106 pulled up as I was leaning comfortably against the sign post, half-listening to my high fantasy audiobook, Words of Radiance by Brandon Sanderson, and half-reminiscing about the wall-leaning revolution I started before French class in my junior year of high school. That was a good year. French class is where I met my first love. Her name was Rachel. She has a family of three half-grown boys now. I have a fullly grown daughter. Are we really that old?

I was in the midst of these reveries when I boarded the bus, only vaguely aware of the sound of screeching tires as I turned to take my seat. Straight ahead through the front windshield, I saw a set of flashing lights swerve to a halt, cutting the bus off. Suddenly alert, but utterly dumbfounded, I was vaguely aware of two identical synchronous sounds to the left and behind me, my survival instincts telling me that the bus had been blocked in. Shit! This is it! They’re coming for me! How could it end like this? Gunned down on the bus on a random Monday, and it sucked!

Some version of that thought is an auto-reply in any black man’s brain at the sight of flashing lights. It’s not wrought from any culpability of conscience, but instead birthed from the scorn of society. Alas, such is life; or rather, such is Privilege.

After the initial panic, I considered my truth.. You haven’t broken any laws recently… have you, Q? I quickly reviewed recent memory: it’s not the pot, that’s not illegal. I haven’t violated my bond, have I? Surely my lawyer would tell me. He’s not big mad, is he?! I’m not driving, how many laws can I break on foot? I don’t litter (thank you, Rachel). Jaywalking, but that’s not a thing. But they are cops, and I am black. That’s silly. Don’t be like that, Q. Like what?! Smart! No, fool, distracted! Pay attention, it’s the fucking cops! I haven’t broken any laws recently. What about old shit? This is probably some old shit! They came in hard AF! What did I do? Think?!

As minds go, all these thoughts occurred in the blink of the eyes that snapped me back to reality. I quickly scanned the other riders in front of me, survival instincts remembering that no one is sitting behind me. Two other black men, one wizened and elderly, the other equally non-threatening, although I hadn’t the time to discern why. It was just a feeling. Three female passengers, one black, the other two either Latino or white and probably related. Then there’s the bus driver, but she’s probably in on it. With this motley crew of passengers, there could be no doubt: they were definitely here for me.

I was just as certain of that fact as I was in my own innocence, and in a world where righteousness understood culpability, perhaps I would not have been paralyzed by fear, but in this multiverse…

“I need to see your ID,” barked a young white male officer as he entered the bus, his cloned companion right behind him, their hands paused casually close to their holstered sidearm. I didn’t move. I stared dumbfoundedly ahead, perfectly aware that he was talking to me, but terrified by the reality of the situation. The rest of the passengers began looking around, trying to determine their target, while the officers paused to assess the situation. Having already performed both tasks, my panicked mind took the advantage of the two seconds to play through at least a dozen scenarios but kept landing on the one where I reached into my jacket for my passport and was immediately gunned down. I didn’t move.

The lead officer faltered for a moment under the scrutiny of all the passengers then clarified, a tad softer in tone but still stern in demeanor. “We’re looking for a suspect in the area. I need to see your ID.”  They began walking towards me, stammering over the directive one more time. About half-way to me, the wind noticeably left his sails and he began rambling uncomfortably as recognition dawned on him.

“We’re looking for a guy who stole a car and he was last seen in this area and…”

I stared up at the officer without saying a word and reached into my jacket for my passport. It wasn’t there. That’s right, it’s still in my coat. Shit, do I have an ID?! Yes! My Kansas license is in my bag. The name is wrong, but they don’t know that, and that’s the State’s fault anyway. Why is this guy still talking? You’re only making this worse, homie. Awkward silence is better than uncomfortable rambling.

“I mean, you literally matched the description of a guy we’re looking for… with the dreads pulled back and everything…. I mean, you look just like him, he just stole a car…”

I handed him my Kansas license, still silent, concentrating on maintaining an impassive face as I judged the officers for their misguided perceptions of justice.

“Oohh Bostick, I think I’ve met…” he trailed off into unintelligible syllables, perhaps searching for that awkward silence he was so assiduously avoiding. After what I think he determined to be a decent “investigative” review of my ID, he handed the wallet back (I didn’t waste time taking it out because I felt bad for his awkward rambling). “Okay, thank you.”

With almost comedic timing, a hybrid officer from one of the assisting vehicles arrived at the rear exit and blocked the most expedient egress, extending the awkwardness of the moment. The biracial officer attempted to assess the situation but was at least six beats behind the rest of us. No one felt inclined to update him on events; however, as both a reprieve and a reprimand, my previously impassive face flashed with poignant disappointment as our eyes met–et tu, Bruté? The lead officer pushed past without a word and exited the bus. He would find his justice elsewhere today.

Once the doors closed, all the passengers turned to me with motley faces of mourning and apology. “I’m sorry, brother,” empathized the wizened OG. The black woman audibly raged her displeasure as well. The other riders looked towards me and away, embarrassed, whispering private thoughts to their companions. Still silent, I nodded my appreciation.

I rode on in irritation for at least six blocks but I couldn’t figure out why I was so annoyed. This was nothing I hadn’t encountered before, and I escaped unscathed. What was the big deal? Was it the tender age of the officers that had me bothered? They had to be in their mid-twenties, I’d guess. Have we already taken two steps back from the Civil Rights Movement? No, it was none of that. At least, that wasn’t the cause of my frustration. That was America. Was it the fact that the jury’s in and it’s officially a shitty Monday? My thoughts froze, admitting defeat, and yet a strange rambling continued in my mind.

That’s when it hit me. I’d had my AirPods in and Sanderson’s Words of Radiance had been the annoying soundtrack throughout my entire silent 60-second performance. Shallan’s stupid voice (my least favorite character in the epic fantasy universe) was continuing to trigger my fight-or-flight response six blocks later. I hate everything about her stupid self.

I removed the ear plugs and relaxed. I made it home just in time for Monday Night Raw (now on Netflix–what?!) to save the day. I put the incident out of my mind and forgot about it.

It was three whole days before it came back to me, and it did so as an afterthought to a conversation I was having with an employee. I had mentioned that I was detained by the cops on the bus, and she replied with genuine shock and terror. I was taken aback by her concern and she asked me to elaborate. I obliged with a highly abbreviated retelling, and her reply was a sincere, “I’m so sorry that happened to you.” The surprise and outrage expressed by the young white female seemed out of place for such a common occurrence. For her, and probably most non-black men in America, such an incident appears to be an egregious misapplication of law and authority, but for me… it was just another Monday.

And it sucked.