I have a strong disdain for people who wield power inappropriately. Like the people at the License Bureau. They hate sitting all day on their boot, which they know is widening by the minute. Their kids are messing with Satanic cults, and the big hair on their heads is bringing them down. So they take it out on me. Worst of all: They look happy when they're doing it. "I'm sorry, ma'am," says the clerk, her best Shining smile in place. "But looks like you don't have the right documents. And, oopsy daisy, looks like we're closing. Guess you'll just have to come back tomorrow and stand in line for an hour all over again."
Then there are cops like the guy in Mantua who pulled me over the other day.
Mantua, Ohio, in case you don't know it, is this teeny tiny sweetheart of a town -- pop., 962 -- in the middle of rolling hills and cornfields on the way to Lake Erie. Its claim to fame is the Potato Festival. One year, the town tried to get in the Guinness Book of World Records by using a (clean) cement mixer to make the world's largest pile of mashed potatoes, which the City Council dumped in the middle of the street.
So every now and then I go to Mantua, where there's this great physical therapy practice. I get this funky think in my knee, you see, and the only physical therapist I trust moved her practice from suburban Cleveland to Mantua. And so every now and then, I enjoy the half-hour drive along the two-lane, 45-mph highway, which turns into a 25-mph Main Street for about five seconds. I take a right into Edy Brenner's Physical Therapy, get my fix, then head back out onto the highway.
This time, as I leave Edy's, I hightail it a little too fast, a little too soon for the cop coming at me from the other direction. Soon as I see him, I know I'm in for it. Argh. I didn't have on my seatbelt either, which I quickly fastened as he whipped around and came after me.
Now I had just the night before seen the movie, "Thelma and Louise," which if you haven't seen in awhile, you must see, if for no other reason than looking at Brad Pitt's 23-year-old tush in faded jeans. If you remember, Thelma and Louise, and Brad who hid out for awhile in Louise's bed, were all running from some pretty stinky dudes, including a whole posse of small-town cops.
So this movie is fresh in my mind, as I pull over and start fumbling for all my various official documents while sneak-peaking into my rearview mirror while this cop whips around behind me, gets out of his car and stands up. Middle-aged, paunchy, and BORED, he actually hitches up his pants like they do in the movies. He walks around the back of his cruiser, opens the trunk and pulls out one of those big ranger hats. He pulls it down on his head, adjusting the front of it, like Thelma's would-be captors.
"Oh, God, am I'm doomed," I think, especially because I am guilty.
Like a black cat on Halloween, he sashasys up to my window.
"You know why I pulled you over, ma'am?"
Actually, I do.
"Yes, sir," I said.
"I clocked you going 45 in a 25."
"I know, but I just came out of the physical therapy place, and I saw the sign up ahead that said 45 and that's what I did. I didn't think about that small stretch of highway between the turn into Edy's and the highway."
Then: "Were you wearing your safety device, ma'am?"
Now this is one of those make-it-or-break-it moments. If I tell the truth, I could get two tickets. But if say I was wearing it, then I'll be lying, which I pride myself on never doing. Ever since I lied to my boyfriend, Barry, that time when I was 18, and this other guy, Mark, stole a kiss from me at a party, and Barry asked me, "Did Mark kiss you?" and I said "No", and he said, "I saw Mark kiss you" I decided I would never lie again.
And so I tell the truth, and then some.
"No, sir, I wasn't. I put it on as soon as I saw you. But you know, sir, when I had little kids, I used to put on my seatbelt first thing, because I was teaching them. But now I don't have little kids anymore, and I forget because our generation didn't wear seat belts when we were little. It always takes me about five minutes to get down the road and then I remember."
"You got any priors, ma'am?"
More ouchy truth. But I gotta do it. He's The Man with the power to send me to Death Row.
"There was that one time when I got pulled over for running a stop sign. The police officer said I rolled through it. But I have to tell you I don't think I rolled through it. I think I stopped, but not enough for her. And so when I went to court, they told me I could plead all these different ways and I just went ahead and pled guilty."
"All right, ma'am." (You can be quiet now.) "Stay right here."
I sit for those interminable five minutes when you wonder how you're going to afford a $150 traffic ticket, much less the points that are already racking up with your insurance because you have teenagers. You're watching all the cars passing and rubber-necking to see who the ditz is that got caught going 45 on the 100 yards of road called Main Street. And then he comes back to the window.
"I'm going to tell you something, ma'am. I saw you put on your seat belt when you saw me. If you had lied to me, I was going to give you a ticket. But since you told me the truth, well ma'am, you just slow down a a little bit and make sure you're always wearing your safety device. Have a good day there, ma'am."
I drove off from that cop that morning, feeling proud of both of not just myself for telling the truth, but him, for being a good cop willing to listen to another human being's story. Because of how the police officer treated me, I drove off, not only wanting to be a better driver, but a better person. That is what real authority is all about.
