(
Lessons from Officer Bob
Okay, so I’m driving down a side street in Laguna Beach name of Glenneyre. My Irish friend Tony says it’s pronounced “Glenn-IRE,” but most people who live here pronounce it “Glenn-AIRY.” So what does Tony know anyway?
So as I was saying, or more accurately writing, I was driving down this side street and as I came to a certain intersection noted that it was blocked off due to construction. So naturally I turned right on the street before the blockades to get to Pacific Coast Highway and be on my merry way to my house in South Laguna.
Now, you have to turn left from Calliope to go south on Pacific Coast Highway. I’ve never attempted to do so as typically you can go further south on Glenneyre and take one of the streets, such as Bluebird or Diamond streets, where there are traffic lights that make it a whole lot easier to safely turn left, or for that matter, to turn right.
So I pulled up to the stop sign on Calliope and prepared to turn left to get back home. I confess I was in a bit of a hurry, so although I noticed a couple of signs that said clearly “NO LEFT TURN,” I figured that, well, no one was watching, I could make the turn safely, and therefore it didn’t make sense to have a sign forbidding what seemed like a perfectly safe and do-able turn.
So I went for it.
As I continued down the highway, about a block or so after the turn, I looked to the right and there was a motorcycle cop. He seemed to be watching the flow of traffic more than me, and as I passed him, I felt a surge of relief that I’d somehow gotten away with it.
Wrong.
My next look in the rearview mirror revealed that he in fact had seen me pass by and for some reason had his red and blue lights flashing. At first I wasn’t sure. Had I been speeding? No, don’t think so. Maybe a taillight was out? No, I’d just replaced them both. Oh, okay. Let me guess: he had somehow observed me making that left turn.
So I pulled over, got out of the car, and started to walk around the care to the sidewalk. He said in a very soft but clear voice, “You can stay in the car.” He even repeated it, but I said, “Oh, that’s okay. I’d like to get some fresh air anyway.” He conceded this and walked up to me on the walkway, ticket book in hand.
Me: “What’s the problem officer? (Duh!)”
Him: “You made an illegal left turn back there.”
Me: (still playing dumb) “Oh, I didn’t realize that it was illegal. Seemed okay to do so.” I immediately felt a twinge of guilt, kind of like a faint voice of my mother saying I shouldn’t lie and by the way, do you know where you go for lying?
Him: “Well, there’s three signs there (I only saw two—I swear!) that say ‘no left turn.’ We’ve had a lot of complaints about people ignoring these. And it’s not safe to turn left from that street onto PCH. That’s why I’m posted here.” I didn’t agree, but he was a very imposing figure, obviously a weightlifter, and he had the badge, uniform, and a gun. Okay, I’m not going to argue with him.
Now at this point, even though I’d denied it, he knew that I knew there were signs posted. Further, I knew that he knew that I knew. And of course he knew . . . Well, you got the picture.
I saw his name tag, so I called him Officer Jones (not his real name). His response was, “Call me Bob.” Now only in Laguna Beach, Beverly Hills, or in smaller towns would you ever get away with calling a policeman Bob. Officer Bob.”
Bob started apologizing for having to give a ticket, saying it was the hardest of the job because most of people in Laguna he tickets are so nice. He really meant it to. It wasn’t a ploy. He continued apologizing and at one point I’m thinking, “Oh, good! He feels so bad and I’m such a nice guy that he’s going to let me off with a warning. Cool!”
Then he pulled out his ticket book, all the while being very apologetic about it. Okay, so I’m going to get the ticket. I can still do traffic school even though it’s annoying to spend eight hours of a Saturday in a closed room with other offenders. I shrugged it off. Mainly because he was so nice about it, I couldn’t pout or internally whine but instead found myself feeling a strong bond of some sort with Bob. Maybe man to man or something.
So I’m thinking, “Wow! How can I be upset with this man? He is truly just doing his job, but the way he’s doing it is so . . . dare I say, loving? Something about his self-effacing manner and his humility really affected me.
In fact I started feeling bad for Bob.
Me: “Don’t feel bad about it Bob. You’re just doing your job and I harbor no resentment. This is just what you do and you don’t have to apologize for it. Really, I deserve the ticket, I did something wrong even though I was unaware of the illegality of it (had to slip that in despite the echo of my mother’s voice). So please! Go ahead and just know that I do understand. I do appreciate how nice you are!”
Then he went on to tell me there’s a possibility I can do an Internet traffic school that takes only four hours rather than eight. He handed the ticket to me then we shook hands. As he sauntered back to his motorcycle, he said, “Hey if you ever need anything, just ask for me.”
So Bob, if you ever happen to read this I thank you for the powerful way you set the tone for a difficult situation for both parties. You taught me a couple of big lessons just by being who you are.”
