Painting on silk, Rebeca

Today again on the short wave (the only contact I have with the rest of the galaxy), I heard some news which through the association of ideas, made me remember something that happened to our neighbor Niche.

One afternoon, when we was at home resting, he realized he had run out of cigarettes. Since he lived just fifty feet from the nearest store, he immediately went to buy some. When he walked over to the establishment in question, we was stopped by the police and ordered to show his identity card. “Pal! But I live across the street!” he exclaimed.

“It doesn’t matter,” said the cop, “You have to come with me.” He put him in the patrol car and took him to the Zapata station. Once there, after explaining a thousand times the same story, they told him he had to wait for the duty officer.

When the officer arrived my neighbor repeated his story and was told he could go; but Niche argued, “Fine, and how am I going to get home! Because without my card, I’m going to get stopped again in the street. If you brought me, the most logical thing is that you take me back to where you picked me up.”

“That’s not our problem,” said the officer.

Niche returned to his house under his own power and, telling all his friends what had happened on the street, that they’d better be careful, because it seems that the color of his skin made the police suspicious.

I can swear to you, my neighbor Niche has never been to Arizona.

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