Pigs Wound Up about Transportation of Sex Workers
Driving home from D.C. Sunday, I remove my seatbelt and rest my head on my boyfriend's lap for a minute. Aside from the lack of seatbelt, nothing untoward is going on here. There is, after all, a passenger in the back seat.
After I return to my upright position, a Maryland state trooper pulls up next to us and looks at me. I re-fasten my seatbelt. He drops back and starts following us. We change lanes, speeds. So does he. It is always nerverwracking to have a cop riding your ass, particularly when the smell of marijauna may be evident. We drop to 40 miles an hour. The red and blue lights start whirling. Not one but two cop cars pull onto the shoulder behind us.
The cop won't tell us why we've been pulled over. He makes my boyfriend get out of the car. For twenty minutes, he grills him. I can't hear a thing but it looks like we might be fucked. The cop is in his late twenties. Like all state troopers, he looks like the Terminator.
Then the cop comes to the car. He reaches in the driver's side window and picks some debris that looks like shake from the crevice of the car seat and rubs it between his fingers. I go into that unnaturally stony state that happens when your system experiences an adrenaline overload. It's just grossness. He lets it fall through his fingers. He comes around to my side and questions me. The questions are strange, as if he knows something about me that I myself have yet to learn or have forgotten, like maybe I reported my car stolen when it had actually been towed and then forgot to un-report it. Where do you live at? So that's where all your mail comes? Your tickets, notifications, things like that? Ever been arrested? License suspended? Then he's making it seem like maybe my boyfriend is secretly a psycho killer. To your knowledge, is he in any sort of trouble? Anything illegal in the car? Drugs, weapons? To your knowledge?
The questions become more personal. How long have you been with your boyfriend? How long have you known each other? What were you doing in D.C.?
Let's play the John Malkovich game and enter the mind of the cop for a moment: New York plates. Hmmm... When I pulled alongside this carful of Yankees, this girl's head is in the driver's lap. The driver is on his way home from a bachelor party. The girl -- so they both say -- just happens to have an unrelated bachelorette party in the same city on the same weekend? Suspicious. They are nervous enough to "ditch and dive" (that's cop talk for change lanes and slow way down). Conclusion? She just might be the paid entertainment, about to be transported from Maryland to Delaware. Or maybe she was just hired for the ride. Ever heard of tunnel bunnies? It happens.
Poor guy. That would have been big. As it was, all he gave us was a warning for obstructing traffic, and a couple more gray hairs.
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