Band Candy

"Nine-one-one, please state the nature of your emergency."

"Um, hi, there's a black man going up and down the street, knocking on doors. He has a grey hoodie, and a baseball cap, and a backpack on one shoulder. I think he's looking for a place to rob."

"What's your address ma'am?"

"We're gonna get robbed! Send someone! Hurry!"

...

The address she gave was on New Haven Drive, a dead-end street in a 20-year old suburban neighborhood, full of modest, single-family homes. Most of the owners were retirees or empty-nesters, who had bought homes there when their families were young. All of the owners were white and middle-aged, members or former members of the local medical and high-tech communities.

The black man in question was hardly a "man", more like a "young man." He was six feet tall, but he didn't even tip 160 pounds on the scale. He was indeed going up and down the street, knocking on doors. At one house in the middle of the street, one of the white retirees answered the door.

"Yesssss???"

"Hello sir, my name is Anthon Williams, I'm with the high school marching band, and I'm selling candy bars to raise money for our competitions this season."

One eyebrow went up. "Marching band? What do you play?"

"Trombone, sir! Well, right now I'm second chair second trombone, because I'm just a freshman, but I want to challenge for first trombone before the end of the season."

That eyebrow went down, and the other eyebrow went up. "Who's your band director?"

"It's Mr. Hoffman. He's an old German guy. Well, not old old, but old enough to be my dad. We make fun of his accent sometimes, but he's good—"

The sound of a siren in the distance got gradually louder. The homeowner looked up the street, saw nobody, but knew that a black-and-white car would come around the corner any minute. He made a quick decision. He stepped back, opened the door, and waggled his finger at the kid. "Come in the house, quickly."

Startled, the young man obeyed. Sure enough, a police car raced up the street, coming to a stop across the street, just as the older man was closing the door. Behind the door, in the entry, the two strangers stood looking at each other.

"Kid, you're guilty of fundraising while black. That's not a crime. In fact, it's actually a pretty brave thing to do. But one person in this neighborhood thinks it's a capital offense. Let me see what's going on. You stay right here."

The old man opened the door and stood on the threshold. Across the street, he could see the police officer conferring with a pudgy, middle-aged woman with dyed black hair. The old man couldn't make out the words she was saying, but the agitated tone of her voice carried clearly. When she finished speaking, she reached out and pointed her finger at him, across the street.

The policeman looked at where she was pointing, then started across the street. Thinking fast, the old man said to the boy, "Come with me. I need to explain a couple of things to the officer." The boy followed him down the front steps, to the sidewalk and the curb, where they met the policeman. The older man stuck out his hand, introduced himself, and asked the same question everyone asks a cop: "Is there a problem, officer?"

The policeman looked from the old man to the young man and back again, and said, "We got a report of a black man attempting to burglarize this neighborhood."

The older man stood a little straighter, got a sour look on his face, and asked with a note of disdain, "Did you get that report from Catherine Rogers?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Oh, come on, officer, it's a matter of public record."

"Well then, you can come down to the police station and look it up later today."

"If you got it from Catherine Rogers, then I would suggest you don't give it an ounce of credibility."

The old man put his hand on the boy's backpack and pushed him forward a step. By this time, several of the neighbors had come out of their houses and were coming closer, wanting to hear the conversation.

"Officer, this is Antwon Williams—"

"Anthon," muttered the boy.

"—a freshman in the Fisher High School marching band, and he's selling candy bars to raise money for the marching band season. He's well within his rights to do this, as canvassing door-to-door by public school students is legal under the city statutes."

The officer cut him off with a half-wave. Then he turned to the boy and asked, "What kind of candy bars?"

"I've got milk chocolate," he started tremulously, "dark chocolate, chocolate with almonds, white chocolate with macadamia nuts," his presentation warmed up as he went on, "raspberry chocolate, cherry chocolate, salted caramel with dark chocolate, and hazelnut white nougat milk chocolate!" he finished triumphantly.

"Let me see them," the officer said in a businesslike voice.

The young man dropped to one knee, slid his backpack from his shoulder, opened it and pulled out an assortment of candy bars as evidence.

"How much do they cost?"

"Four dollars each."

The officer whistled quietly. "How many do you have in your bag?"

"A hundred and sixty."

"Wow. Where did you get them?"

"The band boosters handed them out this morning. You can check with Mr. Hoffman!" he added nervously, worried that the officer didn't believe him.

The officer reached behind him, where he kept his handcuffs. The boy's eyes went wide with fright, and the dozen or more spectators held their breath. The officer paused, held out his other hand with the palm facing the boy, and said, "Relax, kid. It's not what you think." He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, took a twenty-dollar bill out of the wallet, and said, "Can I have five?"

The air on the street changed instantly, as fear and anxiety were replaced by relief and enthusiasm. The boy's protector pulled two twenties out of his wallet and said, "I want ten." Suddenly, everyone's wallet was open. The crowd grew as other people were coming outside and walking up the street. One lady asked, "Will you take a check?"

As the boy responded "Yes ma'am, as long as it's made out to 'FHS Band'," the old man and the officer looked at each other and shared a nod and a quiet smile.

Within ten minutes, the boy's backpack was empty and his pockets were full of cash and checks worth over $600. As the neighbors drifted back to their houses, the officer, the boy and the old man stood together, across the street from the patrol car. The policeman reached into his breast pocket, pulled out two business cards, and gave one to each of them. To the boy, he said, "Now, if you need anything, or if you get into trouble on the way home, you call me, okay?"

They all shook hands. Then the boy floated, almost danced, up the street. The policeman got back into his car, made a radio call, and slowly drove away. The old man turned and went back into his home. And across the street, a dumpy-looking woman with dyed black hair peered out through the front curtains, a look of disappointment and outrage on her face.

...

"Nine-one-one, please state the nature of your emergency."

"Um, hi, that black man is back in our neighborhood. He's blocking traffic on our street and disturbing the peace. He's making a horrible racket!"

"What's your address ma'am?"

Across town, on New Haven Drive, a young black man in a high school band uniform marched smartly down the middle of the street, lustily belting out a John Phillip Sousa march on a trombone. When he reached the end of the street, he lowered his trombone. He blew a few blasts from a whistle as he performed an about-face in perfect form, then raised his trombone to his lips and resumed playing as he started back up the street.

"We are aware of the situation. There's an officer at the scene, ma'am."

At the head of the street sat a black-and-white patrol car, its red-and-blue lights flashing, almost in time with the music. A policeman leaned against the front-left fender, arms folded across his chest, smiling as he watched the young musician march towards him. In the back seat of the patrol car was an open trombone case.

A "ROAD CLOSED" sign sat in the middle of the street next to the patrol car, but its words had been changed to "THANK YOU, NEW HAVEN DRIVE."

"Oh, yes, ma'am. The gentleman has a duly-authorized parade permit. The officer is there to keep the streets safe for members of the community, especially high school students and band members. Have a nice day, ma'am."

The dispatcher disconnected the call and removed her headset. She swiveled around slowly in her chair, tore the wrapper off the end of a salted-caramel-and-dark-chocolate candy bar, twirled it in a salute to the other occupants of the command center, and took a big bite.