I work in Metro Detroit and like most corporate centers found ’round the country, there is in general some level of security in place, whether it be cameras, patrol vehicles, guards at a desk or a combination of these examples. Their sole purpose is to make the people who work and visit there feel safe.

So why does the security guard where I work frighten me?

Because I have been nothing if not brutally honest with the literally several people who tune in, I’ll share with you another little tidbit about yours truly: I like the rap music.

It’s true. I got into hip hop and break dancing around the 4th grade and never looked back. I love it. I love it so much my soul withered and nearly died during the whiny-ass grunge era where the goal was to have a more effed up name of your band then the next one (Toad the Wet Sprocket? Are you shitting me?).

Nothing beats a little Ice Cube, Jay-Z, C.L. Smooth, Eminem or Big Daddy Kane to get me in a good mood. Besides infectious beats, their lyrical prowess (a.k.a. Skeelz), involving word play, rich analogies and both pertinent and obscure cultural references, is mind-blowing (a.k.a. dope, fresh or “the shit.”).

I state that to make sure we’re all on even ground here. I’m no suburban, white flight, cracker over here. Those are my relatives down south. I had blue and black first generation Jordans (cooler than your red and black ones, sheep), parachute pants, skinny leather tie (see my Thanksgiving homage to readers), a tacky magnetic earring, and I have never mistaken Turbo and Ozone for characters in a Mortal Kombat game.

You see, at one of the buildings where I have an office (I have two offices. Probably because I am a peon and therefore need to go to people rather that be gone to, but I like to pretend it’s because I’m important. You with me on that? Yeah. No, I’m not buying it either…), the parking lot is patrolled by a security guard in a maroon vehicle.

Now, let’s set aside the fact that this individual inspires zero feelings of safety or comfort.

A slightly less intimidating version of our security guards. Probably more level-minded too.

The problem is he inspires exactly the opposite. When your security guard is creeping through the lot, window down, gangsta lean in effect and blaring hardcore gangster rap while he stares you down, it’s, well, unsettling.

An audio snippet of what I deal with while the security guard “glares” me down as I walk to my car:

I pull my strap on a muthafucka (boom boom)
Put a cap in a muthafucka (boom tick boom)
Where you at, muthafucka? (boom boom)

Should I be scared of being caught short when 2.5 is on the smooth creep?

(Translation for the urbanites: Do I need to be carrying a firearm in order to protect myself in the event the security guard should drive past?)

I guess I gotta start ridin’ dirty.

(Try Wikipedia. It’s your friend.)

I think what scares me the most is that if you are in your 30’s and you drive a maroon Hyundai with a magnetic security logo slapped to the door, you’ve basically lost all hope. And some sorry S.O.B. without hope is the scariest S.O.B. I can think off.

I get being a security guard when you’re in your 20’s or even later in your career. A bunch of my friends were mall cops (albeit not of the Paul Blart ilk, hijinks and hilarity most certainly ensued) and they had a lot of laughs about harassing teenagers and incapacitating shoplifters.

Here’s the thing though, they moved on and got “real” jobs. Some even went into law enforcement. One coaches girls basketball (ok, that’s only funny to me because I know the guy. You? Less so, but this is my blog, so tough).

Anywho, that’s my quandary du jour. At some point I’ll buck up and be a man about the whole thing. But for now, I’m going to continue darting between cars as the dark stain in my pants continues to expand.

Parting thought: Do you think the security guard turns his canister of Mace to the side before he uses it?

“Break yo’ self!!!”

(hissssssssssssss)

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