I’ve been on chemo for a few weeks now. I had an appointment yesterday; normally, I have about 24 hours after an appointment before I feel sick—not so this time.

To avoid crowds, I’ve been doing my laundry very early in the morning, usually about three or four o’clock. Aside from the attendant I was the only person in the laundromat. After the machine started, I went outside for a little walk and some fresh air.

So, there I was walking in the Far South Side of Chicago in the predawn hours of the morning with a big empty sac strapped to my back, as one does. I was doing nothing suspicious except for everything I was doing. I saw blue lights flash from behind and I went into the “my hands are visible and away from my pockets” position before turning around.

The younger of the two officers frisked me and decided to ask questions about my port. I’m not sure what kind of weapon would be under several layers of clothing and attached to my chest, but I assume the young officer’s fear was a good faith reaction. Less than a minute into his questioning—I’m not sure if it was nerves or I subconsciously willed myself to do it— without warning, I vomited all over the young cop. A bitter, bilious mixture of lentils, rice, and digestive juices spewed forth, arching in the air like a decorative fountain as I tried to point my head down and away. He was utterly covered: it was in his mouth, on his pants, dripping down his bulletproof vest—it was everywhere.

The older cop, who had been standing further back, piped up, “Aww, my wife had breast cancer. How ‘bout we drop you off, then I’ll take this one [pointing to the younger cop] to get hosed down.” He was being genuinely helpful; I mean that without any sarcasm— which was a contrast to his partner who seemed like a bit of a power tripping prick. Anyway, that’s how I puked on a cop without any consequences.