Story time.

When I was fresh out of art school I had a job as a high-end airbrush face and body painter, so every weekend I was at a schmancy party, dressed like a sparkly fancy alien, making party people look like sparkly fancy aliens. The hours sucked but the pay was great.

The majority of my gigs were Bat Mitzvah parties. I’d meet up with a painting partner, drive to a luxury hotel or club, and spend four hours making people look like fairy queens and aliens. No Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, no rainbows allowed—everything was abstract and dreamy.

Occasionally we’d be hired to paint at a summer camp or a school carnival. These gigs sucked because we’d never get tipped and the kids would always be pissed when we wouldn’t make them look like the Hulk. But we went where the boss sent us.

One night I was dispatched to work a post-prom carnival in New Jersey that had been set up to keep teens from drinking and driving. From 11pm to 5pm my partner and I sat in a loud, brightly lit gym in our silly costumes, hardly working. We may have painted four faces, total.

The organizer let us leave at 4am, and instead of washing our faces and changing out of our outfits we just hopping in my clanky old car and headed back to Philadelphia to shower and pass out. We were on the bridge into the city when we saw the patrol car behind us.

4am. Two young, exhausted fairy queens in a VW Golf. The BF bridge was under construction with only one available lane. I was driving the speed limit, which was 15mph.

“He’s going to pull us over,” my partner said.

“Yup.”

His lights went on as soon as we were over the bridge.

I knew I had done nothing wrong and there was nothing wrong with my car.

The middle-aged white cop walked up to us. We were not what he was expecting to see. To be fair, no one expects to see two women in white and blue wigs looking like magic butterflies barfed on their faces.

He asked where we had been and where we were going, and it became clear that he’d been following us since we left the post-prom event. We explained our jobs. He told us to be on our way.

“Wait, why did you pull us over?” I asked.

Of note: I am white, so I can ask this question.

He sputtered out something about my taillight.

“My taillight is fine,” I said. The car had just passed inspection.

“Well, maybe check it out when you get home,” he muttered, and lumbered back to his car.

Did I mention the high school that held the event was majority black?

This cop saw an old car leaving a post-prom party and he followed us for miles. He was out hunting. He pulled us over for no reason and I have absolutely no doubt that he let us go because we were white.

Every white person has a story like this.