May 5, 2015--Brooklyn Battery Tunnel

The traffic was heavy heading out to Brooklyn earlier in the day and now, returning hours later, was still moving at a crawl.

"Let's take the tunnel, "Rona said, "I'm exhausted and the traffic heading to the Manhattan Bridge is stop-and-go."

"But, you know I've become cheap," I said--Rona rolled her eyes, "And the tunnel costs $8.00. So . . ."

"Not if you have E-ZPass. Look at the sign. Then it's only $5.54."

"Still expensive," I said, "But I'm tired too so, OK, let's take it. Let's splurge. Though how they came up with that 54 cents I'll never know."

Ignoring that, Rona said, "Let's try to get into the extreme right lane. We keep forgetting to do that. If we do, we can take Trinity Place north, right onto Sixth Avenue, which is the most direct route to the garage. That way we can avoid the usual snarl on the Westside Highway. And," she added with a wink, "since it's shorter, save money on gas."

"That's how to do it," I pointed.

"Do what?"

"Get into the extreme right lane. There, where the sign says 'All Trucks Use this Lane.'"

"Trucks only?"

"No, look. It doesn't say trucks only which to me means it's also OK for cars. If not, there's no way to get into the tunnel lane we want."

"But why is that policeman waving his arms at us?"

"Strange," I said, "I'm not speeding or anything." I slowed down even more and crept forward toward the stop sign. It was there, another sign said, so that trucks could pull over to be inspected.

"Post-9/11," Rona said. "I get it. But watch out!" She put her hand on my chest as so to restrain me. "That cop just ran onto the road. Right in front of us. up there by the stop sign."

"He looks all agitated," I said, "I have no idea what's going on." I came to a halt well before the stop sign. By then he was racing toward us. It was a warm day and so I thought I'd be nice and creep forward to cut down on the distance he had to run.

"Roll down your window," Rona said, "And be sure to be polite."

"I'm always polite."

"Half the time you're curmudgeony."

Before I could say anything else the officer, panting and sweating, leaned in my window. Holding on to the door as if to support himself.

"Didn't you see that sign?" He was pointing back to where I had entered the extreme righthand lane.

"I did. Is there a problem?" I tried to sound as calm and innocent as possible though, as always in these situations, my heart was racing.

"Didn't you see the sign?" he repeated, this time much louder. Shouting at me.

"If you mean about the trucks, yes I did." Rona placed her hand on my arm since my voice too was raised.

"Well, that was your first violation."

"First violation?" I snapped. Rona whispered to me to calm down.

"It's for trucks, not cars."

"The sign didn't say 'trucks only' and so I thought the lane was for trucks that needed to be inspected and for cars too since there's no other way to get to that righthand unless . . ." I pointed to the tunnel lane we wanted to enter.

"And your second violation," he cut me off, "was that you didn't come to a full stop."

"Full stop?"

"Yeah, here. At this stop sign." He slapped it, right up where I had come to a halt.

"I slowed down to almost a stop, well before the stop sign, when I saw you waving at me. And when you began to run toward us I thought I'd creep forward to the stop sign--the one right here--to make it easier for you."

"License and insurance card." Rona was already fishing for the insurance card in the glove compartment. "And step out of the car please."

"For what?"

"Step out please." His voice turned to ice though his face was beet red and throbbing. Rona poked me in the back. Slowly, with my hands showing, I got out of the car.

"That's a good boy," he said to me with a snarl.

I handed over my driver's license and insurance information. He took his time scrutinizing both, turning them slowly, holding them up to the sunlight, and squinting at them.  "Zwerling, eh? What kind a name is that?"

"It's mine," I said, admittedly with attitude.

Sweat was pouring off him dripping onto the road. Cars were racing by and two trucks by then had come up behind me and the drivers were beginning to tap on their horns. He glared over at them and they stopped.

He finally finished looking over my papers and threw them contemptuously through the window onto the driver's seat. "Get back in the car," he snapped, "and get the fuck outta here." He slapped his hand on the hood.

"Next time--if there is a next time--stay out of my lane or I'll write you so many tickets they'll take away your friggin license. Though how you got one in the first place is a mystery to me. But across the river there in Manhattan I suppose anything goes." He began to sputter and, finally finished with me, swinging his nightstick, started to head toward the first truck in line.

Back in the car, now also sweating, I pulled away at no more than 3 MPH.

As we entered the tunnel in the lane that would let us to Trinity Place, Rona said, "That was unbelievable. And scary. He's so full of rage." She was struggling with her thoughts then said, "Am I ever glad we're not black."