Washington DC’s Lamest Cover-Up Ever

I’m almost forty-four now, and I figure that I’ve lived enough to have some interesting personal stories.  The go-to’s in the bar or the picnic with right crowd.   A few of mine are funny; a few are not.  Two are tragic enough that they hang around in the corners every day, ready to jump.  But they serve one useful purpose: whenever my day sucks, I can compare it to them and conclude “it isn’t nearly as bad as that.”

Then there’s this story.  It was almost tragic (but wasn’t), funny (at my expense), and definitely one that I can compare to a bad day to remind myself it can always get worse.  It has earned its spot in the lineup as my lead-off bar story. 

It begins with how I almost killed a cop.

Not funny, but I’ll explain.  I HAVE to explain that sentence before I trip some sort of search engine that sends the boys in body armor through my windows.  I wasn’t TRYING to kill a cop.  I’m a gainfully-employed, family-raising, functioning adult.  More or less.

It was an accident.  Literally – a traffic accident.  This particular one happens to be the last of many I’ve had, and ever since has prompted me to drive like an eighty-four year old.  It happened in Washington DC and was borne out of many things of which I am intimately familiar: bad decisions, DC traffic, and DC bureaucracy. 

This was in early winter of 2006; despite what happened my memory is terrible enough to be unable to recall the date.  I have no doubt that’s because of my son, who was two at the time.  Let’s be clear about something: my now 11 year-old son is awesome.  He is really an upgraded me: Mom’s good code, Dad’s good code, all neatly packed into a freckle-faced interface with 20/20 vision (which is better than Dad’s by a factor of nine).  But early product development was rocky.  Until he was almost ten years old, when other parents asked us at what age he started sleeping through the night our anger-laugh response was “we’ll let you know!”

So in his terrible twos my commutes south to Baltimore and workdays were a semi-comatose haze.  On this particular evening I was meeting my boss to entertain a client at the International Spy Museum. (If you’re in DC and have the time, go.  It’s fun if you’re into that stuff).  This past year Inrix rated Washington DC as the worst traffic in the nation.  Higher than Los Angeles; higher than New York.  Nobody who drives there LIVES there.  Those living there don’t drive, and their ain’t much in-between about it – they’re either riding public transportation or have a title in front of their name and are being blasted through traffic lights in black armored cars.  (Still the best opening ever to a White House Correspondent’s Dinner routine: Stephen Colbert tells the crowd “before we begin, would the drivers of 14 Black SUVs please move their vehicles; you are blocking 14 Black SUVs that need to get out.”)

So zombie Dad is working until five and headed into the heart of Northwest DC just when the caravan of starched collars in BMWs is dog-piling it in the other direction.  I’m sure you’ve seen DC on a map and know it’s more or less a square on three sides.  The streets are cross-hatched almost exactly to these, and the intersections have traffic lights that often rest on short poles at the corners, not on overhead wires.  I call these “intersections,” but in reality during rush hour they’re “parking spaces.”  Oh – are you looking to turn left?  Is THAT what this space that exists between perpendicular directions is for?  Goodness; I had plans to stare straight ahead and pretend you don’t exist.  Sorry!        

I had finally shoehorned my Jetta’s front end into the crossroads of New York Avenue and D Street.  I was behind one more car looking to turn left; the light was turning yellow and we both began palming our steering wheels to make a break for a space that had appeared between a sedan and a delivery truck.  Yes, there should only be one car in the intersection and what I’m doing is technically illegal.  But for fuck’s sake, the last time there was an opening to turn was ten minutes ago, and zombie Dad’s not really into making good decisions these days anyway. 

Car #1 makes it through with me hot on his bumper as the light flicks to red.  Here’s where the cop comes in. 

And by “cop,” I mean motorcycle cop.  And by “in” I mean in the intersection flashing his sirens.  Around the OUTSIDE of the delivery truck.  Where neither of us can see each other until… Let’s just say I knew he needed a shave and a boot shine. 

I slam on my brakes, he slams on his, and I watch in ultra HD as this very large police officer flips over his very large Harley’s handlebars and disappears, head first, in front of my Jetta’s grille.

I don’t know how many times in your life you’ve experienced pure terror.  I sincerely hope your answer’s “none except for the little kid stuff”.  Regardless, I’m pretty sure you’ve heard the expression “oh my god, I pissed/shit my pants I was so scared!”  I can tell you – those are not the only options.  They’re just doors number one and two.  Door number three’s the ass pucker.  I swear that after his boots vanished under my windshield my first coherent thought was “I think my ass just swallowed itself”.

I was too terrified to even register if I had hit him.  I backed up, turned and eased my car onto the right shoulder of D Street.  There was suddenly a LOT of drivers giving me space. 

When I stopped and shut down the engine, I knew what I needed to do.  I needed to look behind me into that intersection.  I am fully expecting to see a dead body and what will likely be the end of whatever I was hoping to do for the next ten to fifteen years. 

What I see is a very much alive police officer, forearm only slightly cut, standing up his damaged motorcycle and walking towards me with a wave and a smile – A SMILE – yelling “I’m fine!  I’m fine!”  The relief is unlike anything I’ve experienced.

The not-dead cop is at my window now, asking me to get out of my car.  For a moment, I click back into pucker mode. I’m thinking it’s time to join that wonderful minority of guys in suits sporting handcuffs.  But when I get out – no handcuffs.  No yelling.  This guy is NICE.  “Are you OK?” he asks. Am I OK?  This is the almost-vehicular manslaughter victim checking on me.  I’m not really processing much, but I am dimly processing the oddity of this.

So there we were on the shoulder: him with his bleeding forearm and me without handcuffs.  I’m still shocked about how not in trouble I am.  I think if it had stayed the two of us, we would have made certain both of our vehicles were drivable and been on our way, as unbelievable as that is.  I don’t understand why this is heading in that direction, but I’ll take it. 

It does NOT stay the two of us.  To this day, I am convinced that something happens in a command center somewhere when a police motorcycle tips over.  It’s either that or traffic pattern karma had REALLY decided to bend me over.  Because over the next five minutes, the following parks across from us: two patrol cars, one fire truck, and one CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION VEHICLE.  I swear I am NOT kidding here.

All of the occupants get out, call over my forgiving not-victim and begin a heated discussion next to one of the patrol cars.  I’m asked to stay by my vehicle on the other side of the road, so I can’t hear what they’re saying.  There are lots of animated gestures.  My blackberry begins to accumulate a series of “where the fuck are you” messages from my boss.  Passerby are staring.

This, folks, is where I shit my pants. 

No, I didn’t full-on let go.  I’m not a toddler.  But, well, I added a new set of skid marks to D Street.

A good ten minutes pass.  The confab of cops settles down.  I’m waiting, standing next to my car, marinating.  Finally one of the other patrolmen approaches me with two pieces of paper and a pen.

He says more or less this: “Sir, we’re terribly sorry for the delay.  I do need to write you a warning, but it’s just a formality.  You can go home and throw it away.  Since this involved a vehicle occupied by an officer, you’ll need to write a brief statement of what happened, ok?”

What the fuck?  After a near fatal miss, a small parade’s worth of hardware (why was the fire truck EVER there?), a mini FOP convention and a pair of soiled underpants, the end result is two pieces of paperwork?  Why?

I get my answer when I lay the statement form onto the roof of my car and start to bring the pen to it.  I’m stopped by a very large police officer with a cut forearm.  And when I look up at him, he is glaring at me like I thought he should have from the start. 

And he more or less says this: “Here. Is what.  We are saying. We did.”

I’m reasonably certain there is only one explanation here.  Back when I almost killed him half an hour ago, I had assumed that he was plowing through the intersection, sirens blaring, to get somewhere.  I’m pretty sure that was the shit HE was full of.  He was headed home and didn’t feel like waiting at another cocked-up traffic intersection.  Just like me. 

We spun quite the tale, the two of us.  That statement was Tom Clancy precise.  We referenced exact distances.  Sunset glare in mirrors at specific angles.  Reaction speeds.  For the time it took to write it down, we were partners – partners in the lamest, most pathetic, least significant cover-up in DC history.

I eventually made it to The Spy Museum after an emergency stop for pants (and boxers) at a men’s store.  I had hastily pounded out an almost nonsensical explanation to my boss, and filled in the gaps when I arrived.  He took one look at me, walked me to the bar and ordered me a double.  Of which I had five more. 

I still have the warning in my glove compartment.  It’s a ridiculous little memento of the single most absurd thing to happen to me.  Most important, though, is that it’s a reminder.  Whatever stress or anxiety I might have had in my day, I have not almost killed a cop.  I have not shat myself.  And I’m a bona fide Washington co-conspirator.  Life is okay.