Breaking Badboy: The cops showed up
Being a boy and making bad decisions doesn’t make you a Badboy— it just makes you a boy.
To be what the ladies call a Badboy, you gotta do something special.
You gotta pack heat and own the street.
*
As a seventeen-year-old mohawk-sporting bass guitarist in a Christian hardcore band, I had a lot to learn about being a Badboy. I didn’t drink, do drugs, or get smooth with the girls, and this was cause for some confusion.
When it came to being on stage, and putting on a show, I knew how to play the part. I’d scream into the microphone like an animal, thwacking and smashing and grinding my bass guitar off the drum kit, kicking and flailing on my back and occasionally attempting to crowd-surf. What I lacked in musical talent, I made up for in raw showmanship.
At the end of our set, a few scene kids dressed in black would wander over with their chrome-littered faces and say, “Sick set bro; what kind of music do you like?”
I’d smile and say, “Arcade Fire. Feist. Simon and Garfunkel.”
Disappointment ran down their pink cheeks like tears and mascara.
So, there I was: Looking like a Badboy and enjoying CBC radio 2 in the morning. Classical music to soothe the soul.
The lead singer in our band, Sterling, lived in an apartment in town with his dad and stepmom and her annoying dog, and we spent a lot of time hanging out there because it was within walking distance from places we could get into trouble at— places we stayed away from because we weren’t Badboys.
In the middle of winter one day, we thought it would be fun to walk to the Dollarama and buy a cap gun and pretend we were Badboys— pretend we were gangsters on the docile streets of Orillia, Ontario, Canada.
To a couple of seventeen-year-old boys, this seemed like a great idea.
“We should wait for cars to drive by and then shoot at each other.”
Yeah, that would be fun. Let’s do that.
We stood on the sidewalk, the icy winter air freezing the ends of our fingers and the tips of my mohawk, and we waited.
A white sedan turned the corner and started up the hill.
Go time.
We shoved each other around to make it look like we were serious, then I pulled the plastic gun out of my breast pocket and popped a few into Sterling’s chest as he dramatically threw himself onto the snow bank, and I put a couple more in his chest before running off and jumping over a ledge out of sight and disappearing into the side entrance of the apartment building.
We did this a few times.
Crack!
The little gun smacks out a sharp pop as the hammer hits the first little pocket of paper and powder on the red plastic ringlet, releasing a cloud of smoke.
Crack—crack!
Sterling throws himself on his back in the snowbank. Two more, for good measure: Crack—snap!
He jerks like he’s having a seizure as each invisible bullet smacks into his chest.
This kid’s gonna win an Oscar; we both are.
I look around wildly, appearing exactly like a man who really has shot someone, and I run for cover.
But it’s cold out. We might be idiots, but we’re not stupid.
Let’s go inside and warm up.
I’m standing in Sterling’s kitchen, and a shadow slips across the patio door as a cop hustles by with one hand on the holster of a real gun, and the other hand gripping one of those little black radios with the spiral cord that runs down to his belt. He’s saying something into the radio, and he looks serious.
Sterling’s stepmom is standing in the kitchen with us, and she’s not the kind of woman who would appreciate the humour of the situation.
I turn to my friend.
“Uh, Sterling?”
“Yeah?”
“We should go back outside.”
“Why?”
I get the feeling a soft-boiled egg is leaning against my vocal cords as I say “We just should.”
We both exit the same door that I’d used for my theatrical escape. Later, I’d count 12 cop cruisers—flashing blue and red—and two undercover vehicles. Police officers are running around the building, each with a hungry look in their eye.
Where’s the active shooter?
Neighbours stand in their housecoats, gawking from their balconies, eager to know what happened and who died and who's going to prison.
A male cop looks us up and down as we approach him.
“Do either of you know what happened here?”
In a sombre voice, I tell him, “We were playing with a cap gun.”
Sterling hangs behind me in silence, which makes sense — he’s the victim after all.
“A cap gun?” The cop says. “Can I see it?”
I pull it out of my pocket and let it dangle between my fingers like a germy dead rodent.
The officer puts one hand on his holster and gestures with his other hand.
“Put it on the hood of the car.”
I do what he asks and he grabs his radio and presses it against his mouth.
“Okay, guys. We’re all clear. It’s just a cap gun. ”
A voice crackles through the radio.
“It’s a what?”
“A cap gun.”
“A cap gun?”
“Yeah. We’re all clear.”
Police officers in uniform and undercover cops with side arms materialize from around the building, putting their guns away and trying not to look too disappointed.
“Do you guys have any other weapons on you?” The officer asks.
“I have some caps.”
“Okay, let’s see them; put them on the hood of the car.” His hand is still resting on the holster.
As more bored officers join the conversation, Sterling notices his neighbours staring and timidly speaks up for the first time.
“Do guys you mind getting some of these cruisers out of here? It’s just that it looks like it’s a big deal.”
A blonde ponytailed cop cuts in and says “This is a big deal!”
They frisk us.
The male cop takes my wallet and starts rifling through it, desperately looking for a sign that I’m a Badboy.
“Are you aware that it’s illegal to point a gun at someone?” He asks.
I picture the orange plastic piece at the end of the pistol and raise my eyebrows in an attempt to play Innocent Puppy-Dog.
“The back of the package just says ‘do not fire closer than three feet from person’s ear.’” I say this like a question — like I’m an idiot who doesn’t know anything.
“Well, we’re the law. We’re higher than that.”
I nod in submissive agreement.
The cops let us go.
Sometimes I wonder if they kept that toy gun as official evidence to go with the police report, tossing it inside a cardboard box and shoving the box to the back of a metal shelf in the basement of the Orillia OPP headquarters. Off the streets and safely locked up.
*
Sterling’s dad told us we were super lucky we didn’t get shot by an overzealous cop. You can’t just run around pretending to murder people.
But Sterling’s dad is just some guy who used to be an enforcer for a violent biker gang. What would he know about being a Badboy?