Police chase!

Today, I found myself running through the streets of downtown Omaha, literally chasing after a mounted policeman, one hand clutching my purse (and my heart), the other hand trying to keep my scarf from flying away in the gale-force winds that were stinging my eyes and making it difficult for me to see. As it turns out, horses can easily outrun young women in heels.

Take a minute to let the absurdity of that image sink in. Now let’s start from the beginning.

You may recall that my darling VenJetta took the opportunity last week to burn out a headlight while I was driving by a very bored police officer. He pulled me over, issued me a written warning, and ordered me to have the headlight fixed within five days. Then I was supposed to have a police officer – any police officer – check that the light was fixed and sign my warning, which I would then mail back like a good girl.

You may also recall that the VenJetta promptly decided to break down completely and have itself towed before I had a chance to fix the light. The car went to the shop last Monday, where the dealership held it hostage until today. Today marks the 9th day since I received the written warning, and so I have officially broken the law.

“Criminal” is not an adjective I generally like applied to me, so I dutifully stopped at a police station on my way home from the VenJetta doctors today, intending to plead my case. At least, I had assumed that this building with 35 police cruisers in the parking lot was a police station, but according to the sign I found on the door, it was a police “Assembly Station.” The sign politely asked me to take my criminal business elsewhere, because there was no way I was getting into this building without a badge. Criminal.

Dejected, I went back to my apartment to look up the Omaha Police Department online. According to their website, there was only one police station in town that would accept “walk-ins,” and it was, appropriately, downtown. I giggled at the thought of literally having to “go downtown,” and I set off.

I hate downtown Omaha. It is full of one-way streets and crumbling buildings with no street numbers or signs. Somehow, I always get turned around, find myself on an entrance ramp to the wrong highway, and I end up in Iowa, cursing. The “Welcome to Iowa” sign might as well be a string of expletives for as often as I associate the two.

Today, I followed my Mapquest directions pretty faithfully, but I’ll be damned if I could find a police station where they said it was supposed to be. As I cruised slowly down the street, talking to myself and searching for street numbers, I spotted a mounted policeman standing on a corner. I also spotted a metered parking spot on the street just around the corner. I looked from the mounted policeman to the parking spot, and then glanced at the buildings again. I had no idea where the police station was, and I was intent on clearing my vehicular name, so I made a snap decision to park the car and ask the policeman to sign my note.

A few minutes and a spectacular parallel parking job later, I stepped out of the car. It was at about this time that I noticed the 50 mph icy winds that threw me bodily into the street. Holy crap. I had been out of the car one minute and already my eyes were watering and my scarf was on its way back to my apartment without me. I braced myself against a streetlamp, fished around in my wallet for some change to put in the meter, and looked toward the street corner. The policeman was gone! Wait, there he was, one block up, disappearing around the corner with a swish of his horse’s tail. I looked around. Still no sign of the police station, and my car was safely metered. Oh, what the hell. I took hold of my unruly scarf, leaned into the wind, and followed the cop.

It might have been a good idea at this point for me to mentally calculate the likelihood that I would be able to catch up with an animal that’s bred to race in most countries, and weigh that likelihood against the environmental conditions that were rapidly stripping away 4 of my 5 senses, but that didn’t occur to me. I turned down the next street with the intent to cut the policeman off before he got to the next intersection, and I nearly made it. But the cop and his horse had already reached the intersection, and were fast disappearing around the next corner. I started to jog.

I would very much liked to have seen the expressions on the faces of the people in the many coffee shops that line the streets of downtown Omaha. I imagine them sipping their lattes and leafing through a magazine, then looking up to see a policeman on a horse walk briskly past the window, followed a few seconds later by a windswept young woman in a long coat, jeans, and heels, wildly clutching her scarf and purse as she runs with comically small, quick steps. I’m sure it was a laugh riot.

Finally – FINALLY – the policeman paused at a crosswalk, and I rushed up to him, out of breath.

“Sir – gasp – excuse me – gasp – I’ve been following you since Douglas Street –” I doubled over a bit to catch my breath.

The officer looked down at me without smiling. Even the horse was unamused.

“I was wondering if you could…I mean, I need to have this thing signed that says I got a broken headlight fixed, and I don’t know where the police station is, and I saw you on the corner, but that was like three blocks ago and I tried to catch you, but that’s quite a horse you’ve got there, and holy cow, is it cold out here, and is there any way you could sign this thing for me? I’m parked a couple blocks back that way…”

The policeman said nothing, but he picked up the reins and started to walk in the direction I’d pointed, so I took that for a "yes." Jolly fellow. I thanked him as we started walking, and when he still said nothing to me, I decided I had better shut up and not press my luck. We headed back the way we had come, and I was hilariously aware that everyone on the street was watching as I was being followed by a cop on a horse. I tried very, very hard not to laugh.

“You’re parked over there?” He speaks!

“Yes, by the library.” God, the wind was shredding me.

“Let’s go this way, then.” The cop promptly turned into an alleyway that I would never have attempted to walk through without police escort. As the horse clip-clopped beside me, I swear it gave me a shifty sideways glance. “I’m sorry,” the cop suddenly said, “I can hardly hear anything with these earmuffs on.” Well, that would explain the stoic silence.

“That’s okay. At least you’re keeping warm!” I was using my saccharine cheeriness reserved for violent drunks and mounted policeman.

“Not really.” Bitterness trumps sweetness. I didn’t say anything after that.

As we finally neared the VenJetta, it became laughably obvious how far I had been chasing this guy. The cop stood by my car (his horse trying valiantly not to be swept away by the wind) as I showed him my headlight (dirty!) and gave him the ticket to sign. I didn’t even try to explain the whole five-day-limit saga. He handed me the ticket back with a monotone “Sorry you had to walk so far,” and abruptly turned tail and left. Another valiant officer of the OPD, ladies and gentlemen.

When I got back into the car, I looked at the ticket he signed. He didn’t date it, which was awesome. As the heater started to kick in, so did the hilarity of the situation. I laughed as I pulled out of my very cool parking spot. I laughed a little less exuberantly as I passed the very poorly marked police station I had been searching for.

I stopped laughing when I ended up in Iowa. Again.