He usually didn’t pull this kind of maneuver. It was 2 hours before the end of his shift on Q-day, however, and thus there was a certain necessity for this kind of technique. Nestled back in a weeded roadside, just meters back from a four-way stop, Officer Barston feverishly checked the license plate number of every passing car, praying for a hit.
A black Lincoln Navigator rolled in fast and then slammed on the brake as the driver spotted him. It did a full stop and sat an extra moment at the line for good measure, just to make sure Barston noted it was a full stop and not a “California Stop” or anything of that nature. Barston checked the license number. No dice.
A red Datsun with rust eating away at the rear quarter-panel and practically disintegrating the bumper slowed in with brakes that screamed. Barston had high hopes for this one. The Captain had him on warning from two months before. He hadn’t been filling his quota for moving violations. Ever since he’d joined the force, Barston had turned in the lowest number of citations on a steady basis, and he was starting to get serious flak from it from not just the administration but his fellow officers.
The Datsun was no good to him. No suspensions, no history. . . according to the computer the only thing the driver was guilty of was driving a hideous car.
“Damn it!” He was tempted to flip on the cherries and pull it over anyway. He could stretch that rusted out bumper into a violation if he really tried. As he considered it, though, the Datsun turned a corner and was out of sight.
In the next half hour he nailed a distracted elderly woman in a 1992 Park Avenue for rolling through the intersection instead of doing a full stop. It was difficult for him to write the ticket. She kept talking about her fixed income and looking up at him with sunken, pitiful eyes and a begging expression. He had to remind himself not to have mercy. Mercy was what was killing him in this job. He had to be a success at this. He had to be heartless. Just one more violation.
A blue Ford F-150 pulled up. Nothing on him. Then a Citation with a cracked right mirror. . . but the rear-view was intact and so there was no rightful offense. The cavern in Barston’s gut grew exponentially with a void of uncertainty and anxiety. He started visualizing the look of his Captain’s face, the way his name would look on the lounge bulletin board. He could hear the snickers in the locker room already. He considered what it would be like going back to the produce department at the supermarket and shuddered.
The unmistakable rumbling approach of a outdated muffler washed a sense of relief over him. Officer Barston would stay a cop for at least another month.