A Tale of Two Policings

It was the better of pullovers, it was the worse of pullovers. Rewind to the early 1990s and my first car. A Boston cop pulled me over on the corner of Newbury Street and Mass. Ave. It was a summer afternoon and the city was bustling with traffic, construction, and people. He came over, politely greeted me, and asked if I knew why I was pulled over. I told him, no.

He told me my inspection sticker was expired. Something in my eyes must have asked, and how is that a moving violation, because he briefly explained that driving without a valid inspection sticker was not only a violation (moving or otherwise), but (very important if you're a broke a$$ student) also a three-point surchargeable event (read: you just made your insurance company richer).

I told him I planned to get it done the end of the week when I took my car in for service. He went back to his cruiser. About five minutes later, on his way back he yelled that he was going to let me go with a warning. When he was about halfway over, his radio went off with some new business. He quickly brought over the citation, and told me to get it taken care of as soon as possible. He ran back to his cruiser. As he stepped in, he smiled at me, and told me to have a nice day. He then got in, busted a u-turn, and was out.

Almost exactly twenty-four hours later, thirty seconds from home in Cambridge, I got pulled over. Damn! I thought. Friday couldn't come quick enough. The cop came over right by my inspection sticker and asked if I knew why I was pulled over. I told him, yes, my inspection sticker. I got pulled over for it yesterday. I showed him my Boston citation, still in the car, and told him I was planning to get it taken care of tomorrow (Friday). That's no excuse he told me abruptly. He walked back to his cruiser. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed. I could feel the dread well up within me. I was on the most quiet stretch of my street and no one was around but me and this cop.

It doesn't take this long to write a ticket I thought. I wished he could just give it to me so at least I could be on my way, as mom was expecting me. Now I was late. Finally twenty minutes had passed and he was walking back. I was ready for me ticket. However, he didn't give me a ticket. He gave me an inspection test.

Press you horn he told me.
What? I responded.
Press your horn! I did.
Right signal.
I did.
Left signal.
I did.

He then stepped to the rear of my car. At this point, I got scared that this could be one of those things I saw on the news. Nobody was around, and this could go all wrong.

Press your brakes, he barked from the rear.
I did.
Again.
I did. I looked to my mom's complex, thinking, she's going to kill me for being late.

Then I saw a tall black, statue of a man at the top stair of my friend's townhouse. I could only see his silhouette, but the muscular stance was unmistakable. My friend's dad stood watching. He knew my car, by at least how much time his son spent working on it, and he was watching hard. Thank you Jesus, I thought. At least if $#!+ went down, there would be a witness. Or at least someone to tell my mom.

The cop came back towards the front of the car, looked through the rear windows, and to the under-body of the car. Now thirty minutes into the stop, he give me the $50 ticket and left. I waited until the cop was well out of site, before I exhaled and drove into my complex. My friend's dad intercepted me before I reached the parking lot.

Everything okay? He asked me in his Trinidadian accent. I saw, he said knowingly.
Yes sir, I told him. Inspection sticker.
He grunted, looked down and nodded. It's okay. Go on, he said, gesturing in the direction of my mom's place.

image from dreamtimes.com