Rule 37.
The seemingly off-duty cops eating at Cosmic can and will arrest you.
We left LDOC early this year, mostly out of protest. No one had told us that something called Flogging Molly would be headlining our last concert at Duke, so after Jay Sean lip-synched his way into the night, we took a C-2 to Erwin Road and walked underneath the bridge. (That was terrifying in its own respect.) Later that night, around 3 a.m., a few of us walked to Cosmic. We were the only ones there. We ordered chicken quesadillas and chips and whatever else you order at Cosmic at 3 a.m. after LDOC, and we sat down at one of the indoor tables, waiting to gather our food and walk outside to the private dining room. (Note: It is neither private nor a dining room, so it is not actually a private dining room.) Just as we sat down, a large black man, wearing a throwback Washington Bullets jersey down to his knees, strolled in with a woman who resembled a prostitute. (I hope this is not racist, but we were pretty sure of the situation at the time.) They studied the menu, and he ordered something I couldn’t quite make out, because I was too busy staring at the pearl-handled pistol strapped underneath his arm. He paid for his food and received his burrito before we did.
