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As I was palling around with some cops at PJ’s the other day, I remembered a not-so-pleasant interaction I had with some of the fine men of the BRPD, and thought Café Culture readers might enjoy something a little vintage. (Cue the flashback vapors.) Picture it: North Boulevard, Sunday, February 15, 2004. I was walking out to my car parked across from First Presbyterian Church when I noticed hundreds of costumed dogs with their owners. I approached someone who told me it was the annual Mardi Gras Puppy Parade. The dogs dress up and people throw Milkbones at them. I stuck around for a few minutes to view the spectacle, but I had plans and needed to get going. Then it occurred to me that I was parked on the parade route and the nearest side street was barricaded by a cop car. I politely approached the officer and asked how long this event was scheduled to take place. He said he didn’t know, maybe a few more hours. I explained to him that I had parked there for church, not knowing that a puppy parade would be passing through, and since the dogs weren’t currently occupying the portion of street where I was parked, could he please let me through. He shrugged and said that I should have known about the parade because it was posted in the paper. I asked him what I was supposed to do, that I had important plans (not really, I think I was planning on making a trip to Target). He told me to enjoy the parade.

I pouted in my car for about fifteen minutes, watching out of my window as the dogs in Dr. Suess’ Thing One and Thing Two outfits pranced by. I decided to try reasoning with him one more time, asking again when he thought I could get out. He again was of no help and I told him that I was very nonplussed by his treatment and that he didn’t have to be so rude. He told me that I was just upset because he wouldn’t bend the rules for me. I started crying a little (completely involuntary, I promise), and he told me not to get upset—the ABSOLUTE WORST thing to say to a crying woman. That’s when I lost it, and shouted, “Don’t tell me how to feel!” Then he shouted, “Don’t yell at me or I’ll take you down to the station and you’ll really be upset.” At this moment I realized two things: 1.) This was the most absurd interaction I had ever experienced; 2.) All the people at the puppy parade were staring. Wanting to save face and gain sympathy from the gathering crowd, I started crying harder and kept saying, “You just scared me and I just wanted to know when it was over, that’s all I wanted.” Then the parade ended and I sped away as fast as possible. I think I cried for the rest of the afternoon, feeling like an immature, bratty psycho. The next day I started my period and felt a little more justified.

This, of course, is nothing compared to the time I was pulled over at two in the morning for rolling through a stop sign on a dead end street (while the serial killer was on the loose) and when I asked the officer if I could see his identification he replied, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.