At about 1:30 late one night this past weekend, I was leaning on my bike, staring tipsily at my plastic Streetwise Miami map, trying to figure out how to get onto the Venetian Causeway. I'm new in town. I have yet to cultivate the Miami taste for drunk driving.
The next thing I knew, a Miami Beach Police car pulled up to the curb, and a female officer stepped out. "Put down your bike sir, and move over to the car," she declared. I stared at her. "Put down your bike right there," she repeated, "and move over to the car. Now, sir." I was still wearing my helmet.
I leaned the bike against a light post. She told me to put my hands against the car, and started frisking me. "Were you at the pizza place, sir?" she asked as she moved up to the crotch.
"No," I lied. Then, realizing it was true, I practically shouted: "No!"
Another car pulled in and a male officer got out. "You were at the pizza place," he said.
"No I wasn't." I said.
He stared long and hard. "Sorry sir," he said finally, "she's a rookie."
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With that, he left. The female officer got in her car.
"Get back on your bike, sir," she barked, and drove off.
A piece of advice for the Miami Beach PD for the next time they catch up with me on the long pedal home: they'd have gotten farther asking where I had been.
No Miami Beach pizzerias contacted by New Times reported a disturbance that night and so far, Miami Beach Police have not responded to inquiries. --Isaiah Thompson