Moving violation, p.3
Moving Violation, page 3
For instance, one day about a year ago, I began hugging people at the local farmers’ market. I know, this sounds crazy, but it’s really quite nice. While others sell farm-fresh produce and apple cider all around me, I stand with my church brethren Andrew and Marcie and give away hugs for free. The process involves standing, awkwardly, while holding a sign that says “Free Hugs” and occasionally having to hug some derelict or other out-of-sorts person from the crowd, but more often being blessed by an interaction with a normal person who is maybe feeling a little lonely. For some reason I commonly hug more people than either Andrew or Marcie, and most of them are male, come to think of it, but that may be because I am small and nonthreatening. Anyway, we have our own registered space at the farmers’ market. So, we’re official and recognized by the Chamber of Commerce.
Having this experience under my belt, I searched for other opportunities to flex my social muscles. That’s when I found the posting for the writers’ group. I was surprised at first that there was such an assemblage in our town, which has never been a hotbed of literary endeavor, but this was soon followed by the excitement of the chance to actually meet other writers. After all, I had been a closet writer for years and never had anyone with whom to share the ups and downs of the process. Suddenly I had peers, others just like me who would acknowledge and nurture my fledgling talent. At least that’s what I thought at the time. Silly me.
Anyway, I decided to try the group out and it stuck in spite of a rocky beginning. The Lit Wits, we call ourselves. We are a group of enlightened men and women who spend our free time writing novels, which we hope to eventually have published in one form or another. And we’re led by a she-devil named Tara Lee, but more about she-who-must-be-obeyed later.
Speaking of crazy plans, it’s probably about time that I address this whole “Other Falls” business. The people of Hope Falls—the old-timers like my family—had carved out a little pocket dimension here and staved off the modern age fairly effectively for decades. But that is changing and, good or bad, the twenty-first century is coming. We will have to make accommodations for more than cell phones.
About a year ago the movement got organized and has since then been led—by the nose—by a wealthy industrialist named Rupert Sellers. Mr. Sellers and his people have the notion that with a little effort Hope Falls could be turned into a tourist attraction to rival Niagara Falls. He’s even formed a business entity to pursue his mad ideas. They call themselves the Other Falls Foundation, OFF for short.
As part of Sellers’ plan to rejuvenate the town’s image as America’s foremost vacation spot, he has plans for an amusement park and a mall that’s supposed to be bigger than the Mall of America. I for one think that he’s crazy, but there are a lot of people in town who view Mr. Sellers as more of a prophet than a madman. These would be mainly new people and not the wiser descendants of those swindled by Oliver J. Hope.
So far, the erosion of Paradise has been held to a few fast-food places at the edge of town. They aren’t popular with us natives who like our food to be a bit less predictable, a bit healthier and more reflective of the seasons. But the newer residents in their tract homes seemed frightened by different and unpredictable things—like menus that say “in season.” They are happiest eating chain food and wearing chain store clothes while watching chain-produced television. The individualists are being outbred by the conformists and their mass-produced way of life.
I see the effect in other ways. Too many of the tourists turned residents have packed up their road rage and big city manners along with their electric toothbrushes and modular sofas. Pedestrians beware, and don’t try to visit with the clerks in the market or post office because you’ll get chewed out for wasting people’s time if you say more than “hi.”
It does make some nice revenue for the town though, having all these people breaking traffic laws right and left. And I have learned to deal with them, more or less. I understand sarcasm, irony and satire, though I don’t often practice it with my family and friends. Those closest to me have always tended to say what they mean, to mean what they say, and to hold their tongues if what they are thinking is uncharitable. At most, we practice the art of understatement.
Anyway, that’s probably more than anyone in their right mind would want to know about Hope Falls and the people in it. Of course, there’s more to be told, but I’m sure that all of that will unfold in the normal course of events. In the meantime, I have my beat to patrol, which I do well since it is the best defense of my increasingly precarious job.
Chapter 3
My first ticket of the day was an easy one. The red hybrid car was decoupaged with stickers for various green causes and politicians. I sympathized. I too wanted to save whales, have cheap renewable energy and support sensible spay and neuter policies for humans and animals alike. But you can’t park for three hours in a two-hour zone right outside the police station, no matter how compassionate your politics.
My electric cart is very quiet and I was enjoying the dance of the dappled sunlight playing across the windshield as I drove past the large elms that surround the post office. By the looks of her, Blue was enjoying herself, too, lying on the floorboards beside me. What I didn’t enjoy were the embarrassing memories of this morning that harangued my every moment not filled up with other pressing thoughts. Humiliation is like a burn. It hurts more after the fact than when it’s happening.
I was driving my three-wheeled patrol car down Main Street, doling out chalk lines with relish, when I came across a marked tire; it was my own chalk line that I had laid down exactly two hours ago. I was glad to trade embarrassment and worry for righteous indignation.
Parking my squad cart at the curb, I patted Blue on the head and approached the suspect vehicle. There was no mistaking it. We don’t have too many pink Cadillacs with the name of a famous cosmetic company stenciled on the side. In fact there was only one and it belonged to Mary Elizabeth Todd, an elderly woman who was always very careful about observing the posted parking hours even if she had to break off bludgeoning a prospective client to move her car. Jeffrey had been trying for her for years because she had terrorized his late wife into buying cosmetics she didn’t need or want. Catching her was a sort of feather in my cap.
I had just finished writing a ticket, which I tore from my notebook with a flourish. I’d even reached out to slip it under the windshield wiper when I heard the words that every parking enforcement officer loathes to listen to.
“Wait, wait, wait!” The voice was not Mary Elizabeth’s though. The words were called by a young man who flew out of the coffee shop in a belated attempt to stave off the fine. Of course, I’ve heard these words at least once a day for the last three years. And they’re almost always followed by the same lame excuses: “I was only stopping for a minute”; “Honest, it was an emergency”; “My car broke down and coasted to a stop right here.” This guy at least did me the courtesy of skipping the excuses, but then he came right out with my fourth least favorite line of all.
“I thought you were a kid. I didn’t realize that you were a real meter maid.” I glared once and he expanded. “You’re so small—but you’re so beautiful. Please tell me you’ve left your telephone number for me.”
Ignoring what I suppose could have been meant as a compliment—some guys just have a thing for women in uniforms and think charm will deter me from my job—I didn’t bother fully turning to confront its source. Instead, I pulled up the windshield wiper, slid the ticket beneath it, and walked away. This distracted him from his physical evaluation.
He pulled the ticket out and scanned it. No phone number.
“No, wait. You can’t do this. My aunt will kill me. She’s never gotten a ticket. She warned me specifically not to get a ticket. She’ll write me out of the will. I’ll be homeless.”
I decided not to point out that I could and just had given him a ticket. I just kept on walking, though I had a moment of sympathy for him. Mary Elizabeth had a withering tongue and I had noticed a copy of Mad Magazine in the backseat of the car. He at least had good taste.
“Wait a second. You’re just going to walk away? You won’t even show me the courtesy of a verbal reply?”
Yep.
“Thanks for nothing, you heartless….”
That’s when he muttered it—the “b” word. Up until then it had been kind of fun, but this stopped me dead in my tracks. I can and have taken a lot of harsh talk in my time, but when it comes to the “b” word, that’s where I draw the line. I mean a woman’s got to stand up for herself even if doing it makes her seem like a “b.” Never mind that I wasn’t supposed to hear it and maybe, just maybe, he had said something else that rhymed with “b.” I turned on him and let him have it.
“How dare you, you town crasher…” and I kept going. My communication skills had kicked in. Apparently all it took was massive anger.
I told him what I thought of him personally and his lineage. I explained why the world would be a better place without him and how he lacked the resources of a more basic primate. It had been a long hard day and all my angst and frustration was pouring out of me in one long diatribe. About halfway through telling him everything I wanted to tell him, the tears started to flow. It was anger more than hurt feelings, but I did nothing to hold them back, deciding that this guy deserved to have to deal with all of it, the whole ugly mess.
“… and another thing, you weasel….” I continued, but then I started to bawl in earnest. Any further words were made incomprehensible beneath a torrent of tears. Up the street Blue began to howl too.
The reactions of the man were varied. At first he was amused and even appreciative, then combative, followed by defensive. Then he became embarrassed as we began to draw the attention of passersby who started tsking him for picking on little Chloe Boston. In the end, when the crying started in earnest, he was visibly shaken and confused.
“Honest, lady. I didn’t mean it, whatever I did. I shouldn’t have done it. I know that now and I apologize. Now, will you please stop crying? It was just a joke. Here, I’ll pay the ticket right now!”
I did not oblige him. Apologies mean nothing if you don’t know what you’re apologizing for.
“What did I do?” he finally pleaded.
“That word. You used that word,” I managed to get out between sniffles.
“What word?” He thought for a moment. “Oh, crap. That word. I did say that word out loud, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Look, ma’am.” I hate it when people “ma’am” me. “I apologize from the bottom of my shallow heart. That was unforgivable and I should be beaten mercilessly. Please, is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”
Sniffle, whimper. But he sounded pretty sincere, and I was getting a headache. It was time to stop crying.
“How about if I get you some coffee. Would you like that?” he tried. “Look, you just sit here in the shade and calm down,” he suggested, guiding me to a nearby bench.
I did take a seat. I even let him bring me a low-fat decaf café mocha with no whipped cream. Jimmy Paine must have told him what I like. The city has a five-dollar limit on gifts we can accept, but a decaf low-fat mocha was only four twenty-five. He also brought me several napkins, which I could use to “blot myself.” I pouted out the last of my frustration with the day as I blotted my cheeks. Somehow the stranger’s hand ended up on my shoulder. I didn’t do anything about it. I was too tired and belatedly embarrassed by my behavior, and praying no one at work would hear about it.
“You sound like you may be having the kind of day I’ve been having,” he said to me.
Looking around, I saw that what little crowd we’d attracted had mostly dissipated. Lena Galloway was the last to leave, and she gave me a thumbs-up, as though complimenting me on my strategy to attract a new man. This was disconcerting, and I hoped wouldn’t be the subject of gossip, especially if it got to my mother.
Finally I looked at the stranger. He had sandy-colored hair that needed a cut, a tanned face that needed a shave, and a nice smile that didn’t need a thing. And, oh God, those Paul Newman eyes.
The stranger, rather self-consciously, took his hand away from my shoulder when I continued to stare at him. My anger was gone and so was my ability to speak. He got up from the bench and faced me for a moment, as if he wanted to say more.
“Sorry if I made your day any worse.”
He walked to his car and reached in his pocket, removing the ticket. Examining it, he smiled and again tucked it into his coat pocket. Walking around the vehicle, he gave me one last look and a wave. Then he climbed into the driver’s seat and drove away.
“Shit,” I thought, and may have actually said it out loud.
Rising from my bench, I disposed of my empty paper cup in a nearby garbage can and boarded my patrol vehicle. Blue startled me by licking my hand. I smiled down at her and ruffled the fur on her head. Checking the clock in the dashboard I saw that I had lost almost half an hour. So be it, I thought. The perps got an additional half hour that morning to get their acts together.
Of course, I don’t view all parking violators as perps. Some I actually feel sorry for. The shop owners and operators are an example of the put-upon masses that have my sympathies. They have to either park in the very distant, longer-term parking lot or move their vehicles every two hours. It can be difficult to run a business while juggling the location of your vehicle. I sometimes cut store owners a little slack by ignoring the chalk stripes on their tires for an extra hour or so if I recognize a vehicle.
Take Mrs. Gross for example. She runs the local ice cream shop. She has a dickey heart and walks with a cane. Some days I lay down so much chalk on her tires that I feel like I’m playing a game of tic-tac-toe. The last time I saw her I asked her about it since she is far from being a reckless lawbreaker.
“Oh, I’m just a senile old fool,” she explained. “I wouldn’t be able to tell you what day it is, let alone whether two hours have passed.”
The rest of my morning and afternoon proceeded without incident. I continued to lay down my dashed chalk lines and occasionally had to pull over to write a citation. Every time I did I thought of the stranger. Maybe I should have given him my number.
I stopped and had lunch with Blue in the park, which I do on sunny days. Mrs. Robinson’s cat sometimes visits us. I swear that animal can smell a tuna sandwich from a mile away. Blue was too well bred to even hint to the cat that she was below us on the food chain and should keep away. Of course, Blue isn’t wild about tuna and the cat never asks to share the dog cookies.
I timed my route so that I would have a chance to watch the kids getting out of school. It isn’t my job to give out speeding tickets, but my being there seems to keep the leadfoots on the slow side of twenty-five miles per hour. Kids are kind of scary to me, but they are awfully small and I feel the need to protect them when I can.
That afternoon I was passing the high school when I saw a suspicious young man hanging out on the corner in front of the liquor store. I had seen this particular individual before and knew that whatever he was up to, it was no good. That day I felt edgy and decided to test some boundaries. First, I parked across the street in a clearly visible location to see what my presence would do.
He noticed me. So did several kids who looked to be about to approach him when they saw me parked across the street. I sat and watched. Finally a kid was either bold or blind enough to walk up to the youth on the corner and make an exchange. He turned and I saw his face. It was Max Bates. His mom is a widow working three jobs and she has kind of lost control of her kids. Max wasn’t bad, but he was kind of stupid and impulsive.
“Damn it.”
Stepping from my vehicle, I walked across the street and didn’t stop until I was feet away from the dealer. Max had made himself scarce. It didn’t matter. I would talk to his mom later.
“Get lost,” I said to the kid using my gruffest voice.
“You get lost,” he countered. “It’s a free country. I can stand on the corner if I want.”
“That’s true. But what you can’t do is deal drugs while you’re here.”
“I’m not dealing drugs.”
“Suppose we just see about that,” I threatened.
“You and what army, little girl,” he threatened in return. My lack of height and weight cannot always be bolstered up by the uniform.
By this time I’d had enough. Enough of the kid’s arrogance and swagger. Enough of my own timidity in dealing with the situation. I decided to call in some backup.
“This is Two Sierra Echo Charlie calling in a report,” I said into my radio handset after I’d returned to my squad cart.
“Two Sierra Echo Charlie confirmed,” the radio spat back. “What’s your situation?”
Oh, no, I thought. Of course, I recognized the voice on the radio. It was Dale Gordon. Dale has a chip on his shoulder as large as a slab of granite and he holds little back when it comes to voicing his opinion about daddy’s little girl working out of his station, in any capacity. Jeffrey had recommended that I try to get on Dale’s good side, but so far I hadn’t found one. I knew that I would have to play my cards right if I expected to get the needed assistance.
“I’d like to report a suspected drug dealer working the corner of Birch and Cedar near the high school.”
“Okay.” But I knew it wouldn’t be that simple. “Define suspected.”
Here it comes, I thought, exhaling a heavy sigh.
“I witnessed a young man coming from the high school exchange something with the perp that I suspect was money for drugs,” I explained succinctly. I didn’t mention Max by name.
“You suspect that drugs were involved?”
“That’s a roger.” I waited.
