Last night, I had sushi a couple of miles away from where I’m currently staying in The Valley area and was coming back on the bike when all of a sudden I find a police car behind me with a white flash light telling me to stop. This was around 10:30 pm.
“Did I do anything wrong, officer?” I asked the one on my side.
“Yeah, you’re using the main street and your bike doesn’t have a light. Get off the bike and go stand by the wall.”
Because my used bike doesn’t have a light I usually ride it on the pavement. This time, however, I just crossed from the middle of the street since it was empty and I was steps from home. No big deal.
I went by the wall as they came closer, asking if I’m carrying any arms or narcotics. I said no. They told me to put my hands up and spread my legs, searched a little and found nothing. Then they asked for ID and also what I’m doing there and where I’m coming from. I cooperated peacefully, sharing that I’m staying at my aunt’s place by the end of the street.
The senior one took the ID and went to check it in the vehicle while the other stayed beside me on the pavement. I was going to tell him that it may be easier to Google me but I didn’t. And since I was all in the clear, I decided to entertain the situation a little.
“You scarred me, I don’t drive now so I don’t have to deal with laws and breaking them,” I said to the closer one, pretending to be oh-so-fragile.
At the time I put my hands in my pockets, but he told me to keep them by my side. Just to let him know that I sincerely mean no harm I put them behind my back.
“So how long have you been here?” I replied with the whole story of my journey across the U.S, arriving to Los Angeles, and ending with the book I’m writing.
“What is it about?” He asked again. To which I replied: Dreams, the Subconscious Mind, Spirituality, Meditation among other mind-over-matter subjects. I could see his eyes widening, probably starting to think that I’m not quite the criminal they thought I might be. Then I said that I came to California after traveling to all those other places but didn’t, and still don’t, want to leave it.
“Why?” He asked one more time.
By that moment, I already knew I had him. I could tell he wasn’t really interrogating me or “doing his job” anymore; he was somewhat captivated by my storytelling. So I thought I would finish it off with a knock out.
“Because it’s beautiful. If you travel around to for example New York, Chicago, Denver, Michigan, and Detroit you will know that California is a special place. The weather, the nice people (*sneakingly spreading my palm and subtly pointing it towards him), the beach! It’s really heaven. The more one sees other places the more one realises how grateful we should be for being here,” or something poetic like that.
A slight proudish smile was drawn on his face as he began to subtly nod in agreement — while trying not to show it too much.
The other officer could hear our whole conversation, and it was clear that he was equally captivated. Him, too, changed attitude and came back saying that this street can be shady at night; so this is all for safety. Oh, and that I need a light for my bike.
“I’m a peaceful man,” I smilingly uttered.
“Yes, it’s not you, it’s others. It’s night time and it’s the weekend.”
Ah. That’s why you had to sneak up on some guy on a bike with your stop-and-frisk. That makes a lot of sense. As a resident of the neighbourhood I feel much safer now. Thank you, really.
He then told me he could give me a ticket but it’s going to be “a pain in the butt” since I’ll have to go to court so he won’t do it. Though if I’ll be in the area for the next while I’d better get a light for the bike because I look very distinct and they’ll probably see me again.
Aha. I look different. I clearly see now. Well, given that we are in the Valley and not in Venice Beach, I know with my long hair and beard I do look different, especially on the bike. Actually, since I first visited Venice earlier this year I have been telling my friend that I love it there because as soon as I step in the area I don’t feel weird anymore. I seriously doubt if my hippie-dippie look wasn’t THE main reason why they initially stopped me.
Finally, he handed me back my ID and I was the one who said thank you. I frequently like to boost their egos, making them feel special as it makes everything much easier.
As I got on the bike I looked at both of then and said: “Wish me luck for my book. I’ll write about you.
Good luck, but you don’t have to do that.
Haha.”
Oh yes I will, oh yes I will, piggy pigs. For I’m a peaceful warrior now and the pen is my only weapon. I do no harm but I take no shîte. Back to the beach where I’m celebrated and not just tolerated.
On a parallel note, find out Why Hippies Are Sometimes Called Bohemians on this more recent piece. Also make sure to check more stories [links below] about more encounters with the authorities. Because they seem to love me and I can’t seem to be able to stop writing about whatever transpires. After all, the pen is now my one true weapon.
ALSO VIEW:
Attempting to Bridge the Gap Between ‘Us’ and ‘Them’: Officer Roberts
Attempting to Bridge the Gap Between ‘Us’ and ‘Them’: The Coke Prank
Attempting to Bridge the Gap Between ‘Us’ and ‘Them’: Sergeant Pepper
Attempting to Bridge the Gap Between ‘Us’ and ‘Them’: Evolution
Banged Up Abroad — My Few Days @ The Don Jail
Banged Up Abroad — A Night @ The London Police Station
The Great Pyramid’s Blessed Curse: Climbing To The Top And Beyond
Surviving the Madness of Sakarana — Hyoscyamus muticus
Why Hippies Are Sometimes Called Bohemians
Why I Choose to Remain a Non-Dad for Now — Reflections on Being Childless
Personal Questions I’m Often Asked and Their Answers
The Ashram Sweeper Who Blocked Me on Facebook
The Bloke Who Thought I’m Too Much of an Alpha Male
The Girl Who Wouldn’t Share Toilet Paper
Not Sleeping With a French Hooker at 14
The Spell of the Topless Redhead
The Night We Turned ‘Beast Mode’ On
The Night I Became a Stripper
The Day I Became Bill Gate’s Elevator Boy
Placebo Effect & The LSD Prank
The Joy of Being a Wanderer and the Credit Card Number
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