It was still dark when Henry, proud to be keeping to his program, took his bike into the first section of Panhandle Park. The park is a single block strip between Oak and Fell. It runs from Baker on the east to Stanyon on the west. There are two paths, the Oak street path's for pedestrians only and the Fell street path for bikes and pedestrians. None of this matters very much to the point, except that along the paths the park is split with an intersection at Masonic Street. It is at that intersection that the story actually occurs.
Up to Masonic, the ride was nice. It was early but there were a few joggers and a guy or girl with his or her dog. But, basically the park was empty and the shared purpose path was clear—from Baker to the crosswalk at Masonic. Even though it was dark, the crossing at Masonic was well lit. Henry saw the police car, sure he did. He saw it slide to a lazy stop halfway through the crosswalk.
"Nice," Henry thought to himself. Somehow it bothered him more that a cop was breaking the law.
This is where a man who grew up in south central LA might have played it smarter. Or, a kid on a skateboard would have stepped off his board and waited for the cop car to move on. But, a forty two year old white guy, who grew up in a mostly white suburb, has been cheated by the system, without the benefit of a street education on the police. Okay, the occasional "yes sir" from the citizen and "have a nice day" from the cop exchange that comes with a traffic ticket but not the real encounters police seem to thrive on.
"I should run into it," Henry thought, "right into the fender." Instead, he swerved in front of the police car, onto part of the crosswalk the car had left open.
"Cyclists need to obey traffic laws also," came a voice from the PA system in the police car.
It was the use of the word "also" that pissed Henry off. It carried the assumption that the police car was somehow obeying the law while stopped halfway into a crosswalk. It was also the fact that Henry was crossing legally, with the light on his side, and from any perspective he was obeying traffic laws.
"Fuck you," was what he said in response. Again, not the response from anyone with realistic police experience but the response from someone brought up on right and wrong, civil liberties and other trappings from a seventies education in California.
Obviously, the correct response would have been to yell, "sorry" or "okay." Maybe no response would have been accepted. "Fuck you," was absolutely the most incorrect response but somehow felt exactly correct in the situation—when a cyclist has to swerve to avoid a car in order to legally cross the street.
"Fair enough," Henry thought the cop would think. "I am in the wrong. My police car was illegally blocking this cyclists right of way," the cop would realize this and think "he called me on it and we'll leave it at that."
What Henry didn't imagine was that the cop had spent the morning putting a stop to all serious crime and had already restored the city to order. So, now with time on his hands, he had nothing more pressing to do than to drive up onto the grass to continue the encounter.
As it seemed, he didn't have anything better to do and the cop pursued Henry, by car, into the park. Turning on his red cop lights and scary cop siren. (Although clearly the siren was overkill on an empty park path.) The car tires dug into the damp grass, tearing a mud path through the grass on either side of the asphalt path. As Henry dismounted, the slightly younger-than-him cop bailed out of the driver’s side. For a moment the cop seemed startled, probably at Henry's age, as he would have been expecting only a younger person to be so obviously at odds with the law. He quickly recovered as he approached Henry, a hand menacingly tipped against his nightstick (or whatever they call them).
"I ought to smash your face in," came the less-than Adam-12ish police greeting from the less-than Martin Milnerish man in uniform.
Henry glanced inside the police car but was dismayed to see that the police partner was busily occupying himself with something—anything that might happen in the opposite direction. No doubt he wouldn't be much use as a witness, should his partner slip up on civil amenities. Add to this the fact that there were no real people anywhere in sight and a man could pretty much sum up his chances as zero if a crazy cop decided to hand out his own justice for crimes real or imagined.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," the red-faced cop continued. "A man your age who doesn't have respect for the badge."
Henry didn't say anything but he certainly didn't respect the particular guy wearing the badge. You might fear any street criminal who was threatening you but no one would consider respect a valid choice. "Really," Henry thought, "what is there to respect in this situation?"
"I ought to beat the shit out of you," the officer continued. "You make me sick."
There was a delightful silence and then the cop seemed a little more rational. "Maybe I should just write you up," the cop yelled but in a lower voice than before, "let me see your license."
A few things crossed Henry's mind at this point. One, that you don't need a license to ride a bike. Two, a cop can legally hold you if he can't identify you. Three, even if you don't break the law, a cop's word is gospel in a court with only a judge—everyone knows that. And finally, that he didn't have his license with him.
Now that the prospect of a beating seemed to go away, the silent partner's glance from the passenger seat turned to the situation. Henry decided that he might be able to bend low enough to appease this cop's fragile ego by bruising his own. Still, bruised egos repair faster than broken bones.
"Look, I'm sorry." Henry spoke in a low calm tone. "I was startled and yelled without thinking. I didn't mean anything and shouldn't have said what I said."
The cop seemed to relax a little. "You're damn right you shouldn't have. You're lucky I didn't kick the shit out of you to teach you some respect for this badge."
The cop briefly rested his hand on his gun to remind Henry that a beating wasn't the only thing at risk when you don't "respect the badge." But then, his blood sugar seemingly reduced to normal, the cop simply got back in his car and backed out across the grass and into the street.
Henry remounted his bike and resumed his ride toward Golden Gate Park. The remainder of his sixty-minute bike ride wasn't pleasant though. He kept thinking back to how helpless he felt when confronted by this criminal wearing a badge. Thankfully, he had now formed a protective opinion of the police that he had simply previously ignored. Now, when he passed a black guy with baggy pants down to his knees, he could imagine himself saying, "What's up brother?" Despite, if he actually ever did say it, the likelihood of a snicker from the other man.
