Come oh come ye tea-thirsty restless ones -- the kettle boils, bubbles and sings, musically. ~ Rabindranath Tagore
With all the horrible/deadly encounters with police we keep reading about, tonight's story seems almost silly. But it's my story, and I think it has some value.
My parents had a boy, and three years later had a girl (me). Family complete. Except that eight years later, surprise, surprise, another little girl entered their (our) world. My sister was like my first child. Much better than any doll. She could walk and talk and was absolutely adorable. I loved being with her. Even when I was a teenager, I would take her with me wherever I went.
When she was 12 or 13, we were living in L.A. Specifically, Tarzana. Her best friend's father had something to do with show business/recording, I don't even know. But the BF was hell-bent on meeting, and interviewing, as many recording artists as she could. And my sister became just as eager. Where do I come into this? I could drive. So I became the official driver for several of their adventures. And you should know that they didn't just go for the easy to find folks. They "interviewed" Paul McCartney, Barry Gibb, a few of the Monkees, and even became friendly (not sexually) with the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, who played around L.A. a lot before moving on to Nashville. I don't remember how often their little escapades happened, but it kept them pretty busy.
One night, we went to see the Monkees at the Hollywood Bowl. When we were entering, we passed by the backstage area. The entrance to the backstage had a large area blocked with a maybe five foot high chain-linked fence. BF saw this guy within the fenced area who she knew from I don't know where, but he worked for the Monkees. She handed him her little notebook and asked him if he could get their autographs. He agreed and said he would meet us right there after the show to collect the notebook.
After the show, we waited for quite some time, allowing most of the crowd to clear. Then we headed for the appointed spot. There were four or five police officers standing together talking, waiting for everyone to leave. When most everyone was gone, one officer approached the girls. He told them that they needed to leave. The girls weren't going anywhere without the notebook. They told the officer that they were waiting for this man to emerge, and they would leave as soon as he did. The officer was not happy. He started to grab them, and the girls hung on to the fence. So the officer walked back to where the other officers were. I, being the adult, was explaining to the officers how they were young, how they were excited, and how they had given their precious notebook to this man who had promised to meet them there with the shiny new autographs. In the midst of my adult speech, one officer (perhaps the one who had tried to pry them from the fence), came up behind me, grabbed my upper arm, and pushed me to the ground. He grabbed my arm so tightly, he left four fingerprint size bruises on the inside of my upper arm. Additionally, my nylons were all ripped to pieces, along with my knees and shins. I have no idea what precipitated that. I was speaking in a normal voice. I wasn't angry. I was just explaining how important it was to those two little girls to get their notebook back. But then I was angry. I walked up to the officer who did that, took down his name and badge number, and told him that he would be hearing from me again. In the meantime, the girls had gotten their notebook. So we left.
My parents lived across the street from my mother's cousin. Her husband knew everything about everything. When I told him what happened, he sent me to a doctor who specializes in preparing for civil suits. Did you know there was such a thing? Neither did I. The doctor did his thing, and sent me to the lawyer who specializes in civil suits. And the special lawyer told me that if I proceed, the police department would have my license number, and I wouldn't be able to pull out of my driveway without being stopped and cited for something. That's your LAPD, folks. And that was 1967.
And one more thing. For a short time I did transcription for a psychologist who did psychological evaluations on criminals. He told me that he had also done psychological evaluations on prospective police officers. And he said that in many instances, they were no different than the criminals. He didn't know if those prospective officers were ever hired.
|
|
|
|
Kitchen Table Kibitzing is a community series for those who wish to share part of the evening around a virtual kitchen table with kossacks who are caring and supportive of one another. So bring your stories, jokes, photos, funny pics, music, and interesting videos, as well as links—including quotations—to diaries, news stories, and books that you think this community would appreciate. Readers may notice that most who post diaries and comments in this series already know one another to some degree, but newcomers should not feel excluded. We welcome guests at our kitchen table, and hope to make some new friends as well.
|
|