“It is 12:45 in the morning. You’ve had your license for only two weeks. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” After examining my license and scolding me for my stupidity, he locked my license in his car. It sat on his dashboard, begging me to rescue it. But I could not. “Son, I’m not going to give you a ticket, but I can’t let you drive home. You’re not old enough.” “So, I’m going to have a Baltimore City Police Officer drive you around for awhile until your parents get here.” This glorified security guard followed protocol to the letter, glaring at me with unblinking eyes, watching my every move. This man was not an officer of the law, though. In the holster on his right hip was a flashlight, not a Glock 17. His gut, which engulfed most of the accessories on the front of his belt, was the only trait similar to many of today’s policemen.
I sat on the hood of my car, collecting weeks of dust on my clothes, watching Towson students walk by and drunkenly pester this man about his weight and occupation, asking “Where’s your Segway bigboy?” I was no longer angry with Ron; he was just doing his job, and these kids were harassing him for that.
I wanted to scream at the guy chanting at Ron’s expense. He stood only six feet tall, but sprouted to inhuman heights as he neared me. His uncovered arms contracted with his hostility. I did not want my first fight to end the way we both knew it would.
He gauged his friends’ reactions to every joke he told. A silence ensued when his impersonation of John Madden was not well received. From the disappointment in his eyes and the sudden shrug in his face, I could tell that he had his own insecurities with which to overcome. I left him alone, and, thankfully, he did the same.
A middle-aged, Baltimore City cop pulled up in his squad car at 1:15 a.m. He proudly introduced himself as Officer Dave. He had bags under his eyes, a cup of coffee in his hand and, to his disdain, the task of babysitting me. I was sitting up front, handcuffs not on my wrists, but on Dave’s utility belt. He asked me if I did well in school. I lied. He knew me as an eleventh grade student at St. Paul’s with a 3.9 grade point average. I assumed that smart kids got off easier. He nodded in approval but his raised eyebrows and rolling eyes indicated that he thought otherwise.
There was a sprinkling of white powder on his right shoulder, most likely from a donut, but possibly from cocaine; his entire body convulsed. It would not have surprised me if he needed a special boost towards the end of a long shift.
The brakes on his Crown Victoria squealed as it came to a stop. “Get out,” he said.
“And go where?” I responded from the sidewalk. He drove away without giving me an answer. I whispered obscenities at him. I could not believe that I just been stranded by an officer of the law.
Ron would have been disgusted.
- Colin Davis '11
No comments:
Post a Comment