"Cops don't like me. So I don't like cops."
Clarence Boddicker, RoboCop (1987)
Lock up the innocents, for I am on the rampage, a man whose heart pumps immoral desire to all parts of my body, craving illicit thrills and causing mayhem on the streets of Calgary. I exaggerate, of course, but this appears to be what several constables of the Calgary Police Service must think when they see me walking down the street. I've been stopped by the police at least seven times since the mid-2000s; almost every incident occurred in the downtown core or beltline. The latest incident occurred recently on a rainy day, as I was accosted by a rain-slicked police officer for doing nothing so egregious as waiting for a city bus under a concrete overhang at my local Starbucks. My crime? Loitering. I, J Alary, a man with stylish-yet-affordable glasses, keen fashion sense (always with my faithful Chucks), yet incomplete without my umbrella (having forgotten it at work), was accused of loitering, an act so heinous as to be performed by teenage hooligans and unsavoury Canada Blood Services volunteers. Apparently the officer, unhappy with his waterlogged beat assignment, decided that I was to be taught a valuable lesson and dissuade me from loitering at the Starbucks, so that the good people could access their SUVs and BMWs as they picked up their extra hot soy lattes. Thank goodness the Calgary Police helped steer me from a life of crime and gave me the opportunity to wash my sins away, not with a ticket, but with a stern warning.
Of course the irony of my loitering habit is that mere feet away from the Starbucks sits a bus-stop bench that's routinely occupied by people who spend hours of their day loitering. I don't like the word "loitering"--it sounds negative and really, who gives a damn if somebody is standing or sitting, bothering no one (well, except the cops and frustrated shop owners who feel loiterers scare away business)? I could happily laugh off the incident as an example of a perturbed cop having a bad day, but it's simply the latest sparring match between yours truly and the Calgary Police Service.
Seven years ago, I was walking to catch a bus, late for work, and as I walked past the now-demolished Penny Lane Mall, a cop stopped to ask me where I was going. "I'm going to work," I replied, looking annoyed and clearly anxious to catch a bus. "Are you in a hurry?" "Yes, I'm late for work and need to catch my bus." After a series of banal questions (but ones that I'm sure ascertained whether or not I was a fugitive), I was excused and went to work. As I sat on the bus, I pondered what had led the police officer to stop me. Perhaps I matched a physical description of an escaped convict, a known arsonist or murderer? Did my glasses throw off the cop?
My brushes with cops continued: I had witnessed a car accident several months later and was sitting in the backseat of a police cruiser, filling out a witness report, one of the officers repeatedly asking me if I had ever been arrested for a crime. I found it to be an unnecessary and insulting question: are helpful citizens often criminals? In Sunalta, paranoid police, wary of nocturnal pedestrians, often stopped me in the middle of my evening strolls to ask me what I was doing. Apparently enjoying an evening constitution in an inner-city residential area is met with suspicion: thieves must routinely mark houses for burglary by walking through a neighbourhood. Even walking with a friend, to attend a birthday party at Mikey's Juke Joint, prompted a patrolling police van to cruise alongside us for several blocks, watching us for criminal shenanigans.
I must confess that I do inhale sharply and my body stiffens whenever I see a police vehicle, so perhaps because of my past encounters with the men in blue, I'm encouraging a confrontation; it certainly doesn't help that when I'm walking alone, often with my headphones and iPod, my body language and facial expression create a shield against unwanted conversation, likely attracting the attention of law enforcement. I won't start wearing silly grins on my face and skip along the pavement, singing along to Madonna's "Express Yourself".* I should try to lighten the fuck up and maybe the fuzz will leave me alone. If you see me on the street and I don't see you immediately, feel free to say hello and ask me where I've put my blood-stained axe and maybe I'll try to wear a less homicidal expression.
*Disclaimer: yes, sadly, I have that song on my iPod, but I assure you that I have a great deal of classic and 90s punk to counter the Material Girl, an object of my affection for many years.
Of course the irony of my loitering habit is that mere feet away from the Starbucks sits a bus-stop bench that's routinely occupied by people who spend hours of their day loitering. I don't like the word "loitering"--it sounds negative and really, who gives a damn if somebody is standing or sitting, bothering no one (well, except the cops and frustrated shop owners who feel loiterers scare away business)? I could happily laugh off the incident as an example of a perturbed cop having a bad day, but it's simply the latest sparring match between yours truly and the Calgary Police Service.
Seven years ago, I was walking to catch a bus, late for work, and as I walked past the now-demolished Penny Lane Mall, a cop stopped to ask me where I was going. "I'm going to work," I replied, looking annoyed and clearly anxious to catch a bus. "Are you in a hurry?" "Yes, I'm late for work and need to catch my bus." After a series of banal questions (but ones that I'm sure ascertained whether or not I was a fugitive), I was excused and went to work. As I sat on the bus, I pondered what had led the police officer to stop me. Perhaps I matched a physical description of an escaped convict, a known arsonist or murderer? Did my glasses throw off the cop?
My brushes with cops continued: I had witnessed a car accident several months later and was sitting in the backseat of a police cruiser, filling out a witness report, one of the officers repeatedly asking me if I had ever been arrested for a crime. I found it to be an unnecessary and insulting question: are helpful citizens often criminals? In Sunalta, paranoid police, wary of nocturnal pedestrians, often stopped me in the middle of my evening strolls to ask me what I was doing. Apparently enjoying an evening constitution in an inner-city residential area is met with suspicion: thieves must routinely mark houses for burglary by walking through a neighbourhood. Even walking with a friend, to attend a birthday party at Mikey's Juke Joint, prompted a patrolling police van to cruise alongside us for several blocks, watching us for criminal shenanigans.
I must confess that I do inhale sharply and my body stiffens whenever I see a police vehicle, so perhaps because of my past encounters with the men in blue, I'm encouraging a confrontation; it certainly doesn't help that when I'm walking alone, often with my headphones and iPod, my body language and facial expression create a shield against unwanted conversation, likely attracting the attention of law enforcement. I won't start wearing silly grins on my face and skip along the pavement, singing along to Madonna's "Express Yourself".* I should try to lighten the fuck up and maybe the fuzz will leave me alone. If you see me on the street and I don't see you immediately, feel free to say hello and ask me where I've put my blood-stained axe and maybe I'll try to wear a less homicidal expression.
*Disclaimer: yes, sadly, I have that song on my iPod, but I assure you that I have a great deal of classic and 90s punk to counter the Material Girl, an object of my affection for many years.