Cop Kid Chronicles

Part 1: “Quit Passin’ Me In Front of People!”

The 90s hit different. I know — everyone says that. But when you get your driver’s license in 1994, in Texas, and your dad isn’t just a cop but Internal Affairs? That shit really hits different. (Let me repeat: Texas. In the 90s.)

What that meant for me was: I got away with a lot. And I didn’t even realize how lucky I was. I had no reference point for what “normal” consequences looked like.

I worked at one of those mall salons — back when malls were still alive and well. I wasn’t a stylist; I was a **beauty school dropout**. So I did everything else: reception, training, payroll, inventory, all the behind-the-scenes chaos. Hair stylists are my people.

I didn’t usually work Mondays, but payroll had to be faxed in every other Monday around 9:30 or 10:00 a.m. (Yes, faxed. I told you this was some 90s shit.) I’d be in and out in about an hour. It wasn’t a bad gig, plus nobody goes to the mall on Mondays.

This Monday, the damn fax machine refused to cooperate. Took me an extra 30 minutes of button-mashing and swearing to finally get it through. By the time I left, I was in a rush and mildly unhinged.

I jump in my car and peel out. The mall loop — basically every mall’s got one — has a posted speed limit of 15 mph. That’s a joke. It’s meant for weekends when the parking lot’s packed, not Monday mornings when tumbleweeds are more common than shoppers. I was literally the only car on that loop… aside from one painfully slow, fully marked sheriff’s department car. Same kind my dad used to drive.

So I pass him. I’m doing maybe 30. He hits the lights, siren blazing. I glance in the mirror and see him screaming into his windshield.

Why are cops like this?!

It brought back a memory from a few years earlier: my friend’s boyfriend got a ticket on this exact loop, for rolling a stop sign that was completely blocked by an overgrown tree. They even took photos and fought it in court. After months of back and forth, the judge dismissed it. Why? Because the mall is private property. Tickets issued there don’t hold up.

So when this officer pulls me over, I’m confused but also curious. He stomps up to my window already yelling. No “license and registration.” Just:

“WHUT in the HAIL you thank yer doin’, lil lady?! The SPAYD limit is 15 mals an hour, and you passed me goin’ 35!”

(Translation: “What in the hell do you think you’re doing, little lady?! The speed limit is 15 miles an hour…” You get it.)

He’s fired up. I am not.

“I was late getting outta work…” I offer, hoping to just skip the pageantry.

“Then ya shoulda left earlier!” he interrupted.

God, they always think their unoriginal clapbacks are the greatest.

“I did leave earlier. It’s technically my day off. We had a fax machine from hell -”

“I don’t care about your excuses. Gimmie your license and registration.”

He says it like I’m supposed to be shaking in my Skechers. But I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t even mad. Just annoyed.

“Why?” I ask, genuinely confused. I’m not an idiot.

“You tryin’ to make this an issue it dudn’t hafta be, lil girl?”

“No, I’m just wondering what you’re doing, because it’s not like you can write me a ticket.” Confused, but confident.

“Whuddayoo mean, I can’t write you a ticket?!”

“It’s private property — what does my license and registration have to do with that?”

His face turns a whole new shade of magenta.

“I need to run your license. Make sure you don’t have any warrants. See if you’re wanted.”

“Okay. But I’m not wanted and I don’t have any warrants.”

“Only people who know they don’t have warrants are people on probation.”

He looked so smug when he said that — like he’d finally one-upped the smartass 19-year-old in the Geo Metro.

“OR, if their dad’s a police officer.”

I chuckled.

“My dad would make this look like child’s play if I had a warrant.”

“Where’s your daddy work?”

“[County Name] Sheriff’s Department.”

“Oh yeah? What’s he do?”

“I never remember… Internal… something?” It probably 100% looked like I was messing with his head, but I truly never paid any attention to what my dad did. “Cop” was good enough for me.

“Internal Affairs?” he asked, side-eyeing me like I’d just said I was in the CIA.

“YEAH! That’s it!”

He walked back to his car like he just found out he’s been yelling at the boss’s kid.

So I lit a cigarette and turned up the radio. Nothing to do now but wait.

When he returned, he handed me my license and said, “I’m gonna let you go… out of respect for your father being a peace officer………. But quit passin’ me in front of people!”

Yes. That’s what he said. “Quit passin’ me in front of people.”

They used to hate being called “cops.” They referred to themselves as “peace officers.” I still call them that sometimes… when I feel like being spicy, which honestly ain’t too much these days.