My first experience in dealing with police occured at the peak of my ferocious climb for power, somewhere between the ages of 3 and 4. We lived on the corner of George and Forin st, on the crest of a small rise going all the way down George and then into the water. I was prone to following the general downward slope of the street, a feature of my scottish heritage. One day, I followed it...and kept following it down the next easiest slope, Victoria st. I ended up walking about three or four blocks before some terrible skinny woman alerted the authorities of a toddler wielding a claw hammer near Victoria park. A cruiser pulled up and a black cop, who I distinctly remember as being the most obeyable thing I'd seen up to that point, stepped out and took me home. Despite the 15-30 second drive, I managed to query him on
If I could turn the siren on
If I could use his shotgun
If he had ever used his shotgun
Same as above, but on ninjas
How many ninjas had he dealt with personally
Could I use the siren quietly
Did this unofficially make me a police officer
Who is the man in the back seat
Siren, I just said it once that time, as we had arrived.
He plopped me down at home, stepped out and took a knee to explain how to be good, and also could I please sit still, and that I really worried my mom, and hey don't let that man out, and oh fine see you next time.
I might have been a little older, but the story among my family is that I was about 3 the first time I ran away.
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I see you jockin' me.
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