Pulled over by a cop, I had no idea what infraction I could have possibly committed during such an excruciatingly slow drive. It turned out that five miles earlier, when the car in front of me was turning left against an endless parade of cars coming the other direction, I had used the paved berm to pass him on the right. Upon later hearing that this is illegal, I was confused, as not long ago when my friend's car had been struck during a similar maneuver, that officer had told us in very certain, very annoyed terms that a berm pass wasn't against the law. Could it be, I gasped, that someone in law enforcement wasn't fully truthful?
Normally, I cops and I treat one another with professional courtesy. We both have our jobs to do in the civic ecosystem. My job is to speed, and their job is to catch speeders. For me to get angry with them would be like my being mad at rain for being wet. I like to compare our relationship to that of Sam Sheepdog and Ralph Wolf in the old Warner Brothers cartoon. We greet each other cheerfully, set our lunch pails down, punch the clock, and then wail on one another until the end of the work day. We're rivals, but there's no reason not to act like fellow professionals.
Every once in a while, though, King Shit with a Badge comes along. He doesn't know from professional courtesy. His only interest is masturbation, and, sadly, only his own. My cop was such a cop. You know the one. He's self-important. He's a drama queen. "Do you have any idea," he scolds exactly like your mother, "Why I'm pulling you over?" He lectured me about the dangerousness of what was a decidedly undangerous, slow, deliberate maneuver. "There could have been a baby stroller there!" he said of the empty chasm my car had passed through. "And if there had been, I wouldn't just be giving you a ticket. I'd be taking you in on manslaughter charges right now!"
He made no mention of citing the fictitious (but astonishingly negligent) parents.
And on he droned, each imaginary scenario more dramatic than the next, and I eventually started to think about the work I needed to get done that day.
"HEY!" he yelled, coming in for a closer look at my pupils. "Have you been drinking?"
"Huh?" I was taken aback. Uncharacteristically, I had not been drinking. Then I realized why he asked.
"Oh. I see. No. If I seem distracted, officer, it's not because I'm drunk or stoned. It's because I don't care about any of the words coming out of your mouth. I'm just bored, is all. Carry on."
He didn't take it well. He amped up the lecture. Now imaginary little old ladies were standing in the berm. You remember the berm. It's between the forest and the quarry. "And I'll give you another reason not to be bored," he concluded, shifting into Dad. "I can give you a (pause to emphasize that this is all the money in the world) NINETY DOLLAR TICKET!"
"Nope, still don't care."
He fumed. I continued. "See, I'd gladly pay several times that just to get out of this conversation. I know it wasn't dangerous. You know it. Maybe you can make me pay your little fine, but you definitely can't make me listen to your inconsequential yapping. Yap yap yap yap yap. Christ, who can pay attention?"
He stomped off purposefully. He spent ten minutes on the radio, presumably trying to find something, anything to arrest me for. And then he let me off with a warning.
And with that, the untruthful party in law enforcement revealed himself.