The Hartford Profile

Suppose you are a Hartford resident. Suppose also that you wake up this morning and you’ve got a list of stuff that has to get done (i.e., get your oil changed, read stuff, buy food). Where do you go? Where should you set up shop for the day?

I deal with this question a lot, and by the time I get out of the shower I often know that I’ll be off to Glastonbury. Why is this? For one, the grass is truly greener in Glastonbury, and they’ve got more of it. Second, no one has held me up at gunpoint in Glastonbury yet. Third, the score of the “breaking into my car” game is 4 – 0 with Hartford in a comfortable lead. Four, the libraries in Glastonbury don’t smell like urine – nor do they function as repositories of internet porn for a population of homeless dudes.

Now, I happen to despise the culture of Glastonbury. There’s the SUVs. There’s the soccer-moms that clutch their kids a bit tighter when you walk by (as if they smell the musk of Hartford on you). There’s the group of 40 yr. old guys at the yuppie bar whose ridiculously loud conversation is really meant for the big-cleavage bartender and whoever else might confirm them. And so on. But this is all Ok, as long as you are not from Glastonbury – as long as you are not one of them. That is, its Ok if you are visiting for the day, in which case you are using these people for their tax money and the niceties they subsidize.

Such was my daily scheme for a while, and it felt clever and romantic. But last weekend it cracked. I had been cruising Glastonbury in my Nissan. In the rearview I see a trail of cars behind me with a cop at the end. Everyone’s going slow, making full stops, etc. Then the cop speeds ahead of the pack so as to sit right behind me. That’s fine, I think to myself – I’ve got my seatbelt on and I’m obeying all the road rules. But the Nissan was looking rough that day – old and rusty. And my behavior (e.g., dangling my arm out the window) was more “pragmatic driving in hot Hartford weather” than “deference to Glastonbury cop.” I was pulled over, for no reason. I’ll skip the details that followed. The important point is that I was profiled: the only business I could have had in Glastonbury was to highjack a couple of BMWs.

When I crossed back into Hartford I felt a sense of relief. Here I could drive my beater anonymously. Here, I could see that the guy driving the car to my left was about done with his Corona. Of course, these low policing standards come with their own set of problems. But, as I have come to learn, it is important not to take them for granted.