Blue

I was hashing out a new post in my head (or fantasizing about being on Oprah talking about the Women Worth Knowing project that had swept the nation in a wave of positive feeling, you decide which) when I noted the motorcycle policeman noting my expired inspection sticker.  I nodded at him and smiled, hoping that if I looked friendly and harmless he might just keep driving instead of whipping around behind me and turning on the lights.  I should have known better.  The last time I tried to be accommodating and sweet to a police officer, I ended up in a jail cell, wearing a hideous orange jumpsuit after a strip search.

In college, I was driving on an expired registration.  I got pulled over and took my ticket.  I paid for my new tags and forgot about the ticket.  Five years later, and I’m not even kidding about the timeline.  Five years later, I came home on a Friday to a letter stating that there was a warrant out for my arrest for failure to pay that ticket.  It was Friday night, so there was nothing I could do.  I resolved to take care of the issue on Monday, and went to bed excited about my Saturday hair and nails appointment, and getting to visit an out of town friend.

The next morning I got my hair done, had a fantastic manicure, and was on the way to meet my friend when I heard the familiar cry of a police siren.  There was an officer behind me, lights on, siren on, pulling me over.  I panicked.  I had a warrant!

Over the next several minutes the very young officer took his care arranging for someone to tow my car away, while he had me spread-eagled against the side of his car for a pat-down.  Assured I wasn’t packing, he handcuffed me, wrists together behind my back, and kind of heaved me into the squad car, where I rode crying.  Without a seatbelt, and off balance due to my bonds, each time he put on brakes or hit a bump I ended up with a face full of that screen between the driver and the criminal.  And I fell over twice.  This dude could NOT drive.

Eight hours after being liberated from all of my clothing (except my panties–I was crying so hard, the officer took pity on me and let me keep my panties), and having been terrorized by Big Mean Annie, my cell mate, and after fingerprints, mug shots (for which I would pay to see), I was finally allowed to leave.  In those eight hours I learned that inmates can’t just ask for a cup of water, and have no privacy for bodily functions. 

Given that using the toilet meant taking down a jumpsuit to sit on the toilet behind the metal screen with baseball sized holes punched in it from top to bottom, which was equivalent to getting totally naked in plain view of Annie (who had already quizzed me threateningly about whether or not I had panties, since she didn’t) and the male officer patrolling the hallway, I opted to hold it.  And since said officer told me if I wanted water, I could get it out of the bidet function on the toilet, I opted to remain dry.  This probably helped my resolve toward the former.  That, and I had cried so much, there could not have been any moisture left anywhere in my body.

Since that time, I have been terrified of police officers.  I approach them with the same caution I reserve for strange animals.  I know not all officers are as rough and/or unecessarily mean as the ones who handled me that day, just like I know not all pit bulls want to tear off my face and wear it while they eat the rest of me, but until I know exactly which type I am dealing with, I am treating every cop like he might be pistol whipping me for rolling through a stop sign.

I have done my best not to transfer my fear to Thor.  When we see officers, I tell him what a great service they do for us as a community, and I’ve tried to teach him to respect the uniform*.  B tried to teach him to say, “I smell bacon,” and he’s never even been arrested!

Anyway, I got a ticket this morning, and the officer thanked me for my courtesy as he handed it over.  I just avoided shrugging away with my arms crossed over my head in a defensive motion as he passed his hand through my window to give me the ticket.  I think I have PTSD.

*I respect the uniform.  I appreciate the men and women who are willing to service as officers.  I just think they can smell my fear.