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it, you're a bigot. It's okay; you'll feel a whole lot better after
you fess up. Go ahead and say it: You're a racist pig and
prejudiced against me, ain't ya?" You could see the steam boiling
off the top of his skull, right through that silly circus helmet he
was wearin'. The officer never looked up; never said a word; he
just kept writin'.
"Okay honkie, write all the tickets you want; I don't care." I knew
my rights. I was at liberty to call him honkie or whatever else I
wanted; the Supreme Court said that was freedom of speech and was my
First Amendment, God-given birthright.
The word, honkie, must have done it, though. Mr. Cool Cop snapped
the point off his pencil and had to finish with a pen. He slapped
the citation under the wiper blades with the other two, jumped onto
his Harley, hit the ignition switch and was off (all in one swift,
fluid motion like a ballerina doing a flawless pirouette; all he was missing was a tutu).
"He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle..."
However, I didn't hear "...him exclaim, 'ere he drove out of sight,
'Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!'"
Instead, the motorcycle cop flipped me the bird as he accelerated
down Northwest Second Avenue. That's okay; I got his badge number.
We'll see if Mr. Cool Cop goes: Ho! Ho! Ho! when I get him in front
of I. S. (Internal Security).
I'll give that motorman one thing, though: He was grace under fire
and wasn't a whiner; he was one cool copper. He never lost his
temper; never fired back a word in anger. Three tickets and never a
word, but then, I really didn't care how many tickets he wrote; I
really didn't. After he left, I merely walked back around the
corner from whence I came, got into my own car-a green Chevy-and
drove home with my presents.
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!" THE END
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