The man in his mid-thirties was walking on a sidewalk in a quiet residential neighborhood. He appeared to be choosing tree-shaded streets to avoid the sun and the heat.
He saw a man, a stranger, approaching from the opposite direction and was getting set to say a Good Morning when the man stopped several yards in front of him, as if to say something.
“Sir,” the stranger said, “and what might you be doing on a fine day like this?”
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“Oh, just out walking; you know, the daily walk.” He wondered why this unknown person was becoming so overly familiar, so soon.
“And who would you be?” the stranger asked.
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“Darrell. And who would you be?”
“What’s your last name?”
“Why all the questions?” asked Darrell.
The man pulled out a thick wallet which seemed stuffed with papers and money of all sorts. But pinned to the inside of the wallet was an impressive-looking gold-colored badge with black lettering.
“It’s my job to ask questions,” he said.
“So, why are you asking me these questions?” asked Darrell. “Am I suspected of something?”
“Your last name, sir?”
“Kazinski. Are you a city cop or what?”
“Let’s see some ID to verify your identity.”
“I don’t have any ID with me.”
“No driver’s license or credit cards or health plan card?”
“Nope, sorry.”
“Where do you live?”
“Over on Westwood Way. 243 Westwood Way.”
The man wrote it and his name down in a small and battered notebook. “But you have no ID to verify this?”
“No,” said Darrell, his voice tinged with irritation.
“So then, I can’t be sure about anything you’ve told me. You could be anyone, living anywhere. You could be out casing the neighborhood, seeing who’s home and who isn’t. You could be looking for children to kidnap.”
“You have quite an imagination.”
“You had best watch your tongue,” said the stranger. “Give me grief and I can make your life difficult.”
“What’s your SSN?” asked the stranger. When Darrell looked perplexed, the official added, “ … Social Security number. What’s your driver’s license number?”
“I’m sorry, I just don’t remember those numbers.”
“Surely you know your telephone number.”
“Sure, but I’m not inclined to give it to you.”
“One more response like that and I’ll have you arrested and taken in for non-compliance.”
“Non-compliance? Unless you have something concrete to charge me with, I can just walk away from you here and now.” Darrell’s voice was rising in pitch.
“You are required by law to fully identify yourself and answer any questions from me in full.”
“Again, your phone number.”
“344 924 3331,” said Darrell.
The stranger dutifully wrote it down.
“I suggest that you don’t fabricate any of this information you’re giving me,” said the stranger, because lying to an officer of the law is punishable by fine or possibly even imprisonment.”
“What is your date of birth?” asked the interrogator.
“This is going too far,” responded Darrell. “If I’m suspected of something, if you have something to charge me with,” then go ahead. There was a silence as the man intently looked him in the eye.
“No? Then goodbye, and have a lousy day,” quipped Darrell, as he turned and began walking away.
He hadn’t walked ten feet when he heard a sound, and turning, saw the man kick his legs out from under him, bringing him down on the grass beside the sidewalk.
“This is what happens to smartasses,” said the man. “You will cooperate or you will be digging yourself a deep hole, my friend.”
Darrell had to restrain himself from slugging the man, who was smaller and older.
“You will provide me with your date of birth, your place of birth, your place of employment and the telephone number there, your email address, your political affiliation if any, and the organizations you belong to. You will provide me with a reference, which could be a relative or friend. You will do this because you recognize that in order to keep this neighborhood and this city free of bad guys and crime, we must have complete access to information about those who look suspicious.”
Darrell sat on the grass and brushed some dirt and twigs off his clothing.
“So I just can’t be a person walking down a quiet street minding my own business? It’s like I need some sort of government license just to have the right to exist? I have to be registered so that I can lead my life free of people breathing down my neck?”
Darrell continued. “I am an American citizen. I have never been arrested. I served honorably in the military. I have never stolen from anyone. And yet, you are suspicious of me. You’re asking me to prove that I am completely and utterly attached and beholden to the infrastructure of this country. Does something sound weird here?”
“Just do what I say and there will be no trouble,” said the agent. “Behave yourself and you can return to your regular life. You will forget that this ever happened.”
By this time, a few neighbors had gathered to see what the encounter was all about. They were muttering among themselves. The stranger displayed his badge to them and they all looked at Darrell with looks that were getting harder with time.
Note: This is fictional story. All names, numbers and addresses are fictional. The graphic of a badge is fictional. Any connection with any person living or dead is purely coincidental.