Act Two, Scene the Third
I’d been pulled over enough times in my life such that the ensuing “Oh, shit” had become a lovable standard.
I’d seen enough television to know that treating police officers with platinum politeness is the way to go so as not to be handcuffed.
And finally – I’d looked in the mirror that morning, reaffirmed of the fact that however cute I am is not enough to get out of a ticket with a male officer.
I played it cool as Nick and Kevin watched with an awed hush, not causing trouble and as it would soon be heard, sifting through their mental files for pertinent biographical police stories. I turned the Green Day down. “Holiday” was playing.
“License and registration.”
Nothing new here.
The officer then asked me if I knew why he pulled me over. Trying to be as helpful and recognizant as possible, I said, “Yes, I made an illegal u-turn across a double yellow line back there.”
And he said, “Okay.”
The minutes during the verification of license information, when the officer is in his car, sirens flashing, while you sit in your own are always quietly frightening. Not scary, really, but just suspenseful in the Hitchcockian sense — you have nothing to prevent you from your fate, which is no longer in your hands.
From the back seat, Kevin lauded my enunciation in my speaking to the police officer. I appreciated it.
Otherwise, I was silent in the car, calming my nerves and delaying the feeling until afterwards, during dinner.
The officer returned. And the ticket he gave me didn’t quite resemble any ticket I’d seen before. It was pink.
“I’m giving you a summons for Reckless Driving.”
Er–
“There’s a date at the top. You’re gonna have to go to court. Be sure to show up or there will be a warrant out for your arrest.”
Uh — yeah. Sure. Great.
“Okay, Officer. Thank you very much.”
“Drive safely.”
“Thank you, and have a good night.”
I let the officer return to his car and watched it drive past me before I pulled out and then into the spot I was originally after, a few spots up, past the other police car. I think it took me fifteen minutes to park to my satisfaction that I wasn’t breaking any laws at all.
So much for thumbing my nose, Rebel Rebel.
After we parked, my first question to my friends was, “Am I going to jail?”
Kevin had spent a year in law school and he actually said, “Yes, you might.”
Gulp. My entire body tensed up.
He added, “Let them throw the book at you.” I believed him just enough to become very upset. Upset enough at myself to walk into the diner and have a vanilla milkshake for dinner.
Nick said I wouldn’t go to jail, but at that point I didn’t know who or what to believe. I didn’t want to think about it right then, nor much until the court date in early January. I was just a grad student, eight months away from his Masters, with a problem with authority, a Peter Pan complex and the serious need to finish my dinnershake so I could watch the rest of the game which by then was just starting.
After disposing of the witnesses i.e. giving my friends a lift to the subway, I skidaddled across the Triboro and down the FDR Drive down to the East Village to the street in front of my apartment which of course had no parking spots. 12th Street, on a block just west and south of my place, would have to do.
I had been listening to the game on the radio and heard a recap that the Red Sox had already taken a lead. Eager not to miss another pitch, I got up to my apartment, where my roommate and another of our friends were watching television, but not the game. First come, first served — if I were to watch the game, it’d have to be out somewhere. No harm, no foul.
I asked them out to the bar, but they declined.
So it looked like it would be up to me alone to drink away my summons, celebrate my aunt’s birthday, and witness what was shaping up to be a historic baseball evening.
This way to O’Hanlon’s —–>
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