...give me the number if you can find it....
He follows me around the block, and when I pull into the lot, okay not exactly in a spot, but the lot's empty fer chrissake, he flips on his lights. I am already halfway out of the car at this point, and just stand there in the open car door as he gets out, flashlight in hand.
I'm not sure what he's expecting, but I, evidently, am not it. I figure he's going to give me grief over the whole back- windshield -replaced -by -opaque- plastic -and -duct -tape issue, but he approaches after giving me the once over and looks at my license plate.
"You know what," he says, looking down from his considerable height, "I think I put in the wrong letter when I ran your plates. The number I put in came up as not registered, but I think I put in an F instead of an E."
What are you running my plates for, I wonder, specifically not mentally adding 'asshole.'
So everything's okay with my license probably?
"Probably everything's okay, yeah." He’s young, and not bad looking. I give him the once over. It takes awhile because he's so tall. He shifts a tiny bit, gives the faintest hint of a blush.
"Everything okay, Mama?" Fuzzy pokes her head out from the back seat.
I think so, honey. The officer thought there was a problem with my license plate, but now he thinks maybe he ran the wrong number and there's not anything wrong after all. Isn't that right, Officer?
"Yes, ma'am. You all have a good night. Uh, they're closed," he adds helpfully as I head towards the liquor store.
I only wanted a CityPaper.
"What was that all about?" asks Fluffy.
I'm not sure. He said he ran my plates, but that was just kind of an excuse to stop me. But when I got out of the car, he was surprised, I think. I think I wasn't what he expected.
"What did he expect?"
Who can know? I mean, considering how battered the car looks, maybe some drug running greaser punkass with pot instead of lollipops in the back seat.
"We don't have any lollipops, Mama."
You got any pot?
(Operator; Jim Croce)