A friend sent me this question today:
“If you saw ME in a police car what would you think I got arrested for? “
I am not sure all the reasons why, but this theme fascinates me no end.
Perhaps it is because once, when I was a teenager and newly living on my own, I did sit in a police car as it patrolled the quiet Sunday morning streets of our small town just after church let out.
Given the townspeople’s awareness of my mum’s and stepfather’s hijinks, God only knows what everyone thought about my car ride. No doubt they imagined that I had been arrested for rum running or drug importation or lewd and lascivious behaviour.
But none of that was true.
In fact, what had happened was that the night before, as I strolled home barefoot from the corner store, I spied a man – truth be told, I couldn’t have missed him – playing with his you-know-what in between the jewelry store and the glorious Lakeshore Road apartment house (which has since been turned into a Hasty Mart) where I lived.
I can close my eyes and see him now, standing there in his beige all-weather coat and nothing else (!), playing with his sham a lam a ding dong, eyes wide open, looking at me with a half-beseeching sneer…which is hard (no pun intended) to do with so much on your mind (and in – and on – your hands).
Anyway, I raced upstairs with my bag of mixed candy and called the police, which I realized soon enough was a mistake.
Q: What was the man doing?
A: You know (I said, my eyes widening).
Q: No, I don’t know. What was he doing?
A: He was playing with himself (my eyes widening more).
Q: What do you mean – playing with himself?
A: You know (fierce tone in my voice, but not too fierce, lest he ask where my parents were, which I am pretty sure he did, to which I would have replied, “My mum’s in hospital and my stepfather isn’t home”) (although I would have neglected to say that my stepfather had left home a year and a half earlier, and that he had taken the colour TV with him).
Q (in the form of a statement): You will have to be more descriptive.
A: He was standing in the alley in his beige all-weather coat and he had his hand…
Q: Where?
A: Where do you think?
Q: Don’t get smart with me, young lady. Where did he have his hand?
A: He had his hand...on his PENIS.
Q: And what was he doing with his hand?
Which, ultimately, was the cause of the Sunday car ride – as if I would recognize this man in broad daylight without his all-weather coat and his pants on. What did the police think he would be doing? Exiting the side door of a church? (Mind you…)
Anyway, I love the notion of trying to imagine what people I know would be doing if they were sitting in the back seat (or perhaps even the front seat) of a police car.
About 25% of my friends would be there because they were a witness to something and were being asked for evidence.
Another 25% would have committed some sort of noble crime of passion: saved a dog from a vicious owner; attacked someone who was beating up a child; tried to stop a corner store robbery with a tennis racket.
Another 25% would be there either because they were arrested under false pretences or because they knew the police officer. In PEI, where I lived for many years, the police used to stop their cars in the middle of the street in the dead of night so I could jaywalk home from my bartending shift – which is only to say, the police knew or were related to just about everybody.
The final 25% would be in the police car for something illegitimate they had done: purchased dope; bought liquor from a bootlegger; managed a still (I actually helped manage a still once, for a friend’s wedding. It was fun); talked back; stole a cookie from a bakery just for badness…that sort of thing.
Anyway, I sent the question around to some of my friends and family, and I will wait and see what sort of replies I get.
The only reason my friend (who sent the question) would be in a police car is because of her passion or because she was related to or friends with the driver. The furthest thing from her mind would be an actual crime. (I wish I could say the same for myself. It all depends on how much white wine I’ve had to drink.)
In the meantime, if I get any interesting answers I’ll be sure to post them on-line. Unless, of course, one of my friends has come across (no pun intended) a man in a beige all-weather coat standing in an alley…
The wheels of the bus go round and round…all through the town.
Footnote: Here are some of the thoughts people have as to why I am in a police car:
~ I made a citizen’s arrest (for a traffic violation)
~ lookin’ too good (now that’s a friend!)
~ disturbing the peace (because I was involved in a protest)
~ crimes against conformity
~ sticking up for someone when everyone else thinks it would be a lot more convenient if I weren’t
~ [for beating up on someone else for their] murder of the English language in the first degree (I laughed so hard over this one I choked on an expletive)
~ it was a clear case of break-in and edit!
Anyway, I love these replies and the people who wrote them, and this is one of the many things I appreciate about the Internet. Now all I have left to do is wonder why YOU were in the back of that car.
