When last we talked, I was making for the safety of my office after an emotional, but not unusual work morning, only to find myself with the police in hot pursuit.
I pulled into the drug store parking lot. My sedan looks and smells like kids eat french fries in it. The detritus of my passenger seat includes a minion fart machine, a light up wand, a pokey wooden massage roller, bags and reams of tests, my own child’s pokemon underwear and a half squished box of kleenex. It’s a little bit embarrassing.
The officer was younger than me by far, and he smiled at me. I was going 17 over in a school zone. He asked for my license and registration. I played my hand, because I am not an idiot. As I rummaged in my poorly organized glove box, I admitted that, “I’m a little flustered, officer, I am working and I’m running late.” I gestured with my eyes at the mountain of educational shit riding shotgun. The officer scanner my car and we played do you know what the speed limit is on X road, and I sheepishly admitted that I had perhaps estimated incorrectly.
And then something about his entire body shifted.
His jaw set.
I saw him change. The guy now in front of me said things like, “step out of the vehicle, M’am.” and he meant it.
“Ma’m what’s in the box?” I was taken aback by the question. I waited for him to clarify before I moved. I told you about my car. He was going to have to be more specific. “The red one.” I guessed he meant the tin treasure chest for small prizes students sometimes earn for working with me. I then did something I will reflect on for a long time. I shrugged and opened the box, revealing a plastic corner for a half assembled styrofoam glider that the officer told me looked like a syringe.
I had nothing to lose by opening the box. This was not a box full of dildoes. Its contents painted me in a favorable light. It did not feel risky to reach for it. I was upset, but I was not afraid. I had no reason to think the officer would not give me the benefit of the doubt. I know of countless instances where officers in my community have dealt with hugely stressful situations with great professionalism and I had every reason to expect every officer in my neighborhood to behave as such. I knew that even though this officer was on alert and I was giving off crazy nervous energy, my best bet was to reach into my cluttered passenger seat and allow him access to the box. I choose to do it even though I know that I have the right not to.
I don’t know what I would have done under different circumstances. I don’t know what I would have done if I had felt afraid, if I hadn’t trusted that this officer viewed me favorably or if something had been in that box that I wouldn’t have wanted to show him. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t had somewhere else I really needed to be. I get to reflect on these things. I don’t have to. I don’t live in this compare and contrast. Will this person give me the benefit of the doubt? I don’t usually have to ask myself. It’s not fair, but it’s true. I am not done thinking about this.
There is some small justice in the world. No one hauls ass passed a high school during lunch time in front of a cop and deserves to skate on about their day. I still got a ticket for five over, but the officer helpfully explained how I could erase this infraction by taking a class and smiled at me as I pulled away. My washing machine was delivered later with only minimal swear words proclaimed about the navigation required when big things are moved about old houses. It’s gleaming and giant and I am thankful for the ease at which we can replace things that are too costly to repair. The heavens opened up and poured after they arrived but before they left and the machine came in dry. It rained, but nothing quite like the inch that was predicted.
Everything was quiet. What a garbage day. I drank some wine.
It is dangerous to decide that you have learned your lesson.
