"This Night, I Got Away." A true tale of victory.
Let me start off this post by saying I love cops. Despite all you may ever hear me say about governing institutions or military organisations, I will always and have always loved cops. Granted, it's probably just the sexy uniform, but that's aside the point.
I also need to say that I hate the town of Cary. I haaaaaaaate Cary. A lot. I have hated Cary for a very long time, for a lot of different reasons. As I grew up, I always found newer and more understandable reasons to hate Cary. It's not a bad place or anything, but it literally stands for everything that I disdain on a deep personal level. I have now lived in Cary for two years, and I don't hate it any less.
I said these things first because what happened tonight is a reflection of those two things coming into conflict with one another. Tonight I got pulled over by a police sergeant for allegedly speeding. I've had speeding tickets in the past - they're never fun, and they're always frustrating. And after a speeding ticket I got last April, I have diligently utilised my cruise control to ensure that I don't accidentally speed at any given time. Tonight was such a night, where my cruise control was set to 50mph - a reasonable rate of travel, if I do say so myself.
So, first thing's first. I see the lights in my rear view mirror, check my speed: "50." So I pull over and continue on for a bit to allow him to pass, since clearly he didn't mean me. After all, what cop in his right mind would pull somebody over at 12:30am for doing 5 miles over the speed limit?
I quickly realised however that I was the only car on the road - as it was, after all, 12:30am in a city that LITERALLY SHUTS DOWN AT NINE O'CLOCK. So, I pulled over, and into the vacant parking lot of a small shopping centre to my right. The cop cautiously parked at an angle to block me into my space, so that I couldn't make what was sure to by my daring planned getaway, and shone his spotlight into my window to set the mood. It's not a necessary procedure, but it really does help with the intimidation factor - especially if you're drunk. Because that light is reeally bright.
As soon as I had parked, I turned down my radio, rolled down my window, and shut off my heater. I pulled out my wallet, and retrieved my driving license. As I reached for the glove box to fetch my registration, the officer shone his light into my face and introduced himself as Sergeant... something. Honestly I didn't really care enough to memorise it because after handing him my license, I was still fumbling through the slew of papers in my glove box to find my bloody registration.
He asked me, "Do you know what I pulled you over for?"
I love this question, because it's usually rhetorical: you know what you did wrong, of course you know why he pulled you over. But I was in Cary, and that torch wasn't getting any dimmer in my eyes, so I said, "Honestly officer, I haven't the foggiest idea."
He replied, "Do you know what the speed limit is on this street?"
I do, in fact: it's 45 for the first 4 miles of it, then it's 55 for about 12 miles, then it shallows out to about 45 again after that. Though since I'm never 100% sure which area I'm in, I usually feel safe saying that it's about 50 at any given point. So I told him, "It's about 50 most of the way, if I recall." A true statement - if you account for the average speed limit of the entire stretch of road.
He glared at me sharply, "Its 45, , all the way."
Now, I should first note that I don't ever use my real name, even in the company of my family. Many people, even friends I've had for years, don't even know it. The reason that I don't share it is a bit personal, though suffice to say I don't enjoy hearing it spoken. Secondly, the sergeant had made a significant blunder in the latter portion of his comment, and my attitude had just been worsened severely by him referring to me in such an informal way during what is supposed to be a formal, professional encounter.
In any regard, I was quick to respond, "That's completely untrue, sir - the speed limit is 55 from [point A] to [point B]" (I gave him street names, but they're not important).
"Well, , it's 45 through all of Cary, and you're in Cary. I had you doing 62, ."
I'd had enough of him dropping my real name at this point, and so I did something quite stupid that I immediately regretted.
Me: "Mr. Wood."
Cop: "Pardon?"
Me: "Don't call me by my first name. This is NOT a casual affair, and I would appreciate you not treating it with such informality, Sir."
Cop: "Well you can call me - "
Me: "I will not. I will address you as Sergeant ; You earned that title, and this is a formal affair. I would ask that you treat it like one, SIR."
I was still fumbling around for my registration, and he politely pointed out to me which one it was after this.
Me: "You say 62?"
Cop: "Yessir."
Me: "That's impossible officer. I had the cruise control set to 50. You mean to inform me that my car decided on its own to travel 12 miles an hour over what it was being told to do?"
Cop: "..."
Me: "I find that incredibly hard to believe sir."
He looked at me kinda funny after that, and, taking my registration, said, "I'm... going to go run this..."
Panic set in, and I called my dad - who's fairly well versed in the legal system. I told him what was up, and, loudly enough that the cop could hopefully hear me outside, exclaimed how this was total bullshit and that there was no freaking way he clocked me at 62, etcetera. My dad calmed me down after that, but said basically I had better be nice to the guy and hope that he doesn't come down on me - because if he says that's what he had me at, then that's what he's writing me down for.
Well, that ship had already set sail, and I think I had already established with the officer that he had pissed me off and that I thought he was full of shit.
After a few minutes, the cop came back, handed me my license, and told me to just watch my speed from then on.
And that was it.
I kinda sat in my car for a few minutes in disbelief, slowly closing the windows, turning the heat back on, and finishing up the conversation on the phone with my dad.
The cop pulled away from me, and parked with his lights just facing the side of my car. As I looked out my window, I could see him staring at me from behind his steering wheel. I thought, "This is it. This is where he waits to see if I fuck up. If I make a single fucking mistake pulling out of here, he's going to try and throw the book at me for... something. Do I have booze in the trunk? Oh god, what if he thinks my water bottle has vodka in it? Is he going to ram my car? Oh fuck, I can't afford a new car!"
As I backed out of the parking space, and pulled out onto the road, and made my way home... a thought occurred to me: "I called his bluff."
"Holy shit! I called his bluff!!!! :D HAHAAAA! Take THAT, Cary! Suck my dick! :D I called your bluff and you can't do anything about it!" I drove home with the cruise control at 45mph now, laughing maniacally all the while. I'm going to remember this night forever: the night I beat Cary.
I also need to say that I hate the town of Cary. I haaaaaaaate Cary. A lot. I have hated Cary for a very long time, for a lot of different reasons. As I grew up, I always found newer and more understandable reasons to hate Cary. It's not a bad place or anything, but it literally stands for everything that I disdain on a deep personal level. I have now lived in Cary for two years, and I don't hate it any less.
I said these things first because what happened tonight is a reflection of those two things coming into conflict with one another. Tonight I got pulled over by a police sergeant for allegedly speeding. I've had speeding tickets in the past - they're never fun, and they're always frustrating. And after a speeding ticket I got last April, I have diligently utilised my cruise control to ensure that I don't accidentally speed at any given time. Tonight was such a night, where my cruise control was set to 50mph - a reasonable rate of travel, if I do say so myself.
So, first thing's first. I see the lights in my rear view mirror, check my speed: "50." So I pull over and continue on for a bit to allow him to pass, since clearly he didn't mean me. After all, what cop in his right mind would pull somebody over at 12:30am for doing 5 miles over the speed limit?
I quickly realised however that I was the only car on the road - as it was, after all, 12:30am in a city that LITERALLY SHUTS DOWN AT NINE O'CLOCK. So, I pulled over, and into the vacant parking lot of a small shopping centre to my right. The cop cautiously parked at an angle to block me into my space, so that I couldn't make what was sure to by my daring planned getaway, and shone his spotlight into my window to set the mood. It's not a necessary procedure, but it really does help with the intimidation factor - especially if you're drunk. Because that light is reeally bright.
As soon as I had parked, I turned down my radio, rolled down my window, and shut off my heater. I pulled out my wallet, and retrieved my driving license. As I reached for the glove box to fetch my registration, the officer shone his light into my face and introduced himself as Sergeant... something. Honestly I didn't really care enough to memorise it because after handing him my license, I was still fumbling through the slew of papers in my glove box to find my bloody registration.
He asked me, "Do you know what I pulled you over for?"
I love this question, because it's usually rhetorical: you know what you did wrong, of course you know why he pulled you over. But I was in Cary, and that torch wasn't getting any dimmer in my eyes, so I said, "Honestly officer, I haven't the foggiest idea."
He replied, "Do you know what the speed limit is on this street?"
I do, in fact: it's 45 for the first 4 miles of it, then it's 55 for about 12 miles, then it shallows out to about 45 again after that. Though since I'm never 100% sure which area I'm in, I usually feel safe saying that it's about 50 at any given point. So I told him, "It's about 50 most of the way, if I recall." A true statement - if you account for the average speed limit of the entire stretch of road.
He glared at me sharply, "Its 45, , all the way."
Now, I should first note that I don't ever use my real name, even in the company of my family. Many people, even friends I've had for years, don't even know it. The reason that I don't share it is a bit personal, though suffice to say I don't enjoy hearing it spoken. Secondly, the sergeant had made a significant blunder in the latter portion of his comment, and my attitude had just been worsened severely by him referring to me in such an informal way during what is supposed to be a formal, professional encounter.
In any regard, I was quick to respond, "That's completely untrue, sir - the speed limit is 55 from [point A] to [point B]" (I gave him street names, but they're not important).
"Well, , it's 45 through all of Cary, and you're in Cary. I had you doing 62, ."
I'd had enough of him dropping my real name at this point, and so I did something quite stupid that I immediately regretted.
Me: "Mr. Wood."
Cop: "Pardon?"
Me: "Don't call me by my first name. This is NOT a casual affair, and I would appreciate you not treating it with such informality, Sir."
Cop: "Well you can call me - "
Me: "I will not. I will address you as Sergeant ; You earned that title, and this is a formal affair. I would ask that you treat it like one, SIR."
I was still fumbling around for my registration, and he politely pointed out to me which one it was after this.
Me: "You say 62?"
Cop: "Yessir."
Me: "That's impossible officer. I had the cruise control set to 50. You mean to inform me that my car decided on its own to travel 12 miles an hour over what it was being told to do?"
Cop: "..."
Me: "I find that incredibly hard to believe sir."
He looked at me kinda funny after that, and, taking my registration, said, "I'm... going to go run this..."
Panic set in, and I called my dad - who's fairly well versed in the legal system. I told him what was up, and, loudly enough that the cop could hopefully hear me outside, exclaimed how this was total bullshit and that there was no freaking way he clocked me at 62, etcetera. My dad calmed me down after that, but said basically I had better be nice to the guy and hope that he doesn't come down on me - because if he says that's what he had me at, then that's what he's writing me down for.
Well, that ship had already set sail, and I think I had already established with the officer that he had pissed me off and that I thought he was full of shit.
After a few minutes, the cop came back, handed me my license, and told me to just watch my speed from then on.
And that was it.
I kinda sat in my car for a few minutes in disbelief, slowly closing the windows, turning the heat back on, and finishing up the conversation on the phone with my dad.
The cop pulled away from me, and parked with his lights just facing the side of my car. As I looked out my window, I could see him staring at me from behind his steering wheel. I thought, "This is it. This is where he waits to see if I fuck up. If I make a single fucking mistake pulling out of here, he's going to try and throw the book at me for... something. Do I have booze in the trunk? Oh god, what if he thinks my water bottle has vodka in it? Is he going to ram my car? Oh fuck, I can't afford a new car!"
As I backed out of the parking space, and pulled out onto the road, and made my way home... a thought occurred to me: "I called his bluff."
"Holy shit! I called his bluff!!!! :D HAHAAAA! Take THAT, Cary! Suck my dick! :D I called your bluff and you can't do anything about it!" I drove home with the cruise control at 45mph now, laughing maniacally all the while. I'm going to remember this night forever: the night I beat Cary.