This happened about 1991, on December 28th. It was my girlfriend Mita's birthday. I was riding my Robin Hood 3-speed bicycle north on Halsted. There were not any bike lanes at that time. I didn't have a helmet or identification. It was cloudy, not very cold, snowing a little. A nice day. I'm a WASP, at the time late twenties, longish hair, with one of those Guatemalan soft backpacks/ backbag thing. The industrial hippy look. At the time I was reading the collected speeches of Martin Luther King Jr.. He has very good advice about being arrested, the importance of being calm, being polite, not getting upset at the cops, treating them with respect, etc. It works great! Being white helps too.

I was moving at a decent pace. The wind was behind me and I was pedaling rapidly in second gear. As I approached Aldine, a sidestreet with a stopsign, a car came from the west, my left side. He slowed at Halsted, rolled the stopsign, and accelerated on a collision course with me. Normally, when I see that a car is going to hit me, I raise the leg that would be trapped and try to get on the car. By doing this in the past, I've ended up sitting comfortably on the hood of a car while my bicycle shot across the road, leaving a perfect impression of a pedal in the grill of a Chevrolet. But that's another story, one that does not involve the police.

So it was looking like I would hit the passenger door. I had my left leg up, weight on my right, ready to lock up the rear wheel and skid sideways into the car. As we got closer very fast, the passenger saw me, screamed, and the car slammed to a stop. I was able to turn to the right and miss the front of the car. Since I already had my left leg in the air, I took the opportunity to bring the heel of my boot down on the exact center of the hood.

It felt good. I was excited. I kept going.

Two blocks up Halsted, the car went past me and pulled into my path. I stopped. A grey-haired big man wearing a black velour sweatsuit and several gold chains around his neck got out.

"What's wrong with you? Are you a crazy kid on drugs?!"

" You almost killed me."

"What the fuck, blah, blah, blah".

The guy has a cell phone (in 1991!) and is calling the police. A white man cop walks up, asks what's going on: The guy says I kicked his car, I say he almost killed me. The cop turns to me: "I saw you riding like a fucking maniac two blocks down, what's your problem?" I told him again what happened. I was pretty pissed at the cop taking the drivers side and I gave up arguing. I guess the dent was rather obvious, in the exact center of the hood. Pretty big too.

About five more cops show up. After awhile they decide to arrest me. This was because I did not have any proof of identity. They let me lock up my bike, recited the Miranda warning, then handcuffed me and put me in the back of a car. White man cop driving, White woman cop passenger. The man cop says: "Why were you fucking with that guy, he has a fraternal order of police sticker on his car".

My retort (perhaps refined over the years): "Big Deal! You get that for giving $15 over the phone".

"Yea, guess so".

The first cop on the scene leans over to my window. "You know, I arrested you to protect you. That guy wanted to kill you."

"Hmm, okay, thanks a lot I guess".

We drive off. I asked if we could go by my apartment to get my identification. Woman cop asked where it was, and then told me it was too far, they are supposed to got straight to the station.

The police station was pretty nice. Prewar, cool art-nouveau limestone carvings, shiny bricks. I sat handcuffed against the wall, behind a table. The woman cop sat opposite me, filling out a report. At least four cops saunter over and looked over her shoulder to see what the cat dragged in. I gave her my information. As she was filling in the incident description, she wrote "suspect got in a verbal altercation and then kicked the car"

I spoke: "That is not what happened: He ran the stop sign and almost killed me".

"Well, this is just the report and that's the story so far".

They took me back to the jail part. A black man cop sargent was in charge. He gave me a little speech: "I already have one person in my jail. You are the second person in my jail. I do not like people being in my jail. I want you to leave my jail as soon as possible. You need $100 and identification to get out of my jail. How can I assist you to get out of my jail?"

I had thought this out on the way over. "I need to call my girlfriend. She has to ride her bicycle from Logan Square to here to get the keys to my apartment. She has to ride back down to my apartment. My I.D. and cash are there. Then she has to ride back up here."

"Okay, there's the phone".

I call Mita and tell her what's going on. She laughs. I tell the Sargent she is on the way.

As he is processing me, checking for weapons, taking belt and shoelaces, he says: "Let me ask you something. If you got in a fight with this guy and were standing in the street, how did you kick the top of his car?" "I'm invoking my right to remain silent."

"Okay, I understand that. But I'm curious: This is just you and me talking, off the record".

So I told him what happened. A young white man cop fingerprinted me, he seemed to have a hard time rolling my fingers. After a few times I asked if I could help. No answer. We go in the back to photograph me. They stood me against the wall next to a cot where somebody is laying down with a coat over their head. He pulls the coat down, and looks up. He obviously had been sleeping. I apologize for waking him up. He laughs.

I sat in the cell for awhile. The Sargent came by and asked how long until I'm out of his jail. I estimated about 2 1/2 hours with Mita's travel time. I asked if I could call the bar where I cook and tell them I might be late. He let me out. The bar owner seemed shocked I was in custody. Pussy. I quit not long after.

The sargent asked why I wasn't carrying identification. I told him that I didn't legally have to.

"Well, that's true. But you can be held for suspicion without being charged for 48hrs while your fingerprints are sent around. With I.D. there is a 24hr. limit."

I didn't know that. That's why I carry identification now. Also because I learned Woody Guthrie recommended it.

He said "I would guess by your clothes that you are some sort of artist".

I tell him that I'm working on a show: Pretending that it's 100 years ago and I'm experimenting with solar energy. Making devices that if developed would by now would have freed people from spending money on things like electricity and gas and water that should be a fundamental human right. Blah, Blah, Blah. My gas had been shut off and I was bitter and cheap.

I sat in the cell for awhile. The sargent came by and opened the door. "You're free. Nice talking to you."

Mita told me later what happened. She came into the station, covered with snow. She is loud and friendly. She talked to the Sargent, explained how she has to get my keys, ride in a snowstorm to Logan Square, get my I.D. and cash, ride back up in the snow. Plus, she paused for emphasis: "It's my birthday!"

The Sargent looked at her for a bit. "Tell you what. I'm going to give him to you as a birthday present."

She wasn't really impressed. We walked down to my bicycle. There was a business card taped to the seat: "My friend saw the whole thing from beginning to end. Call me". How nice! Turns out the friend burst into his salon, said "I just saw a car almost kill somebody a few blocks down!" and while he was relating the story, I became arrested right in front of the salon.

I went to court on the trial date. The guy didn't show up.

- Erik Newman