To Serve and Project

To Serve and Project

One thing that I can say for the police force in my end of town, they are ever vigilant.

Oh sure, people get murdered once in a while, there are gang fights in the mall, houses are broken into and trashed, drunks drive, well, drunk, and elderly ladies walking to church are robbed of everything but their Depends.

Crimes, like these, go on day after day, but there is one crime the police will not tolerate. If you're driving while talking on your cell phone, you'll get caught and punished immediately with a $125 (CAD) fine, along with the bonus feature of having a couple of "points" strapped to your licence.

Now, I have no idea what these "points" are, because, quite honestly, I have never incurred any "points." I suspect that "points" are like strikes in baseball. Rack up enough "points" and you're out ... of something ... but out nevertheless.

Well, this morning I was fresh out of toilet paper, so I decided to trek through the pre-dawn light to Walmart, where I'd heard there was a BIG sale on toilet paper. And there was. No sooner had I wheeled my Streptococcus-infected cart into the store, when I saw a giant pyramid of bundles of Charmin (Ultra-Soft/Mega-Rolls). I would say that experience was like turning a corner and experiencing a vista of Mecca, but that might be a bit of an exaggeration.

So I bought two bundles of these soft-on-the-bum wipes and headed back home.

That was when I was stopped by the police, no more than a block from the Walmart parking lot.

I was surprised.

I checked my seatbelt ... done up snugly, checked if my lights were on in the dusky morning light ... they were, considered if I had been speeding ... was sure that I hadn't been. Still, when those red, white, and blue police car lights are flashing behind you, you stop. So, I pulled to the side of the road, but I must say that I was a bit bemused and somewhat perturbed by the interruption to my day.

A burly, young police officer strolled casually with ticket book in hand to my side window. She might have been attractive in another lifetime, but in her current state of employment, she looked a little like a cross between Medussa and Hulk Hogan.

"Licence and registration," she growled.

I handed them over without saying a word.

"Do you know why I'm stopping you?" she asked in a husky voice.

"No idea," I offered.

"You were driving while talking on your cell phone."

My brain stalled.

"Officer," I said somewhat hesitantly, "I don't have my cell phone with me."

"Mr James," she retorted, "I saw you talking while pulling through the intersection."

"Officer," I repeated, "I honestly do not have a cell phone with me."

With that, she stepped back, and commanded that I step out of the vehicle.

When I managed to unbuckle myself and get out, she politely turned me around, and with what I can only describe as "expert hands," she quickly frisked me from the top of my head to the tip of my toes.

No cell phone.

"Is your phone in your vehicle, Mr James?" she asked with a certain amount of growing frustration.

"No," I offered.

"Mr James, I am going to inspect your vehicle," she said blankly, and she did so.

No cell phone.

"Mr James," she insisted, "I saw you talking while pulling through the intersection. Please show me your phone."

"Officer," I groaned, "I have no phone with me, I swear."

"Then why were you talking as you pulled through the intersection?"

"To be honest, I don't remember talking, but," I conceded, "if I was talking, I suppose I was talking to myself."

"To yourself?"

"Yes," I confirmed, "once I drifted past the age of 60, I picked up the habit of talking to myself. I trust that is not against the law."

A smirk crossed her face. "No," she begrudgingly agreed, "that is not against the law, but when you drive, you are expected to maintain 100% concentration on your driving. No more talking to yourself while driving, do you understand?"

"I do," I replied with the certainty of a bridegroom who spent the night before his wedding with one of the bridesmaids.

She handed me my licence and registration, turned on a dime, and said, "Have a good morning, Mr James."

"Thank you, you too," spilled from my lips, and fortunately I managed to stop the expletive, "bitch," that was rolling through my brain before it could find its way into speech.

As I left the crime scene, I wondered to myself whether or not I had a case for reporting the incident as a clear example of police profiling. Since I am neither black nor gay, I dismissed the idea without too much thought, but the notion made for a great conversation with myself all the rest of the way home.