Curbside Anecdotal: The Officer & The Cyclist

THE OFFICER AND THE CYCLIST



New York, June 27--The blue-eyed
metropolitan 

beat officer, perhaps of Irish descent, leaned 

against the hood of
his patrol car. He watched 

as I locked up my bike outside MacDonald's on 

Eighth Avenue midblock
between 34th and 35th. 

Went through the motions, that is, threading 

the
cable between the spokes and around the bus stop, hesitating for a second.



I thought he was going to tell me
that locking 

my bike to the bus stop wasn't allowed or, as many strangers do,
ask me if anything was wrong, 

b/c I tend to move unhurriedly
compared to normal pedestrian traffic. But he did neither and 

just said
"Hi".



On the Fifth Avenue Pride march
that I filmed on Sunday, mostly the cops had been good-humored and cordial,
even stepping aside to get out of the frame. It's 47 years

 since
Stonewall, and quite a large NYPD contingent marched, so this bonhomie, rather
than brusqueness 

or wolf-in-sheep's clothing-iness, may have been a 

carry-over
from the Pride spirit. Whatever the reason, being of a naturally curious
disposition, I struck up a desultory conversation, not unsuited to a hot summer
afternoon.

First, I asked the policeman
whether an NYPD vehicle 

was always parked in front of this MacDonald's.

"Always," he confirmed.
"There's a lot of crime here."

"Dealing?" I suggested.

"Not only," he said with
a wry smile.

"Stuff I'd rather not hear
about, I suppose," 

I said, not 
wanting to get too specific. 

"All kinds," said the
officer. "The other day there

 was a stabbing."

I asked him how long he'd been there
without shade. 

Eight and a half hours, he answered, hugging his 

bottle of
Poland Spring. Usually, but not today, 

he brought a sandwich from home. He
considered a

ll the food at MacDonald's inedible.

"Even the salads?" I
ventured.

"Absolutely. The salads
too."

"What about the yogurt
parfait?"

"The yogurt parfait is
okay."

By this time the cable was securely
fastened. 

To stabilize the bike, I gave the kickstand a 

sharp little kick to release it. I decided to 

take a chance and spring for a Macyogurt 

before undertaking the long ride home. 

(The elevator was being repaired at the 

34th Street subway.)

With my yogurt I perched on a stool
at a 

high counter, joining three young dark-haired 

tourists, a woman and two
men, speaking a 

not easily recognizable foreign language. 

But my trip to
Istanbul was only five years

past, so to my table companions’ amazement,

I
correctly identified it as Turkish.

I hope they got home safely.



(c) Liza Béar 2016