How’s My Driving?

April 3, 2009 at 9:10 PM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | Leave a comment
  It was a cool, clear spring night after midnight, and Bryan was driving home.  His thoughts were on the many tasks he had before him in the next several weeks.
  Bryan had been an exceptionally careful driver lately.  Not for fear of death–not anymore, anyway.  He realized that his Mercedes-Benz was built tough and had air bags all over the place, and he would be relatively safe from most impact short of a satellite falling from the sky.
  No, the fear Bryan lived with was the fear of the law.  He had purchased this car almost nine months ago in June, but he had yet to license it properly.  State law allows 30 days.  But the sales tax was an enormous chunk of money, and it was more than he could come up with at one time.  He was waiting…waiting for a windfall, perhaps, so that he could get it paid and be legal in the eyes of the State of Missouri.
  He was almost home.  He was off the interstate and on the main drag.  A car changed lanes behind him.  Then the lights went on.  "Oooh, shiney!"  He marveled that it actually did look like Christmas in his rear view mirror. 
  With a sigh of resignation Bryan signaled and changed lanes, then made the turn to get off the street.  In his mind he explored his options.

  He hoped the police officer was a woman.  Bryan had a way with the ladies.
  "License and registration sir."
  "How you doin?"
  "License and registration, sir."
  "Here, you are, ma’am.  Might I say that you look lovely in uniform."
  "Oh, thank you.  Do you–"
  "I am always impressed with a woman who can do such a tough job and still look glamorous."
  She blushed.  "It’s nothing, I–"
  "You are SO hot."
  The jazz fusion music starts as she starts to strip off her clothes and climb on top of him in the front seat.

  But it wasn’t a woman.  It was a man.  Bryan wondered if it would work the same way.
  "License and registration sir."
  "How you doin?" 
  "Are you hitting on me?"
  He smiled back coyly.  "I don’t know.  Am I?"
  The cop touched Bryan and he felt electrified.  Specifically, he felt the electric shock of the tazer as he vibrated and peed on himself and bit his tongue.

  That would not be a good idea, he realized.  Defeated, Bryan handed over his license and the officer went back to his car.  This is my chance, he thought.  Bryan waited until the officer was back in the car, then started his car and quickly threw it into reverse.  He floored the gas pedal, and rammed the front of the patrol car.  Quickly he shifted into drive and gassed it, spinning around and heading for the the intersection.  There was a signal light.  The light was red.  Bryan stopped.
  He drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel and looked up at the light while planning his next move.  He had less than half a tank of gas.  His ill-conceived idea was to drive from St Louis to Mexico, change his name to Gunther, and teach English and golf.  His golf game could use some work since he hadn’t played in almost 20 years, but it had to be like riding a bike.  Or a unicycle.
  But the gas situation stopped him. He might only make it to Mexico, Missouri.
  Just then there was a tap on the glass.  Bryan turned to see a really pissed off cop waiting.  With a tazer and a nightstick.  Just shoot me instead, Bryan thought.  Don’t shock me and sodomize me.  I’ve been on that date before.

  Bryan accepted the ticket with a grunted thanks, then tsked himself.  He reflected that this is one of the times it’s good to be a middle-aged white guy.  The license plates don’t match on a Mercedes?  Must be stolen.  Let’s check your trunk for bodies and your anus for drugs.  Or vice-versa.
  "Get those tags taken care of, sir," the officer said, in a tone that mocked Bryan’s own when he said "sir" to the cop.  He meant it to be polite, and to keep from being thrown on the ground and beaten.  Bryan reflected that at his age, he imagined it would be more difficult to stand up after being face down on the ground with your hands cuffed behind his back…Not that he knew what that was like.  Really.
  Bryan had an outstanding warrant, and they still didn’t take him in.  It’s good to be white in America.  Of course, the outstanding ticket was a municipal code violation for excessive trash.  He was admonished to discharge that as well.  *Probably from my old rentor*, he thought.  Something about it sounded familiar.

  Bryan began to drive off and wondered…what probable cause did he even have to pull me over?  He never said what I had done.  Fascist.

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