The thin, pale yellow paper sits on my desk. Its smudges are minimal considering its carbon copy nature. The urge to crumple it into a ball and throw it in the face of the person who handed it to me several days ago has this morning, left even the world of my imaginings. The focus is now on adjudging the worthiness of undertaking the usual steps to schedule a hearing with a referee of New York State's Department of Motor Vehicles motivated by roughly equal parts of strong, if not very righteous indignation and the lifelong inclination to deeply resent having one's pocket picked, especially if the picker of said pocket is neither an impulsive thief nor a highwayman proudly claiming such a job description, but rather, an employee of a government agency, someone whose salary I help pay. "Society's Hired Goons" was the term a friend used to use to describe police officers. It seems a bit harsh on first flush, especially if one let's nostalgia and one's earliest instruction by mothers and teachers about the goodness and reliability of men in blue uniforms (and their helpfulness during our ambulations to and from school, across streets with traffic and other hazards) be remembered as well as it was inculcated. But my earliest memories about law enforcement officers, unlike those of probably most children, included a psychic trauma that has never been fully eradicated. This incident of more than fifty seven years ago plus the education and training of a cop which (despite the relatively recent inclusion of "sensitivity" training for prospective rookies) rarely features the embracing of a compassionate or "good" cop mindset (especially in a one-on-one confrontation) together made for the usual, but a particularly unpleasant personal experience this time. It is never in abundant supply (this elusive compassion) in the quotidian endeavors of these men and perhaps for good reasons. Dealing with truly bad folks with such regularity, a "one size fits all" approach is likely and inevitably part of the way a member of the "fuzz" so often demeaningly interacts with a disobedient motorist (alleged runner of stop signs, for example, moi) or a psychotic mass murderer.
But one does grow more than a little weary. This particular day featured enough bad luck to cause me to wonder aloud whether or not God was testing me or if his chief competitor for souls was given a carte blanche to make sport of me and my hamster-in-a-wheel efforts to avoid certain mundane futilities. Many little details worked their black magic to "screw" me this hectic day, or so it seems, despite being one who often rails against those mired in the muck of victimology. I present herewith, the facts.
Parking my big, old but attractively repainted, full sized '82 Chevy Caprice in a neighbor's large backyard for the last six months or so (and with their permission, for mutually beneficial reasons) and now near the eve of the demolition of their unoccupied, one hundred twenty year old house and sizable surrounding property, was that day, the same one that a major utility (water) was scheduled to be shut off for the building. Specifically asking my neighbor if the removal of my car was necessary for the work to be done, I was assured that this was not the case. When I needed to move the vehicle about an hour later, the work crew and a huge John Deere tractor blocked my path. With a fairly minor delay, my exit was cleared and I was on my way. Returning an hour and a half later, no access was available and the usual scarcity of parking spaces, as well as the fact that alternate side of the street parking rules on the street meant that even fewer spaces were open, caused me to seek a parking spot elsewhere in the neighborhood. This is a situation far too similar to seeking free on-street parking in Manhattan, one of the world's most notorious places for suffering the inconvenience, waste of time, gasoline and the stress of circling and circling ad nauseum in order to secure a space for one's car.
After forty some odd minutes of searching, I espied a possible space about two blocks away. It was at the far right corner of an intersection that I have driven past hundreds if not thousands of times in my forty six years of driving. For at least forty three of those forty six years, there was no stop sign at that intersection for traffic going in the direction that I was that day. The construction of houses on empty and irregular plots of land a couple of years or so ago at this location apparently caused some genius at the city's Traffic Department to install this second sign (one already existed for all these many years at the perpendicular one way street to the left of the two way avenue that I was on). My usual pause (a bonafide stop) may have been fudged as I sought the space at the corner that required a right turn into the northerly continuation of the afore mentioned one way street. Instantaneously a squad car pounced with all the "bells and whistles" at the peace officer's disposal. "No good deed goes unpunished" I thought. After trying for three quarters of an hour to avoid breaking the law and being issued a summons by parking illegally, a calculating flatfoot with a quota to fill, no doubt, for the waning month, was now, with the full backing of the law, preparing to start the process of relieving me of one hundred thirty eight dollars for a vehicular move about as dangerous as brushing against some overhanging leaves while parking near a tree in mid-summer. The intersection is especially quiet; the avenue just beyond the intersection suddenly narrows, then quickly ends and has always been a one way one because of that. Thus, there is no oncoming traffic, only halted traffic (if any) of vehicles waiting to proceed from my left. There was no one coming when my supposed infraction occurred. The fact of dozens or perhaps hundreds of parking spaces occupied at that moment in my neighborhood that would not be filled were it not for illegal aliens with cars but without driver's licenses, darkened my mood considerably as the patrolman approached my window after having announced with his bullhorn that I was not to leave my seat. Just then the image of the burly, uniformed man I met in 1956 came to me and now blackened my musings considerably further, sending them to an especially desolate place. It was on an April day, I somehow remember, that as a kindergartner, I witnessed this large, blue uniformed man push a shorter, smaller man, almost knocking him down. The diminutive man wearing an apron and working in his own store was my father. I was confused and frightened and did not understand. I did not like the big man. I knew he was a policeman but I knew that my father was not a bad man. The sadism and corruption of this particular cop was later revealed, but not in any way that could erase what I had seen.
I too am not a bad man. But the power of a strange man to exercise a dominance over me or the people I love, with the threat of force, with society's approval….all these facts were learned in a very uniquely educational and intimate way on that long ago spring day. I do not hate cops. I just am acutely aware of their ability to abuse their authority. The unpleasantness of a traffic ticket is just one of the many vicissitudes of life and a rather trivial one at that. But one dislikes failure and this sudden "report card" of a kind of societal transgression that is revealed on a public street with a certain degree of humiliation, both infuriates and encourages self-reflection. One can do better. One can be more careful. One can subordinate one's ego to be a safer and better driver. But a very strong instinct to be suspicious of authority is a healthy thing too, I aver…. and a very American one at that. I'm glad it's alive and well in this current age of would-be tyrants, and those who have already succeeded as such bullies.
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