I have a fear of police officers. Ever since my Unfortunate Incarceration (just try to say that without hearing Anthony Bouvier’s voice in your head), and an ugly incident that started with me trying to help a woman pay for gas, I have had a real phobia. I see police cars and my stomach starts to roil. However, I know a few ladies who work with officers they say are amazing people, and they assure me that the good officers far out number the bad cops.
Police officers have hard jobs. I feel especially sorry for the ones who have to direct traffic. I have a feeling that, in Dallas, that is just as much hazard as being on the SWAT team. I jest.
Because I appreciate that anyone would be willing to choose a job that required them to show up at my childhood home and deal with domestic violence issues, or come talk me out of a closet after a home invasion, or make sure the pervert who was stalking our hospital room after Mom and I were in a horrific car accident left us alone, and promise us protection at our hotel until my grandparents arrived, or pull my skirt down to save my modesty when I was strapped to a stretcher, I do my best to show all police officers great respect. And, a few years ago, finding myself in front of a squad car in a drive-thru, I decided to start paying for their meals whenever I was in that situation.
It happens rarely, but I’ve had the opportunity to pay it forward a handful of times. Once, an officer scared the tar out of me, chasing me down with sirens, just to wave and shout, “Thank you!” I thought I was going to have a heart attack.
I found myself in front of an officer this morning, so I got his tab and waved when he waved. Then, I saw him start typing into his dashboard computer and nearly wet myself.
Listen, an eight hour stay in a jail cell, wearing nothing but your panties and an orange jumpsuit, after having been frisked, spread-eagle-style on the side of a highway, face pressed against the hot metal of the trunk of a squad car, handcuffed in front of rubber-necking traffic, bounced around and bruised in the backseat of said car, where I had been shoved–hands restrained behind my back–no seatbelt, strip searched and screamed at over an unpaid traffic violation will do things to a girl. No need to tell me about excessive force. I absolutely have a PTSD stemming from that day. And poor Laura Christian thought I had stood her up, and thought I was making fun when I told her I had spent the day in jail. I’m still sorry about that, Laura! (Laura had driven down from MO, and we were planning to meet up. I couldn’t even extend the courtesy of calling her to say I would be late. Then, I was so ashamed and embarrassed about the circumstances surrounding me standing her up, I think I behaved very badly.)
Yeah, so afraid of police officers.
I had a point when I started writing this, but then I lost the plot remembering Big Mean Annie demanding I get off “her bunk”, and asking me if I still had my panties because they had taken hers away and she wanted some. *shudder*