“Can I see your license and registration?” are not exactly the words you want to hear on a Saturday night at 10:30. In my close to 40 years of driving an automobile I have been asked that question at least 100 times. Most every time I have a very clear idea as to why the police officer is requesting my pertinent driving and vehicle records. My propensity for owning a heavy foot usually makes these stops related to speeding, or I see the red lights flashing behind me as I quickly unglue the phone from my ear. The results of these unwelcomed stops vary, the only for sure thing is that they are always entertaining.
Last Saturday, after a long day of touring colleges in New Hampshire and on my way home from my nightly run to Hannaford, I innocently looked into my rear view mirror and saw the dreaded calling card of the gendarme. I had barely made the turn out of the supermarket’s exit, I was not driving fast, my phone was resting on the passenger seat, my 2014 Cadillac had just completed an inspection, and I was sure I had my lights on. I admittedly was headed for a drink but had not consumed any alcohol so far on this day. I pulled into a nearby parking lot confident Mr. or Mrs. trooper had profiled me erroneously.
As the young officer approached my car, flashlight in hand, I became very aware that it was indeed me he was after. Looking back, I contend it was too conscious a decision on my part that if this neophyte did not tread lightly, he was going to see the darker side of my Sybil-like personality. Officer Beetle started the exchange, “Can I see your driver’s license and registration?” “No problem, can I ask why you’re pulling me over?” ” License and Registration” he regurgitated. Oh really I thought to myself. “Maybe you didn’t hear me, I will give it to you when you tell me what I did wrong.” “ You failed to signal when you turned out of Frog Alley and you failed to signal turning into this parking lot.”
As I listened to his explanation of my crimes, the little guy I work hard at never letting out of his box had already escaped and began his verbal tirade. ” I just drove back from Rindge, New Hampshire today with my daughter after visiting colleges. When I arrived home my wife sent me to the store for some milk. I am on my way to have a drink and you are pulling me over for not signaling?!” At this point Officer Beetle’s vain started to pop out of his neck. “Little Rich” had not been out in a while and he was only warming up. ” What’s the matter, son? Have you never seen a Cadillac before? You must have something more productive to do than pull over an old man on his way home with milk for failure to signal. How old are you young man? You put a badge on and now you’re a big man? Someday when you’ve grown up you’ll realize what a jerk you’re being right now.” With my license and registration in hand, Officer Beetle went back to his patrol car and was ready to dole out some moving violations.
I have always possessed a tendancy to defy authority. There have been only a few authoritarian figures in my life who have garnished my respect. Certainly just being an educator, police officer, or politician did not get the job done for me. Fairly or not they always had to earn my respect before they got any from me. My wife is amazed that I haven’t done any time in jail, and takes sides in my disputes with “superiors”. (Usually theirs)
For 45 minutes I sat in my car not regretting my outburst but instead anxious to spew more venom. To my disbelief, Officer Beetle arrived back at my car window and was not alone. He had called in for back-up. Now two state troopers were busy apprehending the non-signaling, menace to society. As the newly arrived trooper circled my car looking for other indications of my criminality, Officer Beetle handed me two separate traffic tickets for failing to signal. “It took two of you boys to finally catch up with me. You guys better hurry along, I’m sure there are a lot of people out riding around tonight not signaling.” Ignoring my words, the officers of the law walked away into the night. Once they were out of sight I crumpled up the evidence of my crime and flicked it out the window.
Left alone to ponder my actions I picked up the phone to call my friend and attorney. I gave him the sorted details of the whole escapade. “Can you imagine this kid with a badge busting my balls ?” There was silence on the other end. “What year did you graduate from High School?” “1978, why?” “How old are you?” “54.” I knew where he was going. I had heard enough reprimands for one day. I stepped out into a cold October drizzle. I reached down to pick up the wet, crumpled paper. My friend’s questions were echoing in my head. I’ve been thinking lately about how I’ve come so far in the attempt to calm my demons. As the rain hit my face walking to Snuggers for a few beers I knew the authorities had responded to my self-proclaimed progress, “not so fast.”
