Tuesday, July 2, 2013

PIGS

 
   'Is that your car, Sir?'
I looked on as the slightly overweight police
officer made his way across the petrol stationforecourt
towards me. As I sat behind the wheel, I
observed the officer's nervous steps; the steps were
matched with a tense but determined facial
expression. I had always been very observant.
Especially when I was irritated, and I was very
irritable, and the sight of this, late thirty-something
year old, round-faced, red-cheeked, white police
officer, made me feel extremely irritated.
    'Excuse me?' I replied, pretending to be
confused. Pretending that I had never been in this
situation before.
    'Is this your vehicle, sir?' The police officer was
now close enough to me and my car that he didn't
have to walk anymore but still slightly out of a
sitting-punch distance. I imagined opening my car
door with force, slamming it into the policeman's
mid section as I did so. The next sequence in my
brief fantasy saw me hop out and kick the officer in
the groin, before grabbing his head and slamming it
against one of the petrol pumps.
    'Sorry, what?' I responded, twisting my face to
illustrate my disgust. I wanted the officer to see that
I was insulted. That he made me feel sick. That I
thought he was a fucking, ugly, low down dirty pig.
I was very good at this. I was used to controlling
my emotions. I was equally adept at writing my
exact feelings on my face. At that precise moment,
as well as feeling disgusted and insulted, I was
feeling a cocktail of anger and familiarity. Oh yes,
familiarity. I had been in this wearisome situation

many times before; it was a case of same song,
different stereo or to be more precise, same
question, different officer.
    One second seemed like a lot longer, probably
more for the nervous police officer as I looked
around the brightly lit forecourt. I observed the
young white male who was standing in front of me
in the petrol shop a few minutes ago. This man had
paid only 'twenty-quid mate, number four' in
contrast to my 'seventy-pounds please, number two'
(after all, I drove a BMW 645ci convertible, in
contrast to the white male's Golf. Hideous,
burgundy Golf). I watched the white male enter his
car and sarcastically wondered to myself why the
police officer hadn't stopped this white man who
left the shop just before me. I privately asked myself
why the police officer hadn't asked this white man
whether he owned the ugly Golf. The answer was
so obvious that I chuckled to myself slightly.
    'Sir?' This time the police officer spoke in a
• more ser1ous tone.
    As I was about to speak, another officer
appeared. 'Is there a problem?' he asked as he
stepped out of the patrol car parked at a pump. He
was white.
    Great, another pig.
    'This man is refusing to step out of the vehicle,'
the round-faced officer said to his approaching
colleague.
If it wasn't for the self-control I had always beenproud to possess, I would have acted out my
fantasy and beaten this liar around the forecourt. It
took a lot of self-restraint for me not to grab the
overweight bastard by the throat and throw him
out of the forecourt into the night.

    'I'm not refusing to do anything. I just don't
know what this man is talking about.' I jabbed my
finger towards the heavy policeman.
    'Please be calm, Sir, there is no need to make a
scene.' This second, more confident officer removed
his hat and revealed his receding hairline. He was
around the same age as his counterpart and he spoke
in a relaxed and patronising tone. The way I used
to speak to some of my employees. I hated being
spoken to like this. I hated this probably more than
anything. How dare anybody speak to me like this?
I thought. I am sitting in sixty thousand pounds'
worth of machine. My suit is worth ... I looked down
at my attire; I was wearing a tracksuit. Shit, I've just
come from the gym, I remembered. I suddenly
didn't feel as professional but didn't let it stop me.
I jumped out of my car.
    'Whoa, whoa,' the fat- yes, I had now decided
that he was fat- officer stepped back as he gripped
his baton.
     '"Whoa" what?!' I exclaimed.
    There was a middle-aged white lady filling up her
car at a pump nearby. She quickly averted her eyes
when I looked at her. Despite it being night time and
fairly quiet, I felt like I was being watched. It began

to feel like the petrol station forecourt was a well-lit
stage and that the surrounding night street was filled
with an audience. I imagined it was press night at a
West End play, and that I was the lead character
whose performance was being judged by critics
who looked nothing like me.


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