Tuesday, March 01, 2011

Strange Politeness During A Gardena P.D. Fishing Expedition

by James Jarvis
excerpt from Offline Journal Of The Damned
DEC 30, 2001

I was pulled over tonight. There I was, driving the tail-light-less, gas-spewing Creepmobile, a car not registered or insured in my name, driving through a drug neighborhood that had recently been in the news for an innocent bystander drive-by gang war shooting fatality, driving through this crime-hot neighborhood at 2:10 in the morning with a known crack addict streetwalker, when the blue and red flashing lights lit up my rear view mirror.

The insulting part is that they let me go. What's a guy gotta do to get busted in this town anyway?

I had been feeling a little cabin fevered earlier in the night. Around 12:00 I decided to make a midnight run to my post office at LAX (the only U.S. Post Office in the United States that is open with live mail clerks 24 hours a day), just to get outside.

Driving along the dark streets gave me the gypsy cab deja vues and I started missing that film noir life, started hoping for a little witching hour adventure ... you know, hoping to see some street drama; a bust in the lobby of the Century Blvd Motel Six or at least some drug fiend being pulled over by bored cops on a fishing expedition.

I drove around town for an hour or so. It was like that long driving scene in "Taxi Driver" where Travis Bickel (De Niro) low rides through hell's kitchen like an accident scene Stygian gawker. It's been drizzling tonight, so there were even water puddles for me to splash through just like in the movie.

Marie the milk crate-stealing streetwalker ran up to my car door when I pulled back into the Motel Marquis parking lot.

"Can you take me somewhere?" she asked.

"Is it to get your drugs?" I asked, "You know I don't like going to that crack house."

No answer, which was the answer.

I looked at her disappointed face. "Okay, but this is the last time. This is not good."

Five minutes later we were pulled over in the gang neighborhood. Marie gave me her real name in case they checked. I answered the obligatory questions about drinking and where I was going, as if the second question was any of his business.

The cop seemed momentarily taken aback by the post office address on my driver's license and then more perplexed when my name ran up some red flag for some other James Jarvis in some other city or state. I told him that wasn't me and he took my word for it. He was too damned polite and acted like he couldn't wait to give me back my license and get me back on my way after I told him I lived at the Motel Marquis.

Strange. The cop didn't even bother to follow me at a discreet distance when I u-turned and drove Christina Trumball (Marie The Strawberry) to her 'home' on Artesia Blvd, which was a small RV parked in someone's driveway.

Bigger fish to fry, I guess.

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