Frisked for Nothing

The night was warm and the fog hung low over Schwedenplatz as I drunkenly passed out cigarettes to a group of African men I had become aquainted with only moments before. As I dug for my lighter, a black car sped around the corner, sending my new friends running in all directions.

Plain clothes police officers jumped out of the car, quickly flashing their badges as they asked me for my papers. I pretended not to understand, "I’m sorry?"

"Passport."

"I don’t have it on me," I said in a put on slur. "It’s at my hotel."

"Where is that?"

I waved in vague directions. "I think it’s around here somewhere."

"Do you have any identification?"

"Nope, I lost my wallet on the trail tonight, boys! Could you help me find it?"

The officer’s frustration was visible. "Do you have any drugs on you?"

"Excuse me? What is this about?" I growled in feigned offense.

"Why were you talking to those blacks?"

"Why?" I said with a crooked smile. " I’m a drunk American, anyone who shouts to me on the street is my friend."

"Those Negros were drug dealers," the officer said slowly, as if to make sure I understood.

"Then why are you speaking to me? Isn’t it your job to speak with them?" I said in a laugh. At that, the cops simultaneously turned heel and got back into their car.

"Good night fellas!" I shouted as I clicked my heels and saluted goodnight to Vienna’s finest.

- Peter Diller