rocksalt & license plates
Charlie used to drive a 1980-something volkswagon jetta. It was real high quality, with manual everything (including sunroof), v4, with a 4-speed manual transmission. Charlie was convinced (and more often than not he was right) that he could beat most cars off the line from a stop just because
1. he was a crazier driver than most, and
2. his v4 engine was more powerful because it was a stick.
So, charlie, lisa and I went to shoot a couple games of pool one night. The jetta was in the shop, so I had to drive charlie and lisa (for whatever reason, whenever it’s lisa and I, I drive). Charlie lives in Kirkwood, and Lisa in South County.
This needs to be said — Kirkwood cops suck. They’re among the worst anywhere. They’re the most ridiculously anal cops anywhere, second to Bel-Nor Cops.
It’s about 11:00, and I’m taking charlie and lisa home. We’re in Kirkwood, close to charlie’s house, and he and I get into an arguement about whether or not I could beat him off the line in my ‘93 beretta.
“alright, brian. gun it off the line from the next stoplight and we’ll see how well your car accelerates.”
“fair enough. you’re on.”
So I come up and stop at the red light. It turns green. I hammer it, my tires squeal, and i’m gone. zero to fast in seconds. After gaining Charlie’s approval of my car’s acceleration, I slow down. We drive for a bit, make a couple of turns, and we’re about a block away from the house.
And there’s lights in the rear-view, and sirens. Charlie and I look at each other at the same time, and all three of us, in unison…
“Fuck!”
So I pull over. I’m getting my liscense and registration out — I know the drill by now — and I hear over a bullhorn,
“Step out of the vehicle with your hands in the air!”
“FUCK!” (again, in unison)
I get out of the car, with my hands up, and the cop directs me to walk towards the police car. I walk over there, and he directs me to put my hands down. He asks for my license and registration, so I give it to him.
“Mister Jenkins, you were going mighty fast back there.”
“yes sir.”
“Where are you going this late at night (note: 11:00 pm)?”
“I’m taking my friend home.”
“What’s your friends name?’
“Charlie.”
“Charlie what, son?”
“Charlie Daniels.” (note: Charlie would probably be pissed off if I put up his actual last name, so I changed it — he’s not really charlie daniels)
“Where’s your friend live?”
“Excuse me, I really don’t see what…”
“Just tell me, son. Just tell me.”
“Right over there. About 100 yards away.”
At this point he walks over to Charlie, and confirms everything that I just told him. He comes back to me and asks,
“Where you kids coming from?”
“South city.”
“South City? What’s in south city?”
(I’m getting fairly agitated by now…) “my house.”
“Oh. Okay then. The reason I pulled you over is because the light is out over your rear license plate. You folks slow it down, and be on your way. Make sure you get that light fixed.”
I just kind of look at him for a minute, quite upset that he put me through all this crap for a fucking lightbulb, and then it hits me. He wanted to get me for speeding, but couldn’t. He didn’t see me coming, and wasn’t ready to flag me with the radar gun. So he followed me till he realized the light was out. Aight. Whatever. I drop Charlie off, and go to drop Lisa off. I’m heading back home, and as I’m about to get back onto the highway, I get pulled over again. I knew why this time — I hadn’t even been speeding. So up comes this cop, who says,
“Sir, the reason I pulled you over — ”
“Is because my rear license plate light is out, right?”
“Well Yes sir. But first - you mind if I take a look in your car? Need to inspect your car for controlled substances.”
“WHAT?!?!?!”
“Step out of the vehicle.”
Fine. I’ve got nothing to hide, constitution or not. Let the motherfucker search my car. Think I give a shit? Not really. It’s his loss, actually, because to really search my car, he has to dig through the huge pile of garbage, fast food wrappers, and other shit in my backseat. My car is a trashcan on wheels. Search away. He digs through the front seat. Nothing. Then he digs through the ENTIRE mountain of shit in my backseat. Nothing. So then he checks out the glovebox. What’s in the glovebox, you ask? CD’s. Mixes that I’ve burned off of napster, and a shit-ton of Dave Matthews shows. He spends twenty minutes looking at the track list of EACH jewelcase, and says,
“Hey, man, I really like your music selection. These are some great tunes. This Zeppelin CD looks like it’d be –”
“Hey, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but get on with it already.”
“Oh. Yeah. I’m going to need to check out your trunk, and then you can be on your way.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yessir.”
I guess I should tell you what’s in the trunk. Schoolbooks, more trash (when I clean out the backseat, I just move it to the trunk), a toolkit, jumper cables, an ice scraper and shovel, and an unopened, twenty pound bag of rocksalt. You know, the big crystals, used for melting ice. He digs through the crap in the trunk for another 15 minutes (putting my total time spent pulled over this evening at about an hour and a half), and finds it. Yup. The bag of rocksalt. Genius that he is, says:
“uhh, what’s this?”
In the most condescending, arrogant, holier-than-thou voice that I have, I say “rocksalt. a twenty pound bag.”
“you sure about that?”
“YES!”
“Then you’re free to go. By the way, do get that light fixed.”
