‘Step Out of the Car Please, Sir’

I am a felon.

A miscreant. Es desperado.

Maybe I should choose my colors now. I think blue. It brings out my eyes.

Like most people I’ve encountered in California she looked great, like a supermodel, but a supermodel that could wrestle you to the ground and snap on the cuffs. As she rode over on her bike, that bright, white, American smile on her face, I thought she was being like most people I’d met since arriving in Sacramento two weeks before; friendly. I give her my best ‘I don’t know you but you’re an authority figure so I’d best smile back’ smile and continue past the massive light-up guitar that can only signify ‘Hard Rock’. I even raise my hand and start to mummer a quick ‘Hi’ before I notice her smile has gone and she’s blocking my way with her front wheel.

“Good evening, mam...”

Uh-oh.

The words of my British tutors ring in my ears; “If you do something illegal, your American friends might just get a warning, you will get deported.”

De-port-ted...

...and never let into the country AGAIN!!!!!

“I need to ask you a question...”

I start to panic. The hot flush creeps from my shoulders, up my neck and into my face. Flashes of my past misdemeanours enter my head; drinking a beer on a Chicago street last summer, smoking some really bad weed in Seattle a couple of years ago, stealing a pencil topper when I was about six. Which one are they gonna throw me in the Big House for?

Stood there, legs astride her mountain bike, observed by the groups of sketchy looking young and old gathered around the entrance to the Downtown Mall, she fixes me with an icy glare.

“Why’d you cross the street on the red?”

WHAAAAAT!

Let me make something clear: Despite my penchant for Lucky Charms and the fact that I still sleep with a knitted soft toy called Mouseykin, I am a fully grown adult. I am over the age restrictions for smoking, sex and even alcohol. I can vote, I can cook and I can even get knocked up, live in a trailer and call my child Zee Zee Sputnik (if it’s a girl). In many states it would be perfectly legal for me to walk into a store, pay my money and walk out with a brand new, spanking, semi-automatic weapon.

But I can’t cross a street unless a light tells me to.

The nervy, subservient, basket case her approach had caused was now joined by a petulant, snarky teenager almost unable to control the laughter invoked by the fact she might be getting a ticket because she didn’t wait for the white man. This isn’t going well. Thankfully it’s at times like this when being British really helps. Not only do I have the uncanny ability to repress all emotion, it is also a free pass to the ‘I’m not from around here’ excuse.

I apologize profusely, putting more and more emphasis on my accent. Gradually she relents after giving me a healthy dose of guilt: ‘See all these people? They expect me to give you a ticket’ (It looked more like they were wondering where their next tab of crack was coming from to me) and fear mongering: ‘We’ve had accidents on this street’. Then she rode off warning me to be more careful next time.

And the stupid thing is I have been. Since that day, unless that light has changed my feet remain firmly on the curb.