They finally got me.
My daughter and I were coming back from her dance lesson in Schuyler on a Monday night and I was so excited to not be going the normal 58 miles per hour that is usual for my personal, miles and miles of Highway 30 travel. I happened to be following a car going 68 or 70 miles per hour for a change and I admit it, I couldn’t help myself, I was right there with him and loving the opportunity to actually drive my car.
Yeah, that’s me, I’m the one following you just close enough but not too close, impatiently pushing you to go 5 miles over the speed limit. Which is a frustrating waste of energy because we all know how difficult it is to pass on our beloved two-lane. I’ve got this car with “six-on-the-floor”, you heard me right, not five, six. That diesel engine is just aching to accelerate and yet we are forced to plug along at 58, day after day after day. It can’t be good for the vehicle or the driver, that’s what I tell myself.
I digress; the two of us were singing to the radio as we tend to do while in the car, both tired because Mondays are extremely long days for us. We were cruising along at light speed and all of a sudden the pace car in front of us slams on his brakes. Stupid me, I couldn’t figure out why. Then my co-pilot informs me that there are flashing blue and red lights behind us. I was too busy throwing my hands up to gesture at my racing buddy and his odd choice to decelerate for, what I thought was, no apparent reason. I didn’t even notice the intentions of the squad car in my rear view. Turns out, that car ahead of me was more aware of my surroundings than I was myself. I take back the gesture, whoever you are…you tried to warn me and I appreciate your effort. He, of course, was able to continue on his way as we, obligingly, pulled over onto the shoulder.
By the way, I have never really given it much thought before but there is absolutely no shoulder to speak of on the edge of our lovely country thoroughfare. Seriously. Our fine officer of the law was taking her life into her own hands just getting out of that squad car, walking basically into the flow of traffic, past her own car and over to mine. I was frightened for her, the walk seemed dangerous, someone should do something about that, like add another couple of lanes or something. The semi trailers were whizzing by her, just inches from her back side as she bent over with her flashlight to ask me if I knew why I was being stopped.
I haven’t been pulled over for many, many years but, in the distant past, I would have answered this question with a somewhat respectfully flippant: “No officer, I have no idea.” However, my child was sitting next to me and she knew that I knew…so: “Was I speeding?” seemed a more appropriate response. To which she answered: “Yes you were ma’am, do you know what the speed limit is on this highway?” I had to tell her that one correctly too because I know darn well that the “Tween” in my passenger seat would smirk or something if I lied and said I didn’t.
We got her the registration without too much scrounging around in the glove compartment and I managed to locate my wallet, which fortunately contained my driver’s license, from the back seat with my daughter’s assistance. Then, as our personal constable was about to return to her “office”, she looks at my face and asks me: “Have you had anything to drink tonight?” I had to think for a moment… it had definitely been a milk and water kind of day so I replied, quickly, though maybe too quickly, to the negative. I’m certain I appeared somewhat taken aback by her question, I’m not much of a poker player, because she responded defensively with; “Well I smell something coming from your car but I can’t really tell what it is.” All I could think of was that my nice new-car-smell has recently been replaced with the pungent, sweet, acrid fetor given off by the rendering process, among other untold processes. My current parking spot for 8-10 hours each day is located directly north of the waste water treatment area where I’m currently employed and the aforementioned “fresh scent” seems inevitable. I explained this to the officer and she responded with; “Uh, okaaay.” If the odor we exude, after a few beers, even closely resembles the smell of my car’s interior, maybe we should all reconsider and have a soda next Saturday night instead.
“Now what?” The inquisition began within seconds, once we were alone again and waiting. I laid it all out for her: “Now I get a ticket which won’t really cost that much on the surface, but I will pay for it monthly for the next three years as my car insurance will go up and this whole thing will suck over a thousand dollars from your college savings.” Did I mention I tend to be a bit over dramatic and blunt when I’m tired and frustrated? I try to be realistic with my impromptu educational opportunities concerning my child, no sense in beating around the bush. I made a mistake and not only am I going to pay for it, but unfortunately, so will she.
We were cut a lucky break, I was given a verbal warning when all was said and done. I’m taking it to heart, I’ll drive like the rest of you, staying within the letter/number of the law from now on. That’s the lesson I closed the conversation with as my girl, who is 3 short years away from driving herself, and I, finally continued on home to Morse Bluff. It never pays to drive faster, you don’t really get there any quicker anyway, and sometimes those few miles over the speed limit can cost you even more than an embarrassing traffic stop, a speeding ticket and a bump in your insurance premiums.
To the nice, young, officer that stopped me: I know you may not have added to your quota the other night, but you need to know that you made a huge impact on two of the lives you are out there to protect. Thank you.