Tag Archives: Police action

To Serve and Protect, Part III

The year 1976 saw my last encounter of a negative nature with any law enforcement agency.  Four and one half years had passed since my case of mistaken identity had occurred in El Cajon, California.  Clarice and I were married a year and a half later and three years after that were divorced.  During that time I gave up my quest to earn a bachelor’s degree and formed a construction company with a friend in northern California, and poured half of my time and almost all of my energy into making it a success.  The plan was working but my wife grew tired and bored with lying around at home waiting for a hungry, tired, and frankly self-centered husband to come home late nearly every day and ignore her for the period of time between dinner and bed.

The separation and divorce were amicable but nevertheless painful in an extreme, and over the stretch of the next seven months my previous dedication to a plan was now traded for a new dedication to forgetting my problems.  My self-centeredness continued unabated and, if anything, grew.  Those seven months were filled with parties and childish antics and pranks and two dangerous episodes in which I could well have gotten myself shot.  One of my lapses in judgement was when I lent my drivers license to my twenty year old roommate Ralph so that he could go to a bar one night, and forgot to retrieve it before one morning when I woke up disgusted with my life, threw a few necessary items into my truck, and headed towards Albuquerque where I proposed to start over.

The new plan was that I should stay at my brothers house until my friend Wes could join me a day or two later, at which time we would run off to a seaport in Mexico, board any freighter going to Saudi Arabia, and get rich working in the oil fields.  The story of that fool’s errand may be read in my earlier tale entitled “Do You Know The Way To Veracruz, Parts I-III”.  Wes duly arrived and we both camped out on my brother’s living room floor while we made our plans for our getaway.

Before we boarded any Polish freighter to Saudi Arabia however, my brother Brad was determined to show us some of the New Mexico that he loved.  The first part of that New Mexico was the package store at the Piggly Wiggly Market on Isleta and Rio Bravo where we purchased and made considerable damage to a couple of cases of Budweiser Beer.  All three of us considered ourselves to be accomplished drinkers who could “hold our liquor”, whatever that means, but the next morning I had one of the more monumental hangovers of my adult life.  Brad proposed a trip about an hour north to the spectacular city of Santa Fe.  Wes was up for it and I, with head pounding and stomach doing cartwheels, agreed to come along.

We saddled up in Brad’s little Japanese sedan, I do not remember which model, loaded up a cooler with the remaining beer, and headed east on Rio Bravo towards the Interstate leading north to Santa Fe.  Brad and Wes already had two of the Budweisers open by the time we got to the freeway and several more downed by the time we got to Santa Fe.  Brad and Wes enjoyed what must have been a wonderful meal – most meals in Santa Fe and indeed all of New Mexico are wonderful – but my head and stomach were still locked in mortal combat and I only ate some chips and drank some water or iced tea or something like that.

We turned the car south after their meal and took a two lane road behind the Sandia Mountains, through quaint mining villages and high desert valleys and finally joined up with the Interstate highway that had replaced Route 66.  Just before merging onto that highway Brad pulled the car over and announced that he was to inebriated to safely continue driving (an understatement, probably).  Wes was equally soused so the lot fell to me, being the only sober body in the car, to drive the rest of the way home.

Things began successfully enough with me putting the car into gear and nosing it into traffic.  Soon we were speeding west through Tijeras Canyon and onto Central Avenue in Albuquerque.  I don’t remember how we came to be stopped behind a line of traffic at a street light with Brad deciding that we should be going in the opposite direction.  I assume that a tankful of Budweiser might have had something to do with it.  There we were however with a couple of double yellow lines between where we were and where we wanted to go.

“Make a U-turn” said Brad.  “I can’t do that here” I replied.  “That’s not just a double yellow line, it’e two double yellow lines”.  “They don’t care about that stuff here” said Brad.  “There’s a lot bigger fish to fry here in Albuquerque than people making U-turns.  Go ahead.  They don’t really care.”

I was not at all convinced but Brad knew Albuquerque and I did not, so when the first break in the traffic came I punched the gas pedal and spun the steering wheel and flew across the multitude of yellow lines painted on the asphalt of that Albuquerque street; right in front of a patrol car of the Albuquerque Police Department.  It didn’t take long at all for me to learn that the Albuquerque Police Department really did, in fact, care.

The lights went on and the utterly idiotic first impulse of Brad and Wes was that I should somehow outrace or loose the cop.  The probability of this being successfully accomplished hovered somewhere between the Pope not being Catholic and pigs flying.  I turned down a side street and traveled maybe half a block before I announced “screw it, I’m stopping”.  I rolled up next to the curb, shut down the engine, placed my hands on the steering wheel and waited for the policeman to walk up to the driver’s side window.

“Can I see your license and registration” he asked.  “I can show you the registration” I said as Brad was pulling it out of the glove box.  “But I don’t have my license”.  “And where might your license be?” asked the officer.  I saw no advantage to be gained by telling him the truth and instead said “I just moved here from California and I lost it somewhere between there and here.”  I suppose that there was a grain of truth in that story.  I really had just move from California and I really did lose it in the “there” part of that equation.  I went on to tell him my sob story of the last year (not the last time I would use that strategy, and sometimes to good effect) and told him that I intended to get a New Mexico license at my earliest opportunity.

The patrolman was impressed with my tale of woe but decided that he did after all have to take me downtown.  It had been obvious that my first impulse had been to evade him and the officer felt the need to check and see if I was wanted anywhere for anything.  This was before the era of the computer, and such background checking took time.

“Can we work this thing out right here?” asked Wes as he was extracting his wallet and thumbing through some bills in it.  “Looks like I have eighty dollars here.  Maybe we can just clear up our misunderstanding without going to all this trouble?”  The patrolman put the stink eye on Wes and said “I am going to pretend that I misunderstand you, and I advise you not to try to clarify your previous statement.  Why don’t you put that wallet back into your pocket and drive home.  Mr. Durden here and I are going to take a drive downtown.”

And downtown we went.  As with my other encounters with policemen, this young officer was polite and as we proceeded towards headquarters we spoke of my sad story and other things.  He listened sincerely, and I believe that by the time we arrived at our destination he was convinced that I was neither a bank robber nor a serial killer.  Still, rules are rules and form had to be followed.  I was fingerprinted, photographed while holding a tray full of numbers below my chin, and placed in a cell to wait for the necessary phone calls to be made and for Brad to come and bail me out.  Knowing how Brad’s wife Ginny would receive the news of the day”s activities I wondered if I would be bailed out at all.

The cell was pretty much what you see in the movies; metal benches bolted into concrete walls behind gray steel bars.  The clang of that steel door closing and the clunk of the lock was the stuff of nightmares.  Inches away was the world where you can live your life in freedom, to one degree or another.  On my side of the bars freedom was just a cruel memory.  You were captive, you had no freedom in any degree.  Your very life depended upon somebody else’s pleasure.  I was in hell.

I sat down on the bench and leaned back against the concrete wall trying to look bored, as if I had done this a dozen times before.  Being a rookie in the slammer does not always guarantee a good time.  Not for the rookie anyway.  Without looking obvious I scanned the other occupants with whom I shared the cell.  It was a scurvy lot of about a dozen who looked like life had not been especially kind to them.  With my long hair, beard, and overall scruffy construction worker look I fit in with the crowd to some degree.  There was however one fellow who did not seem to belong there at all.  He was white, middle age, dressed in a sort of tacky used car salesman sort of way (with apologies to any used car salesmen reading this story) who was running his mouth about how people in America should speak English, and if they don’t know how they should learn it.  I suspect that the only reason he survived his evening in the pokey, assuming that he DID survive his evening there, is because half of the guys in that cell had no idea what he was saying and the other half weren’t listening and just wanted him to shut up.  He was still alive when my stay at the Graybar Hilton came to an end, but I would hesitate to wager on how the rest of his evening went.

The end of my ordeal came about two hours after it began.  The police in the northern California city where I had previously lived had no outstanding warrants for me and Brad arrived to pay the ridiculously low $20 fee to spring me loose.  My wallet and belt were returned to me and quickly I was breathing free air once again.  I knew however that one battle had been won but another remained to be fought.

“I know that Ginny is going to be pissed” I said.  “I think that Wes and I should get a motel room”.  “No, not at all” Brad lied.  “Ginny wants you to come back to our place.  She understands that it was just a mistake”.  I knew that Ginny would not be mad about the license thing.  For me to be driving when everyone else was alcoholically impaired was the smartest thing that I could have been doing  under the circumstances, which makes one wonder how we ever would have thought of doing it in the first place.  What drove Ginny crazy was the way that Brad became somebody different when we were together, and how the tenuous hold that either of us had on good sense when we were apart evaporated instantly once we were together.  This made Ginny furious and always there was this thing which separated her and I, and we were never really able to close that gap.

I slept on Brad’s living room floor that night, but within a couple of days Wes and I had done a little construction work, made a payday, and departed for Veracruz to find that freighter that would float us away to find our fortune in the Arabian sands.  I never heard from the Albuquerque Police Department again.  Apparently my brother’s $20 was adequate to whatever administrative needs were generated by my brief incarceration, or maybe the clerk just pocketed the Ben Franklins and called it square.  I don’t know.  There is one thing that I do know with crystal clarity however.  The police in Albuquerque really DO care.

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To Serve and Protect, Part II

In the spring of 1972 I moved into an apartment in downtown El Cajon, California, with my long time friend Wes and Clarice, my future first wife. I was now three years out of the Army and any evidence of the smoothly shaved and close cropped soldier who accepted his discharge papers and flew home one spring day in 1969 had long since vanished. I had cut neither hair nor beard since that morning in Oakland Army Terminal and usually ran around with as little clothing on as the law and the weather would allow. Going formal, to me, meant putting on a tee shirt. Of course, I had to comply with the requirements of many businesses and other establishments so sandals, shirt, and even jeans occasionally were draped over my gangly frame, but whenever I could get away with it a pair of shorts and a leather headband was all that I was likely to be wearing.

I also loved being out of the city at this time in my life. I found myself drawn to the quiet hiking trails of the Laguna Mountains or the open wastes and parched draws and wadis of the Anza Borrego desert, where I would hike and explore by myself or with Wes, who in many ways was very much like me. One piece of equipment that I always carried with me when I hiked was a stick about five or five and a half feet long which served both as a walking stick and also what I called a ‘snake stick’. My father had taught me to cut or find such a stick when we would go camping in the Lagunas in my youth. I would then use the stick to rustle the undergrowth in front of me when walking away from the trail or to tap on any large rocks that I might be climbing over to alert rattlesnakes of my presence in time for them to return the favor and alert me to their presence as well. Many very unfortunate encounters were avoided that way.

As a result of all of the above, on any given day my new neighbors were very likely to see my skinny self (about 140 pounds) walking barefooted and shirtless, in shorts and headband, scruffy as a mountain man, cruising down the street to the tap-tap-tap cadence of my walking stick hitting the asphalt as I sauntered along.

I was in just such a fine state of ignorant bliss one day while walking the two blocks which separated our residence from a supermarket where I planned on buying a quart of beer to nurse on the way back home. It was the middle of a warm day and I had somehow scrounged up sufficient change to afford a quart. I was feeling on top of the world and was not the least bit put off when a police cruiser rolled slowly past me, pulled over to the side of the street and stopped, and a large police officer emerged from the car.

At this point a little more background is needed. About a week before we moved into our apartment a bank was robbed in El Cajon, not far from where we now lived. The robber did not wear a mask (did robbers ever really wear masks?) and there was no such thing as a hoodie back then. At least I don’t remember them. The robber was a scantily clad white male of about 140 pounds, long brown hair and a red beard. To the best of my knowledge, he did not carry a walking stick. In any case, the El Cajon Police Department had been keeping their eyes open and now the officer had found somebody who looked like a promising suspect walking down the street in the middle of the workday, unemployed either because he was a student (which I was) or independently wealthy because he had just robbed a bank.

“Good afternoon” said the policeman with a disarming smile. “How are you doing today?” “I’m doing just fine officer” I replied. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” the officer continued, as if making casual conversation. I had no idea whatsoever that there had been a robbery and so thought that it was at least possible that the policeman was just making contact with someone new on his beat. “It is a great day” I replied. “I never get tired of it here”. “Have you lived here long?” the policeman asked. “All my life in San Diego. I only moved here a few weeks ago.” “I thought that I hadn’t seen you around before” the officer said, and this reinforced the idea that he might simply be greeting a new face on his neighborhood patrol. That notion received a splash of cold water however when, after a few more moments of pleasantries, the officer invited me to avail myself of the air conditioned comfort of his back seat.

All of my years as a kid who was familiar with the streets of San Diego, and after two years in Vietnam, I had a very good grasp on where the power lay when two people were of a different mind but only one has a gun . I knew that this was more than just a social chat and that the only thing that I could do to help my cause was to be as nice and cooperative as I could. I climbed into the back of the patrol car and yielded up my walking stick, which went into the trunk.

The police officer, still very quiet spoken and polite, climbed into the driver’s seat of the cruiser and proceeded down the street and turned onto the broad avenue which led to the police station about a mile away from where we started. All along the way I was cudgeling my brains, trying to figure out what I could have done to get me into this fix. I had taken plenty of drugs in the last few years and had sold some too, but only to other people whom I knew in the drug subculture. I was not in the habit of standing outside of a school and trying to entice newcomers into the lifestyle with the old “here kid, the first one’s free” routine. No, it couldn’t be that, unless some undercover narc needed a bust on a slow day and had ratted me out, but I was such a small fish that this scenario didn’t make any sense.

I had not done any harm to anyone either, not that there weren’t episodes of violence around me from time to time and not that I did not have an angry, violent streak in my personality. I had been a skinny kid who hated to fight when I was young because I would usually lose. Also, I grew up in an authoritarian household with a very strict, very physical father. I was famous in the neighborhood for the frequency and quality of the whippings I would take at home (author’s note: My father later apologized for the severity of his discipline and I forgave him. I loved the man dearly in his later years and remember him warmly even to this day). Now, freed by my age, discharge from the Army, and from any moral restraint as a result of my copious ingestion of recreational drugs, my anger would flash out every so often. But I had not hurt anyone seriously, although it was a close shave on a couple of occasions, and so I did not believe that it could be related to anything like that.

We arrived at the police station and the officer, still chatting politely, exited his car and extracted me and my walking stick from same. I was not handcuffed and for an instant I had a wild notion of making a run for it. The doors of the station were just in front of me and I knew that once I entered them I would have to let the process play itself out, regardless of where it was to go. That moment of shining idiocy passed uneventfully and I walked next to the officer as we entered the building together.

We bypassed the desk where names were written down and pictures were taken and went back to a small room with a table and a couple of chairs on each side. The officer said that two men wanted to talk to me and asked if I wanted something to drink. My mouth was as dry as paper and I assumed that a shot of tequila was out of the question so I asked for a cup of coffee, which he produced in a minute or two and then left me alone to think even harder about what I might be in trouble for. Nothing obvious came to mind.

Eventually two men in plain clothes came in to the room and sat down across the table from me. I am sure that you have all seen the movies where they do the ‘good cop, bad cop’ thing. Nothing like that happened. The two detectives did however ask me to account for every second of my life for the last couple of weeks. I knew that a faithful recounting of my activities over that period of time would put me into a heap of trouble so I sanitized the story considerably, but ended up giving them as good an account as possible without letting them know how stoned I usually was and which drugs I was using during the time period that they were interested in. One detective took copious notes and, after an hour or so of going over my story again and again, they thanked me and left me alone in the room. Soon, a uniformed officer came in and asked me if I would like another cup of coffee, which I accepted gratefully. I asked him what was going on and why I was still waiting in the room, but the officer deflected my inquiry and told me that I would find out what I wanted to know in good time.

One thing I knew for certain was that the detectives were going to check on my stated residence and interview any roommates. That thought gave me considerable heartburn. Clarice was probably at school I knew, and Wes was most likely home. That was not a good thing. Wes had a problem with authority figures and would not hesitate to give them a family-sized ration of crap at every opportunity. One time when returning from Mexico the Border Patrol agent asked if we were carrying anything that we should declare, which was a reasonable question. Wes, who had a pretty good buzz on, replied “Yeah, we got a kilo of smack in the trunk”. We spent the next hour or so waiting under the beating sun while the agents searched every inch of my car for the heroin that they probably never expected to find in order to teach the smart-ass a lesson. At this time I did not need disrespected and angry detectives obtaining a warrant and seeing what I had in my dresser.

Fortunately Clarice was home early from school and Wes was across the parking lot in a neighbor’s back yard working in a garden which that neighbor allowed us to plant there. Wes saw the cops and stayed behind the tomato plants while beautiful Clarice opened the door. Clarice charmed them from the beginning; I know she did because she did that to me. They asked her of my doings and she corroborated my story to the smallest detail. After a short interview with our landlords (which didn’t help our relationship with them all that much) they returned to the small room downtown where I was cooling my heels and announced to me that I was free to leave.

“Would it be OK to know now what this has been all about?” I asked. One of the detectives proceeded to tell me about the robbery and the description of the robber. I was fascinated by this and then asked if I could see the composite drawing of the robber. The detective refused at first but I was persistent. “Please sir” I said. “I’ve been as cooperative as I could be and don’t have anything to say against how I’ve been treated. I’ve been here for a couple of hours sweating bullets though, and I would just like to see how much I look like the guy you’re after”.

At length the detective agreed and had me sit back down. He left the room and a few moments later returned with a three ring binder. He drew open the cover of the binder and there, staring back at me from the notebook, was – ME! I stared at that picture for a little while and then looked up at the detective. “I don’t blame you for picking me up” I said. “I would have picked me up too”!

The detective then asked if I would like a ride home. I declined, stating that it was only a mile and I needed the walk to clear my head of the events of the last few hours. I didn’t mention that it was also not always the best thing, considering my association with others in the subculture, to be seen being given a ride by the police. My walking stick was returned to me and I walked out of the police station a free man. A few blocks away there was a liquor store where I purchased the quart of beer that had been the object of my walk in the first place. I then strolled the rest of the way home in the warm El Cajon sunshine, sipping my beer, and by the time I got home I had let the whole unpleasant incident slip out of my mind. I have always been good at that.

To Serve and Protect, Part I

All to often we read of bad and even tragic encounters between police officers and the people who those officers have sworn to protect and serve.  No doubt there are instances in which the police officers overreact to a situation, and perhaps even do so with malice.  Police officers are, after all, human, and come with the full compliment of frailties and personality failures that all of the rest of us come with.  I am not apologizing for bad cops any more than I would apologize for bad ultrasound techs, bad politicians, bad parents or bad writers.  All should, and with some compassion (with the possible exception of bad writers) be shown the error of their ways and in circumstances where it is merited, punishment meted out.

Police officers do have a rather unique occupation however.  Except when they are addressing a class of kindergartners at a public school on how to safely interact with strangers or, well, I don’t know of any other such scenarios, tend to be dealing with the rest of us when we are at our worse.  When a police officer responds to a call concerning some sort of trouble, sees something in a neighborhood which looks amiss, or pulls a car over on a street, road, or highway for one reason or another, the result may be that a split-second decision will determine whether that officer and the object of his attention goes home to his or her family that night or departs the scene in a body bag.

It is for that reason that I tend to be slow to jump to judgement when I read or hear about another alleged case of police brutality.  I repeat, police officers can be brutal just like I can, and have, been brutal.  I am not making excuses for bad behavior.  Nevertheless, I will never know what happened moment by moment in the mind of the police officer or in the mind of the object of his attention when I hear of a reported incident of police brutality.  The best that I can do is to support a thorough investigation of any incident by as neutral a third party as is possible and then be satisfied with the conclusion drawn by that party.

All that being said, I do have personal experiences with being the ‘object of the police officer’s attention,’ and now propose to tell three tales which I hope will give a little insight on how this relationship between server and served sometimes looks at ground level.

In the fall of 1964 I was fifteen years old and found myself sitting in science class next to an extraordinarily pretty girl.  One day this extraordinarily pretty girl invited me to go see a guy named Billy Graham who was throwing some sort of shindig at the football stadium where the San Diego Chargers played.  The girl could have asked me to peel the skin off of my feet and stick them into a bucket of salt and I would have agreed instantly, so the next evening I found myself at the Billy Graham crusade and before the night was over, to my considerable surprise, I was a Christian.  As best as I remember I did sincerely responded to the message presented by Mr. Graham that night, but the most important thing to me at the moment was that I now was able to attend church with the extraordinarily attractive girl.

Nothing came of this mutual attendance at church.  The girl already had a handsome, athletic, studly boyfriend away at college, none of which adjectives described me in any imaginable way.   I did however meet Roy Maxwell at that church, and he and his step brother Marty Corbin and I became an inseparable trio, even though Roy and Marty attended a different high school than I did ( a thing which meant much in those days).  We hung out together and did all of the teenage boy things until Roy got a girlfriend.  I was initially annoyed by that since it interrupted our horsing around and also probably because it highlighted the fact that I couldn’t win a girlfriend if I had a hand with four aces.  Even worse, she was a student of Hoover High, which was my school.  Quelle horreur!  The traitor!

As it turned out, Carole Jenkins was a very nice girl and I came to like her as a friend very much.  In fact, our friendship lasted for several years until I fell off of the end of the universe after returning home from Vietnam, but that is a different story.  In addition to being very nice, Carole had the additional advantage of belonging to a family that was very rich.  I have no idea what Carole’s father did for a living, but the Jenkins family lived in a gigantic house situated atop Del Cerro, a hill on the eastern edge of San Diego.  I don’t suppose that you could call the Jenkins residence a mansion, but to a kid living in a stucco cube in a working class neighborhood of East San Diego it looked pretty much like a mansion to me.

I was used to other kids having advantages that I did not, but in one area I did have a leg up.  I had a driver’s license and my father was very liberal about allowing me to use the car.  At least once each week I would drive to the Maxwell residence and pick up Roy and Marty and drive up the winding road which climbed past rank after rank of large homes which got bigger and nicer as we neared the top of the hill.  After a few weeks of this we began to feel like we actually belonged up there.  We were soon to find out how wrong we were about that.

Not too long after we began to drive to Carole’s house a series of break-ins occurred on Del Cerro hill.  First cars and then houses were hit by people who knew that Del Cerro is where one was most likely to find treasure worth the risk, in their minds at least, of burglarizing cars and homes.  The good citizens of the Del Cerro neighborhood took predictable umbrage at such nefarious doings and demanded, and received, a heightened police presence in the affected area.

As a result of this elevated police vigilance Roy and Marty and I began to attract attention as we drove up the hill in my Dad’s 1963 Mercury Meteor through a forest of Cadillacs and Lincolns and the occasional BMW and Porsche.  Three young men – old men did not usually adopt the occupation of burglar – in a cheap car (relatively speaking) was going to stick out like the proverbial sore thumb, and we began to grow accustomed to being stopped by the police nearly every time that we went to visit Carole, and having our identification checked before being granted permission to proceed.   The whole thing took on the air of a routine until one evening when that routine came to a sudden, screeching halt.

On that night we were climbing the hill on our way to Carole’s house when the predictable red and blue lights snapped on behind us.  We were very used to this by now and so I pulled over and rolled to a stop next to the curb.  Having done this drill several times before I decided that this time I would make myself super helpful and maybe speed things up a little bit.  With not the slightest idea that my actions could end very badly I slipped my hand down to the handle on the Mercury’s door, pulled it up, pushed the door open and emerged and began walking back to where the police car was just parking behind me.  To make matters worse, as if that wasn’t bad enough, I reached around into my back pocket to extract the wallet containing the identification which I knew that they would momentarily be asking for.  That’s me: Mister Helpful.  Always looking for a way to make a bad situation better.

 

This was probably my first lesson in the importance of perspective.  The police officers did not see a citizen emerging from a car to save them a walk and reaching for his wallet to save them the trouble of asking for identification.  Instead, they saw a car that was out of pace, inhabited by three youngish males, with one of the emerging from the car and advancing towards them while reaching for, what?  A gun?

“Get your hands up” came the shouted command.  I was stupefied by this response to my good intentions and took another step forward while still pulling at my wallet.  Both of the officers pulled out their revolvers, with one going down to his knee and the other remaining standing.  Both barrels were pointed squarely at your’s truly.  “Stop moving and drop your weapon”  shouted the officer who was standing.  I had no idea what they meant by ‘weapon’, but I figured out what ‘stop’ meant right away and did.  “Drop the weapon!  Drop it!”  repeated the policeman.  I didn’t have a weapon, but I did have my wallet in my hand and reasoned that if I dropped it I might somehow keep from getting shot.

“Turn towards the car and put your hands on the trunk” came the next command, and by now I was getting into the spirit of the moment and moved just as fast as I thought would look non-threatening.  The kneeling policeman rose up and the two of them began to walk towards where I stood with hands on the trunk of the Mercury and within an inch of peeing my pants.

One of the officers patted me down, searching for any sort of weapon, and when none was found the other bent over and picked up my wallet.  The first policeman turned me towards him and asked “What the hell do you think you are doing here?  You just about got yourself into some serious trouble boy.”  “I was just trying to be helpful” I replied.  “We’re driving to my friend’s girl friend’s house and we’ve been stopped a bunch of times.  I just thought that I would speed things up a little.

At this point the officers knew that they were dealing with an idiot, not a criminal.  They holstered their weapons and breathed a big, long sigh of relief.  “Son, don’t ever do that again.  We don’t have any idea what you intend to do when you get out of your car.  When a police officer pulls you over just stop your car, turn off the engine, put your hands on the steering wheel where he can see them and let him do his job.  Everybody is going to have a much easier time of it if you will just do those things.”

The officers returned my wallet to me and let me get back into my car.  Roy and Marty were pale as ghosts and began to babble incoherently as I fired the little Mercury up and drove the rest of the way to Carole’s house.  That night I enjoyed the spotlight, a position that I was not accustomed to, as we told the tale to Carole, who was not used to being involved with people who were held at gunpoint and nearly shot by the police.

Roy and Carole would in fact end their relationship soon after this incident but, as I stated earlier, Carole and I continued our friendship several years more, long after I lost contact with Roy.  I hope that I might run into Carole someday, although that is extremely unlikely.  Maybe I will see her at my high school’s fiftieth year reunion.  “Hi.  Remember me?  The guy who was almost shot by the cops in 1965?  How’ve you been?”