On Cops, Mistakes, And The People Who Get To Make Them

Scattered reflections after a painfully long week.

One night when I was a teenager, my eldest brother surprised me by taking me out to get dinner at my favorite restaurant Chi Tung, an Asian fusion joint that’s a staple of Southwest Chicago dining. Considering I only ever ended up at Chi Tung after some major event like a graduation or a baptism, this was a real treat for me, so much so that I didn’t immediately pick up that my brother was being uncharacteristically taciturn during the drive over. After we were seated and put in our orders, we chatted for a few minutes until our dishes arrived.

I only managed to get a couple of bites into my meal before my brother stopped me, with a look I’d never seen before or since etched on his face. He hesitated, then said that the reason we were eating out was because he wanted to talk to me about something really serious. Naturally, my mind and heart started racing in tandem, but I didn’t have long to wonder before he asked, in a low voice, why our sister had told him that I’d said I wanted to start using drugs.

I stared at him blankly for a couple seconds, and then laughed — not nearly as much as I should have, in hindsight. Even umpteen years later, when it comes to me and drug experimentation, I still couldn’t be more of a…