Confessions of a Police Car Passenger.....

Thanks for all your comments on yesterday's post. It was fun to see what I'd get accused of if you ever spotted me in the back of a police car. Y’all are a creative bunch, and a little too quick to believe I’ve got a criminal streak!

Truth is, I have ridden in the back of a police car—once. And no, I wasn’t cuffed. No goats were involved. Here's the full story, and I swear it's the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—as far as my memory and my flair for dramatic retelling allow.

Jim and I had gone to New York City to see a Broadway show. Our usual routine: drive to a nice, calm Connecticut town, park the car, take the train into Grand Central, and walk from there to the theater. It saves us the nightmare of driving in NYC traffic—which, let’s face it, is somewhere between demolition derby and NASCAR.

On this fateful night, everything went smoothly… until it didn’t. On the ride home, we got off the train one stop too soon.

Now here’s Confession #1: Jim said it was the wrong stop. I said it was the right one. He gave in like a gentleman. And unlike me, he didn’t say “I told you so”, which was frankly heroic. I, on the other hand, would’ve embroidered it on a pillow and mailed it to him.

It was after midnight. Cold. Quiet. The platform was deserted. Greenwich, Connecticut shuts down tight at night and apparently takes the yellow pages with it. We had cell phones, but no taxi numbers. And there wasn't another train until 5 a.m.

As we stood there trying to pretend this was fine and not the first five minutes of a crime show, I spotted a police cruiser crossing the bridge. I started jumping up and down, flailing like a woman trying to wave down an ice cream truck during a hot flash.

The officer pulled into the parking lot. As I ran toward him, Jim followed close behind. The cop jumped out, hand on his gun, eyes on Jim like “ma’am, blink twice if you’re being kidnapped.” I quickly explained our predicament—wrong stop, no cab, stuck in sleepy-town—and asked if he could call a taxi. He did better: he invited us into the back of the cruiser and offered a ride to the next station.

Now, this is where Confession #2 comes in: I'd never been in the back of a police car before. So naturally, I asked the hard-hitting questions.

“What happened to the seat cushions?”
“Where’s the floor mat?”
“Is this a budget cut thing or…?”

Turns out, it’s all hard plastic back there. No padding. No carpet. Nothing cozy. Why? Because, as he so cheerfully explained, people try to hide stuff like drugs or weapons in the upholstery or—brace yourselves—vomit on everything. (Apparently, a significant part of police work involves hose-down situations.)

I suddenly felt the need to apologize to every officer who’s ever had to scrub someone’s bad decisions off a car seat. Parenting prepared me for a lot, but this was next-level.

We chatted the whole ride—about 20 minutes—until he pulled right up to our car. Talk about service. He even wished us a safe drive home.

The next day, we told the kids Jim had gotten rowdy and the NYPD had to personally escort us to our car, lights blazing, officer saying, “Hasta la vista, baby!” (Picture Arnold Schwarzenegger. In uniform. Maybe chewing a donut.)

The kids gave us a look that said, “Okay, but no one over 60 should reference Terminator quotes.”

Kids didn't buy it. So fine. I came clean.

That’s my story and I'm sticking to it. One confused stop, one generous cop, one very clean plastic seat… and zero jail time.