The Scofflaw

I did the worst thing a person could do when I saw a cop lurking on the side of the road on Thursday morning: I stepped on my brakes. My dad always told me to just let up on the gas and slow down naturally, since that looks less incriminating. In any case, I wasn't more than 5 miles over the limit to begin with and the cop remained where he was, waiting for bigger fish to fry. I breathed a sigh of relief and thought the rest of the day would go much smoother.

My morning had just enough meetings to disrupt my natural workflow. I'd start something, go to a meeting, and then have no idea where I left off when I got back to my desk. Two of my meetings were in our other building, with a 15-20 minute gap in between. They weren't close enough together that I could just stay in the other building, and since the second meeting required I bring various products over for our photo studio to shoot, I had to go back to my office anyway. And that's where the trouble started.

I returned to the building accompanied by one of my writers, who got the door for me as my hands were full with the mail bin full of pots, pans, and other assorted goods. The door didn't open right away and she had to wave her keycard a second time. I commented on how that particular door has a lag since, after two years, I've picked up on these little details. And that's when I heard the security guard: “Sir. I need to see your ID.”

I should have kept on walking to the elevator bank, but instead I turned to look. He repeated the request, and he was talking to me. This “kid” looked like he was about 14, compensating with a ponytail and flimsy mustache and chin hair. A freaking musketeer was asking me for identification. “I'm getting carded,” I quipped to my writer, my Sicilian sarcasm rising to the surface as it does in such occasions. I never spent much time in Brooklyn before my college years when I started playing in a band from there, but my mom grew up there so it's in my blood. “Here.” I said, slapping it on the counter and sliding it over to him. He nodded his little pin head meekly, as I returned to pick up my crate from the floor and join my writer in the elevator. “What the f***?” I mouthed silently as I got in.

When we joined the rest of our team upstairs, they had similar stories. The manager of the photo studio at one point went out to put something in her car, leaving her card in her office. Even though he just saw her walk out, he made her sign in. It's ridiculous when these guys get too serious with their job. If someone is strange or looks like he or she doesn't belong there, get them. If they obviously are going to a meeting or are with other employees, ease up. Let me do my job, and you worry about the skater punks who cut through the parking lot at night. Go after them in your little electric golf cart.

After three meetings and a barely avoided pat-down, I needed a break. I walked to Subway and ordered lunch, and the cashier took a ridiculously long time examining my twenty dollar bill, holding up to the light and turning it over. I eat there once a week and I've done so for over two years. What. The. F***? My afternoon was more productive and less eventful, and after an awesome 6-mile run I drove into the night, noticing the flashing lights of a police car up ahead. Someone else was getting a ticket, so my chances were shifting into the improbable, which of course is where I have the greatest probability of misfortune. One of those radar signs on the side of the road told me “SLOW DOWN. You're DRIVING TOO FAST.” rather than displaying my speed as it normally does. I assume it was cycling on an automatic message since I got down to 20 MPH and it was still saying the same thing. On the way home, I had to make a quick stop for a photo opportunity, after which I drove the last mile to my house unaware of my last law-challenging move of the day. Where I had parked was so well-lit, as were the roads, that it wasn't until I turned down my block that I realized I'd been driving WITH MY HEADLIGHTS OFF. Maybe that security guard knew what he was doing, after all.

That's right; I'm a bad seed, baby.


Post a Comment

<< Home