I also don’t recognize the face of a second cop, standing a few feet away.
“I have my license and registration right here,” I say. “Don’t you need to see them first?”
“I know who you are,” the first one says. “And I’m not going to ask you again to step out of the vehicle.”
More snap in his voice now. A whip being cracked.
The two cops step back to give me room as I step out to the side of the road.
“Can you at least tell me what the purpose of this stop is?”
“We ask the questions,” the first cop says.
The second one adds, “Unless 109 thinks he still gets to call the plays.”
The first cop says, “Have you been drinking? We observed you coming out of Rowdy’s a few minutes ago.”
“One beer,” I say. “Does it count if it’s a root beer? If so, you got me.”
“You think this is funny?” the second cop asks.
“You guys really followed me out here?”
“We often monitor people leaving establishments where alcohol is served,” the first one says, “especially at this time of night.”
I can see the attitude coming off both of them, and I’m trying my best not to escalate the situation but getting more annoyed by the minute at being pulled over this way over nothing. And clearly because of who I am, not because of anything I did.
“Please walk a straight line, heel to toe, then turn and come back,” the first cop says.
“You’re shitting me.”
They both step closer, right up on me, just like that.
“Do we sound like we’re shitting you?” the second one says.
“Well, I’ll tell you in advance that I have a bad knee, and limp a little lately,” I say. “Might list a little to one side.”
“Tough shit,” the lead cop says. “Just do what you’re told.”
No “good cop, bad cop” tonight. Just a couple of country hard-asses with badges. And guns. The worst kind. Alone out here with me in the night, not a single car having passed us since I got out of the truck.
When I turn, the first cop suddenly shoves me in the back, the force of it surprising me enough to make me stumble a few feet forward.
When I have my balance, I spin around on them.
“The last hand you’re going to put on me was that one,” I say. “Just so we’re clear.”
The first cop smirks. “Or what? You’re going to sucker punch me the way you did the Crockett boys when you were overserved that night at Rowdy’s?”
I stop talking, turn, and do the perp walk that real drunks are forced to do, then make my way back to them.
“We done now?” I ask them.
They look at each other.
Finally, the first cop says, “For now.”
When I’m back over at the truck and reaching for the door handle, I get shoved again, much harder this time, enough that my face goes into one of the bars on the roof.
