The Young Arm of the Law

I have no idea why I’m not in jail right now. It was a close shave, it really was.

I was walking down the street at about 6.15 on Friday evening, when I noticed a police car driving slowly towards me. It pulled up to the kerb, and I experienced a small frisson of excitement as a 20-something policeman leapt smartly from the car and bounded up onto the sidewalk. I was brought up to believe that the police were on my side, and, as a frequently demonstrating student in the 60’s and 70’s never felt able to yell “pigs” at them like the rest of my friends. I lost some street cred thereby, but…

Which is my way of saying that I was perfectly prepared to help this policeman if I could. He looked me sternly in the eye (he wasn’t very tall).

“Ma’am, were you at the Citgo station earlier today?”

He must have noticed my blank expression (I was trying to remember which of the many local gas stations was the Citgo) because he pointed in a westerly direction, and said “The one on the corner of the Post Road and Pine Creek.”

Mais oui, I admitted. I had been there at around 12.30 earlier that day, walking through the forecourt as a shortcut to my hairdresser’s where I had a 12.30 appointment. My women readers will understand that no matter how late I may be for other less important events like plane trips and oil changes, I wouldn’t dare be late for my hairdresser.

I explained this to the policeman, who began to look a bit distracted after a few minutes of my clarifications. He cut me off suddenly.

“Do you smoke?”

“Not for 40 years,” I said, wondering whether he was going to offer me a cigarette.

The policeman didn’t offer me a cigarette, nor did he look particularly convinced.

“Would you like to sniff my coat?” I asked. “If I smoked you’d be able to tell.” I was trying to be helpful. He shook his head.

“I need to see your ID, please. The point is, that a woman matching your description was seen stealing a packet of cigarettes from that very same gas station at about 12.40 today.”

I opened my mouth to explain again about the 12.30 appointment and the hair but he suddenly changed his interrogation tactics.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

I pointed down the street.

“Paul Place,” I said.

“Oh, ho,” he said, or he would have if he’d had proper training. “That’s pretty close to that gas station.”

I tried to be patient.

“Which was why I was walking to my hairdressers, which is right next door,” I said, and I tossed my head in what I hoped was a convincing way to show him my new haircut (which was great, if I do say so myself).

Looking rather alarmed, he took a step back, but he persevered.

“Thing is, ma’am, this person was wearing a tan coat like yours…”

I put my hand up to stop him right there. “My coat is pink,” I said firmly. It is well known that a lot of men are color-blind, and in any case the street lights were orange so I couldn’t entirely blame him for getting it wrong.

“Furthermore,” I went on. “Earlier today I was wearing my fur coat. It was colder then, and…”

I paused. He was beginning to look a bit tense.

He pulled out a notebook. “I’ll just take your name.”

I gave it to him. And the address. And the phone number.

He seemed rather discouraged as he wrote it down.

He looked up. “Could I take a picture of you?’

My, I thought, it must be some haircut. I smirked as he raised his phone and took a photo.

I wondered if this orange light was making me look younger than I am. My reverie was interrupted.

“I’m going to take this round to the gas station and show it to them in order to eliminate you from our inquiries.”

I know what that means. He thinks I’m guilty, but he can’t prove it.

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