Being bored, I agreed to go sit at the beach and attempt to surf the 8 inch waves that plague the Eastern American coastline every summer. It was Friday at 1:30. Which is an illegal time to surf in Virginia Beach unless you are surfing at 1st, 4th, or Croatan beaches. It is also illegal to surf without a leash at all times. There was no a body in the disgustingly murky waters within 100 yards of either side of my location. I had a beer and entered the water. After paddling around for 35 minutes, I noticed that the end was near. A police officer and his lackey were filling up their running shoes with copious amounts of sand and their head with ego as they flagged me out of the water. I was asked in a sarcastic manner how I could pass my surfboard to my friends with a leash on. I cracked an "are you kidding me?" grin and laughed with a hint of devil. I was asked if I had read the sign at the entrance of the beach. I provided the same reaction. The other guy was being annoyingly nice to the police in an attempt to get out of the ticket. The "yes sirs" and bullshit talk was getting him nowhere. I watched him drown as he gave the officer his details. I sat down and waited for my turn.
I was the complete opposite. I made it as hard for the officer as possible as the tone ego in his voice made words seem almost foreign. I gave him my information. He didn't believe me when I told him that I didn't know my social security number as he shouldn't. He had to call it in and asked for my descriptors over the phone.
"Ok, so he's saying he's 5'11" and 165, that check out?"
I laughed again, being correct.
"Ok, well I have your social if you want it. You might want to memorize it, so no one can steal your identity."
"How can anyone steal my identity if I don't even know it myself," I jolted back.
The officer was frustrated as he stumbled over some non important words handed me hundreds of dollars worth of tickets and walked away, leaving other surfers in the water just blocks down. I walked back to the cooler, cracked a cold one, and recounted the moment before. I complained about being poor to whoever I talked to when I drove home.
I walked in the door and browsed through the mail. Ah, a letter. I opened it without a tool only to find a speeding ticket that I received in New Zealand. I guess my handwritten letter of persuasion about a fake meeting with the admissions office with a graduate school program wasn't believable either, as it shouldn't of been.
No comments:
Post a Comment