Respect for Police

Last week was a horrible week around here with the Boston Marathon bombings and the subsequent manhunt, shootings and capture of one of the bombers. Things like that are just not supposed to happen around here and it was quite shocking. There are many people whose lives will never be the same. Though this was a tragic, horrific attack, one good thing that has come out of it is the newfound respect for our first responders, especially the police. Police officers, firemen and EMT’s all rushed to help those hurt, seemingly without regard for their own life and not knowing if there were more bombs set to go off.

People cheering for and applauding the police is not something you see much anymore. Most of the time they are being yelled at, or spoken about poorly or even having stuff thrown at them while they’re trying to do their job. I know there are some police officers who are not doing what they should be or aren’t the nicest people, but I think that most of them are doing their job excellently. Their job is not easy, dealing with all us knuckleheads out there who seem bent on breaking the law. They’re the guys you love to hate – that is, until you have an emergency and then they’re your best friend. I am as guilty as the next guy when it comes to the love/hate relationship with the police.

It wasn’t always that way. When I was much younger there was a police officer who was really a great guy, whom I’ll call Officer B. We often sat on a stone wall on the corner of a main road and a side street that a couple of my friends lived on. Officer B was a motorcycle cop, at least in the warm weather months, and he would often stop and talk with us when we were just hanging out. He got to know us over time and would talk to us like he was our big brother, just talking about sports, girls and life in general. Never once did I feel like he was watching us, though I did feel that he was watching out for us.

Even as we got older and moved into our teen years, Officer B would still stop and say hello and hang out with us for a few minutes. Maybe neighborhood policing was the new fad in police work back then, but I don’t remember any other cops doing that kind of thing. I think that part of the reason my friends and I liked him was because he was just a guy who, instead of trying to lecture us, took the time to talk to us – like our baseball coach or the guy who owned the Sunoco station where we always got our candy, soda and STP stickers. I guess they didn’t treat us like kids.

Now fast forward about three or four years. My best friend Tony, another guy and I were riding around town in Tony’s car on a typical Friday night when we got pulled over by the police. At the time, we weren’t doing anything wrong, just cruising around looking for something to do (translated: looking for some girls to hang out with) when the blue lights were flashing behind us. So we pulled over and were ordered out of the car – with guns pointed at us. I knew right then something wasn’t right, so we did what we were told to do. Apparently, a blue car was seen leaving the industrial park at a high rate of speed after a break in and Tony’s car was light blue. They searched the car and found nothing but some tools – a screwdriver, some wrenches and the tire iron for the car.

There was one young police officer who, maybe to win some points with his superiors, took these common tools for working on your car as proof that we were the guys who had done the break in. He even told us those were “hard evidence” against us. We told him we hadn’t been anywhere near the industrial park and there was nothing found in the car that would have been stolen from there, yet this guy was having none of it. As far as he was concerned, we were guilty. Just when I thought we were all going to jail, Officer B showed up out of nowhere. He looked over the situation and asked “Barney Fife” what was going on. When told of the crimes we supposedly committed, Officer B told him to let us go, that he knew us and we wouldn’t have done it.

Officer B came over to me and we talked for a few minutes while the crowd that had gathered dispersed. I thanked him for sticking up for us, but he just laughed and told me he knew we couldn’t have been the guys. One, because he’d known me for years and two, because they were looking for a dark blue car, not a light blue car. As quickly as the situation occurred, it was over, all because of a cop who took the time to get to know some kids over the years. Obviously, Officer B hadn’t heard about my foray into the elementary school when I was younger. Otherwise, things may have turned out differently that night.

Guilty

There are times you do something that you know is wrong, or you realize after the fact that it was wrong. If you’re like most people, you feel guilty. Some people feel hardly any guilt; others feel more than is warranted. Remember in the movie A Christmas Story when Flick gets his tongue stuck to the sign post in the middle of winter? After Flick comes back, the teacher, Miss Shields, tries to get the kids to own up to who made Flick do it. When Flick won’t rat out his friends and no one will come forward, she says, “I’m sure the guilt you feel is far worse than any punishment you might receive.” She follows that up with that pitiful face that’s supposed to make the kids feel bad and says, “Don’t you feel terrible? Don’t you feel remorse for what you have done? That’s all I’m going to say about poor Flick.”

The voice-over comes out with a classic line at this time, “Adults love to say things like that but kids know better. We knew darn well it was always better NOT to get caught.” Guilt? Not so much. You can’t make people feel guilty. They either do or they don’t. I tended to have a “guilty conscience” when I was a kid. When I did something wrong, and I knew it was wrong, I could just picture my Mom standing there with a sad face, shaking her head, making me feel terrible. However, I was usually able to shake that feeling off because like the kids in A Christmas Story, I knew it was better not to get caught. There was one time, though, that I did get caught.

Somehow, my friend Smitty had found out that you could get into our elementary school through the roof. Apparently there was a door on the roof that wasn’t locked. So one Saturday morning we went to the school, Smitty shimmied up a pole to the roof and about 30 seconds later opened the front door for me. We crossed the hallway to the office and the first thing we did was what a lot of kids always wanted to do – speak over the intercom. That’s right, we turned on the microphone and started doing bits from The Three Stooges. We each did the “Doctor Howard! Doctor Fine! Doctor Howard!” bit, Smitty did the “Ba ba ba boo, are you listening, ba ba ba boo!” bit, and we both did our finest imitations of the school principal reading the morning announcements. Then in the blink of an eye, everything changed.

Smitty was staring out the front door, wide-eyed, pointing. One word was all it took to bring all the fun and games to an end: “Cops!” We turned off the intercom, walked casually out the front door and hoped the police officer would think we were just walking along, minding our own business. That thought was dashed when the police car screeched to a halt directly next to us and the officer jumped out. He asked us what we were doing in the school and how we got in. We tried to say we hadn’t been in the school, but he wasn’t buying it. He told us to wait next to his car and went and checked the front door, while Smitty and I debated making a run for it.

He looked around a bit and came back to us and asked us again what we were doing in the school, studying our faces to see if we were telling the truth. When he told us that a silent alarm had been tripped when the front door was opened (I wish we had thought of that!) and we were the only people around, we were smart enough to confess and told him the whole story. He even laughed a little when we told him we were doing Three Stooges stuff over the intercom. I actually thought we were off Scot-free and was starting to relax a bit when he asked us our names and where we lived. This time I couldn’t get rid of the picture of my Mom standing there with a sad face, shaking her head. I felt terrible. I WAS GUILTY!

Smitty and I walked back to our neighborhood in near silence, contemplating the punishment that was sure to come, not just from our parents but from the school, too. I felt like a juvenile delinquent. I wondered what reform school would be like. We came out from behind my house and, horror of horrors, the same police cruiser was sitting in front of my house with the police officer talking to my brothers and some other kids who had been playing basketball. He called us over, told us he believed us that we were just goofing around on the intercom, and gave us a mini-lecture about breaking into schools and how much trouble we could have been in.

I couldn’t believe that we were actually off the hook, and yet I still didn’t feel good about it. I had done something wrong and I had got caught. Even though I didn’t get in trouble for that incident, Miss Shields in A Christmas Story was right. The guilt I felt truly was far worse than any punishment I might have received.

Safe Driving

It’s kind of strange that my son is driving now, legally, as he got his driver’s license in December. The first couple of times he went somewhere on his own, it was both comforting and scary. Comforting because we didn’t have to take him and then go pick him up, but scary because neither my wife nor I were with him. I know that doesn’t seem logical, because it’s not. That’s what happens when your teenage children start driving. It’s not him I'm worried about; it’s all the other crazy drivers out there. So when he came home we were relieved, although we didn’t show it. Even though we’d been looking at the clock every few minutes, when he came through the door we gave him a nonchalant “Oh, you’re back already?”

My son is a very good driver and it’s not like he’s been going far. He went to one of his bandmate’s house for practice, to the school, and of course, he ran some errands. This is one of those happy occurrences when you’re teenager gets their driver’s license. One day he wanted some ice cream, so my wife told him if he wanted it, he had to go get it. We paid for it, but we didn’t have to leave the house. He was happy to get his ice cream and we were happy to not have to drive to the store.

Both my wife and I started our driving careers running errands, too. If I wanted to use the car, there was usually an errand I had to do for my parents.  A quick trip to the supermarket for some milk or bread was definitely worth it in order to be able to use the car for the evening. It didn’t matter that our car was kind of old and tired, it was transportation. It meant that I wasn’t going to just be hanging out at my house or one of my friends’ house, we were going to be out and about. Sometimes it even meant I was out on a date! That was infinitely better than being home.

Other than my one run in with the cops when I was trying to get home on time, I wasn’t a crazy driver. As a matter of fact, my friend Tony used to tell me I drove like an old lady. I used to get pretty ticked off about that, because I was a pretty good driver. No accidents, no police chases and no tickets. So if not taking crazy chances in my parents’ car and driving only slightly above the speed limit means I drove like an old lady, then I guess I drove like an old lady. However, this was coming from a guy who had his own car and who never saw a speed limit he obeyed, and who thought yellow lights meant stomp on the gas before it turns red and you have to stop.

There was one time we were cruising around and I really thought we were going to die. We were coming out of a side street onto the main road through town and, as usual, Tony didn’t want to wait. However, there were long lines of traffic coming both ways and the lane we were sitting in was led by a huge tractor trailer truck. Sitting in the death seat, I looked to the left and saw the truck was not slowing down, then looked to the right and saw no break in the traffic and no one slowing down to let us in. I did this a few times, the truck getting closer and closer, bearing down on us and blowing its air horn, and I thought, This is it. We’re going to die! I closed my eyes and braced myself for impact, waiting for the sounds of screeching tires and metal smashing into metal. Then I heard…nothing.

I opened my eyes and we were driving along, the car and our lives intact. I looked at Tony, and he laughed at me and asked me if I was okay, or if perhaps I needed to go change my pants. The answer was no to both of them. To this day I don’t know how we made it out of that one without a scratch. I never did feel totally comfortable driving with him after that, even though I never got in an accident riding with him.

As my son starts his driving career, I hope he drives like an old lady just like I did. He can take his time running our errands and going to his friends. Eventually, we’ll stop looking at the clock and thinking he’s been gone for a long time. All I care about is that he makes it home safely.

Nothing Wrong With An Old Car

I was talking to my daughter about how in the fall we may be getting a newer car for my wife and that her current car would become the kids’ car. Our 2001 Toyota Camry has about 150,000 miles on it and a few nicks, dings and dents. However, I think it would make a great car for my son and daughter. Then I realized that it is 11 years old and that’s even older than the cars I used to drive when I was a kid.

When I first had my license I thought our car was so old, and it was, compared to a lot of my friends. I got my license in 1978 and we had a 1968 Chevrolet Impala that had seen better days, but hey it got us around. Of course, I couldn’t just take it whenever I wanted. My older brothers all had their own cars, but my sister, who is a year older than me, and I both wanted to use it at various times. A year later, my younger brother got his license and there were three of us looking to use it. Luckily, my best friend Tony had his own car and the other member of our trio, Jeff, was usually able to use his father’s Caddy.

As my parents did with the other kids before me, when I first started driving and was able to use the car I had to run an errand or two for them before I could do what I wanted. So I’d pick up Tony and/or Jeff, go to the store for some milk or bread, bring it home and then I could go about my business. While it was a bit of a nuisance to have to do it, I figured it was worth the extra time so that I could get out of the house with my buddies, cruise through town, see people and be seen. There were just a few rules I had to follow: put gas in the car, no alcohol in the car and don’t be late. My parents were very big on being home on time. It was a responsibility and a respect thing and I didn’t want to break that trust.

There were a few little quirks about the car that I had to learn when I began going out on my own. One was that you couldn’t accelerate too quickly, especially starting from a complete stop. If you did, the car would bog down, sometimes stall out, and not go fast. That was kind of good for me because I didn’t take chances when pulling into traffic so I didn’t cut people off or have any accidents. Tony and Jeff used to tell me I drove like an old lady, but I was just being careful and taking into consideration the condition of the car. Probably related somehow to the same issue, you couldn’t take corners too quickly either, especially sharp turns, or the car could stall out on you. Before you think it was all bad with the ’68 Chevy, it wasn’t. When you took your time driving it ran pretty well. 

The quirkiness of the car will always have a special place in my heart because it actually saved me one time from getting a ticket and possibly losing my license. I didn’t have my full license yet, but had what was called a “pink slip”, which was like a probationary driver’s license. I was coming home from the other end of town and was going to be late if I didn’t get home quickly. I was going home on the main road, North Main Street, and was going about 50 mph in a 35 mph zone. It was dark so I didn’t notice the police car coming from the opposite direction until he was right next to me. I started to slow down, looked in the side mirror and noticed he was turning into a parking lot and was going to come back my way – I knew he was coming after me. I saw that he had to wait for traffic, which partially shielded me from his view, so I made a quick right turn onto the first street I could.

I’m sure you know where this is going. Because I turned so quickly the car stalled. I put it in neutral and tried to restart it but it just wouldn’t catch. I was losing speed so I quickly pulled over in front of the fourth or fifth house down, turned the lights off, jammed it into park and ducked down a bit so that I could see out the side mirror but couldn’t be seen from behind. My heart was pounding in my chest and I was starting to think of the trouble I would get in when my parents found out and how disappointed they would be. I figured I wouldn’t be able to drive again until I was 21.

Then I saw it, the police car at the end of the road slowing down and looking down the road. “Don’t come down here, don’t come down here”, I was saying out loud as I tried to will the cop to keep going. It felt like it was taking forever for him to decide if he was going to come down the street. I was starting to sweat and I think I even made one of those bargains with God that people make when they’ve done something stupid to get themselves in trouble. “God, if you let me get away this time, I WILL NEVER SPEED AGAIN! I PROMISE!” Much to my surprise, and relief, the police car did not turn down the street and kept going along the main road. I sat there for a moment to compose myself, figured out an alternate route home, turned the key and the car started up right away without a problem.

I somehow got home on time that night, my parents none the wiser and my bargain with God already forgotten. More importantly, I now had a great story to tell my friends, of how I had beaten the cops. Most of them thought it was because I had performed under pressure and outwitted the cops, but I knew it was all because our car would stall if you took a turn too quickly. From that night on I loved that old jalopy! 

So I think it will be OK if my kids use an 11-year-old car. It didn’t hurt me to use an older car and it actually saved me from trouble. The key for my kids will be to follow the rules of the road, especially the speed limit. Because unfortunately for them, if they’re trying to lose the cops, the Camry isn’t going to stall out if they take a turn too quickly.