Police On My Back

In order for a civilized society to function properly there must be laws and civil servants to enforce them, if not, anarchy would be the order of the day. The hierarchy of legal checks and balances find judges, specifically Supreme Court Justices, on the top rung, Wackenhut rent-a-cops, and the different variations thereof, are the bottom feeders. In between there are numerous more specialized factions. The military and all its affiliated branches including the National Guard fall in the vast DMZ of law enforcement. The same can be said for the FBI, the DEA, and the division of ATF. The Attorney General and various local and federal prosecutors are also included. However, there is one group that dominates in sheer numbers; one group whom everyone has had contact with in one form or another sometime in their lives, that is the police.
Police, just like their federal brethren come in different shapes and sizes. There are state troopers, sheriffs, sheriff officers, and last, but certainly not least, are your local police men and women.
Most are dedicated, disciplined individuals who have the thankless task of maintaining order in a sometimes chaotic and dangerous world. They are underpaid, yet often risk there lives all in the name of truth, justice, and the American way. They are frequently stereotyped and parodied, sometimes unjustly. Some however, are belligerent, bigoted, and drunk with the authority bestowed upon them. It is this small minority that casts a pall over those who serve the public in admirable fashion. Police are kinda like farts. Most times they are pleasant, they grant relief, and even the toxicity that’s periodically emitted has a certain redeeming quality. But every once in awhile you get one that betrays your confidence, and it winds up staining everything.
I have had my share of experiences in dealing with the local constables. I grew up in an era, and a place where you didn’t need to be reminded with signage that the primary purpose of the police was to “protect and serve.” This was the first and foremost thought on the minds of the officers I had contact with in my youth. I will never forget their professionalism and kindness.
Due to my unruly sister, I feared if I ever erred, I was surely to be publicly flogged after what the police previously had endured from one family. But there were other families in town that had similar woes, and yet every one of them always spoke of the local officers with the utmost respect. Well I did err, and more than once I’m afraid to say.
I was pulled over for a variety of traffic violations nineteen times before the Sgt. Skip Robbins finally issued me my first summons, figuring I had received enough second chances. These officers were always gracious and fair, even as I proceeded to stockpile tickets over the course of my illustrious driving career. It was not too long after, the new and improved generation of officers manned the streets. They were my age, some were my peers; they hadn’t been on the job long enough for the harsh realities of a brave new world to harden their hearts. It was their lives perceived injustices real or imagined that caused them to be dicks in the line of duty. That and little wee-wees.
They were the ones who held the power now. Everyone whoever slighted them was going to pay. They would throw their weight around at every opportunity. “To protect and serve” quickly became “abuse and harass” for this small niche group that would dare tarnish the public perception of the rest law enforcement officials. Upon my move to South Florida, I was happy to see that the local apple barrels had its share of malcontents that spoiled it for the rest.
I watch as police run red traffic signals as seen in the movie Superbad, by turning on the pretty lights that adorn the tops of patrol cars. And no, they were not on their way to the scene of a crime. Once they made it through the traffic signal, the lights were extinguished, and the officer proceeded at the normal rate of speed, which for some cops is the speed of sound; only to pull into an eating establishment.
Just the other day I was tailgated, then passed on the right at a rate which exceeded the posted speed of thirty-five, in order to cut me off to get in the left hand turn lane at a traffic signal so this cop could improve their traffic position by one car length. We both proceeded in the same direction, at the same rate of speed, only to be situated next to each other while we waited for that light to change. I must reiterate, this behavior is not indicative of the majority of officers I have come in contact with. More than once, I have been pulled over for speeding, exorbitantly I might add, only to be released with a warning. My demeanor dictated theirs. Treat them with respect, only if they deserve it, not command it, and nine times out of ten they’ll cut you some slack if they’re the legit cops, not the ones who were picked on in high school.
For anyone who is unaware, drivers in South Florida regularly flaunt their disregard traffic laws. Yet, the local police force does not consider these infractions to be high on their priority list of maintaining order. At any given moment, red lights are run, there are illegal lane changes, no one has ever heard of keeping right. Cars manufactured for sale in South Florida must not have come equipped with directional signals, since it is the rare occasion indeed you happen to espy one flashing, often this is a false alarm, as it is on for no particular reason. You’d think that the automobile industry would save millions by eliminating that item.
When it rains, fire lanes at shopping centers are so filled with parked cars that I am tempted to set fire to a building just to make a point. Yet, with all this happening, last Sunday, the fate of the free world as we know it hinged on my forgetting to display my handicapped placard so it was clearly visible.
I was wrong by not putting it on my rearview mirror before I went into the Pembroke Lakes Mall, my bad. Had the “officer”- I put this in quotes because she was a community service aide dressed in jeans and a golf shirt- looked inside the car, she would have seen the placard protruding from the passenger side visor and this nasty misunderstanding could have been avoided altogether. This was not the case.
Upon exiting the mall, I saw the women get out of the dressed down faux version of a Pembroke Pines police vehicle, and begin to write me a citation. When I was within earshot, all she said to me was “I’m sorry.” I opened the car, removed the placard to show her the error of my ways. Uninterested, she continued to justify her salary. When she presented me with the summons, she repeated “I’m sorry” and went about her merry way confident in her knowledge of a job well done. She did not give a shit that my placard was valid, as I stood there in my shorts that revealed a prosthetic limb. She did not give a shit that this would cost ten dollars and unknown quantities of time for me to be free of this summons. She was doing her part to keep American democracy safe. Was she impressing someone with her undue diligence in the hope that one day she could attain full cop status? Who the hell knows or cares, certainly not me.
I immediately went to the local police station to clear this matter up quickly. I was greeted by a condescending female voice over the phone reminding me that it was Sunday. What a dumb shit I was! Thank goodness she told me what day of the week it was. She continued to speak to me as if I was five, and I suffered from some sort of brain deficiency. I wondered how she liked bullying people when she could hide behind a phone. My quest for a quick resolution would have to wait. There were public servant man hours and taxpayer dollars to waste.
Monday morning, a phone call to the city clerk’s office yielded instructions for wiping the slate clean. I was instructed to write a detailed letter describing the circumstances that instigated the ticket, get said letter notarized, make copies of my placard and driver’s license, and mail it along with my ten dollars to the Broward County Clerk of Courts. Is that all, hell, maybe I’ll try and get another one next week just to keep everyone busy.
When police arrived at the scene of the accident that caused me to qualify for a handicapped parking permit, the first request of the EMT was a blood test to see if I had been drinking, not whether I was going to live or die. I once accrued sixteen points for speeding in one month in one town. Collectively, I’ve amassed ninety-seven points on my driving record, all but six before 1993. My driving privileges have been suspended for seven of the first nineteen years of my driving career. I was written summons’ on everything from fictitious plates to too dark to be driving without proper illumination; no registration to expired license, exhaust too loud to driving while suspended, did I deserve them all, probably. Did the dastardly deed of not properly displaying the handicapped placard that every asshole in South Florida insists upon displaying at all times though it clearly states “remove before driving” warrant a summons? You come to your own conclusions. I’ve got to go, Indiana Wants Me.