Stopped by The Man

“Do you know how fast you were going?”
It’s a stupid fucking question.
Especially when you’re The Man. Driving a black-and-white state patrol car equipped with lights, sirens – and radar.

“Do you know how fast you were going?”
And you’d like to say, “Pretty fucking fast – I mean, faster than the posted speed limit, right, since you lit me up, huh?”
Or is it meant as a rhetorical question?
Maybe to seek out reflection in the listener. To assert the obvious.

I was speeding.

I know exactly how fast I was going, but I didn’t tell The Man. I was doing 78.
In a 65 mph zone.
On the Interstate.
(I was late to get to help a friend move. Not watching what I was doing.)

Oh, I saw him before he hit his lights. Even my “Smokey and the Bandit” training kicked in; I moved out of the fast lane in-between two semi trucks. I exited at the next exit.
He followed.
He hit the lights.

“Do you know how fast you were going?”
And I launch into this oracle about my friends, my lead foot, my fiscal need to not get a ticket at this particular time.
He was my age. He smiled, at least.
And went back to run my license and registration.

“Just back it down, OK? You’ll get there when you get there – going the posted limit.”
I gushed thanks on The Man.
(Then sped off.)
I was just kidding.
I backed it down.
Lesson learned.

1 comments:

svojoh said...

Last Sept I was racing some cocky guy between Wahoo and Cedar Bluffs and I got a ticket for going 96 in a 60. Wasn't cheap. Wasn't funny either