On my way home from work last night, while heading down to the light at the bottom of the hill, a police car pulled out of the cop shop at the top of the hill and moved into position to turn right at the bottom. At the last second he pulled in behind me in the left turn lane.
I was sure I hadn’t done anything wrong. There wasn’t enough road to get up to a high speed by accident, especially with the somewhat sharp turn halfway down. But of course I start running over everything in my head.
Hands at ten-and-two? Check!
Turn signal on? Check!
Current registration sticker on the license plate? Check! At least it was when I last checked…
Not rockin with Dokken? Check!
Dead hookers removed from trunk? Check!
Brake lights working? No idea, but I think so!
Turning into the correct lane? You know it! I mean ‘Check!’
I did manage to turn into the correct lane, something I’m guilty of failing to do at times. The three cars in front of me didn’t. The cop stayed right behind me. Dammit Johnny Law! Bust them, not meeee!
I signaled and moved into the right lane; he continued on in the left lane. I wasn’t his target after all.
Whew!
This got me thinking about police cars. About how, when I was a kid, I loved seeing police cars. They looked cool, even though it was the 70s and pretty much everything was stupid in hindsight. Out of the 16 or so Hot Wheels I had as a kid, my favorites were the three or four police cars in the collection. One of them even had working doors. I loved ‘em!
Now, as an adult, seeing a police car makes me alert, and having one behind me makes me nervous. Not because I do anything especially illegal. I’m usually going no more than 5mph above the posted speed limit, keeping with the flow of traffic. I signal and look when I change lanes or make a turn. I don’t cut people off or weave through traffic like a f’ing tard. If you happen to be one of those people who dodge in and out of cars just to gain an extra couple of feet before the next red light, then fuck you very much you self important, self absorbed assbag and I hope that after you finally bite it, Satan spends his lunch hour raping you with a jagged cinder block for the remainder of eternity. At least that’s what I thought about the last guy to do that to me a few days back. Fucker…
Ahem. Pardon my digression.
I’m not sure when the shift from liking police cars to being wary of them happened. It must have been around the time that I realized that they might be there for me, and not every cop is unbiased and there to help. You don’t think about that when you’re a kid. Then it’s all flashy lights, loud sirens, and cool on wheels. It’s how my daughter and, to some extent, my son still feel about them. Whatever caused the change it’s too bad I can’t capture that feeling again, because there are some pretty cool police cars these days and I’m tired of feeling guilty for shit I haven’t done.