By Harold Pollack

I was driving home late from work one night, passing the intersection of 59th street and MLK. As I rounded the corner, a run-down Corolla blocked my way. Its four grungy occupants were bantering with some guy on the sidewalk for several minutes. I started to feel quietly irritated as they kept me waiting. Suddenly, they leapt from the car, guns drawn, and chased down the pedestrian. I froze in a moment of terror as I watched a burley guy grab the him and press a gun to his face. Within a few seconds, they pushed him spread-eagled against a car hood. I felt a wave of relief, as I realized this was just another guy getting jacked up for drugs. I maneuvered around the Corolla. A few minutes later, I was engrossed in NPR, wondering whether my wife had saved me dinner. We’ve grown way too accustomed to the daily realities of the drug war.

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