humping the dinosaur
When a state trooper passes me on the highway, I grit my teeth, check my speed, and hope nobody put a dead guy in the trunk while I was in Wal-Mart last night at two a.m. When a squad car pulls up behind me at the red light on Front Street and Second, I nervously keep watch in my rearview mirror. Even though I'm pretty sure I've done nothing wrong, committed no crime, I'm wearing my seatbelt, I came to a complete stop at that stop sign, I slowed down to 20 miles per hour in that school zone, my insurance is paid, my tags are up-to-date, I used my turn signal and my headlights are in working order, I still feel anxious. Guarded. Uptight. I still say oh great, it's the cops or it's the fucking cops or watch out for the fucking pig cops like I am Bonnie in the get-away car, smoking a cigarette while waiting with toe-tapping impatience for Clyde to get his ass out of that bank, overstuffed bags of cash in his hand. Even though I am almost always completely innocent, I am still not crazy about the police.
Some girls are. Some girls dig cops. It's the uniform, the gun, the nightstick. It's the shiny badge, the way it glints in the light. It catches your eye. It's the promise of power and safety and protection and masculinity, the boy in blue, the crime fighter, the one who goes after the bad guys, the one who kicks ass. Yes, there are little honeys out there who love a cop.
So says the cop who is also my baby brother. His name is Travis, but since childhood, he's been known as Bye-Bye. He's just returned from a vacation to Laguna Beach, California, courtesy of some little honey who's got a thing for cops.
Bye-Bye has called me up to tell me all about it. I've been on the phone with him for an hour already, listening to his Californian adventure. He wants to know how do you say X-rated in French.