Yes, there but for the grace of God (and my dogged determination to stay the heck out of traffic school) go I. Every morning, on my way to Starbucks with my laptop, when I see the darkened car with its darkness-defying P O L I C E insignia emblazoned on the side "hiding" in the school parking lot, I give myself a virtual pat on the back (virtual because both hands are placed firmly on the wheel in the "ten and two" position) for doing nothing wrong. My speedometer needle hovers just under thirty, my cell phone is out of reach, and I have had nothing to drink, not even coffee. Bring on the breathalyzer, Officer. Morning breath may be offensive, but it's not illegal.
So I was a little taken aback when the car hiding in plain sight actually pulled out and followed me this morning. Maybe it was a power thing; could he see, each morning, my defiant little wink? Maybe he was just taking a coffee break, but Dunkin Donuts was in the other direction, so that couldn't be it. Then came the heart sinking lights. I looked around. There was nobody else on the road. Why would there be at five o'clock in the morning? Had my luck run out?
The entire process is designed to be psychologically damaging. Interrogation 101 -- they start breaking you down immediately. As if the Christmas tree lights aren't enough, there's a ridiculously bright light pointed directly at your side view mirror so if you try to look back and see what the cop is doing you pretty much lose sight in your left eye. I sat, then, looking straight ahead, shielding my eyes with my left hand. Good thing I didn't need my right hand, which was clutching the two Excedrin I planned to wash down as soon as I got my coffee. Shit. Could this be a drug bust? I was being broken down already; a lifetime of minor and not so minor misdeeds flashed before my eyes.
As it turns out, one of my headlights was out. Did you know that, ma'am? Well, since I'm usually sitting behind the wheel when I drive, how the fuck would I know that? Goodness no, Officer, I had no idea! That's what I said out loud. Thanks for letting me know. Can I get my coffee now? I said that to myself. Which explains why he seemed to not have heard me, and asked me for my license and my insurance card so he could just write me up a warning, assuming the license and insurance were in order. I thought about asking him either to just give me a verbal warning or to at least turn off the light that was blinding my left eye while he wrote up my warning, but I'm just smart enough, occasionally, not to push my luck.
All I can say is it's a good thing the cops can't see everything that's not working in my house. If it took this long to write up a warning for one burnt out headlight, I'd probably be put away for life for all the stuff that's broken at home. Note to self: Have Cal the handyman install the ceiling fan in my older daughter's room, even though she doesn't live there anymore. I found the ceiling fan on the floor of her closet yesterday when I was cleaning things out. For all those years, my eldest child was sweating her ass off in the summer while the ceiling fan sat on the floor of her closet (and, if the three space heaters in the same closet were any indication, freezing her ass off in the winter). If DCFS only knew. And that's just the tip of the iceberg, but I'm keeping the rest to myself. You can never be too careful.
I have ten days to get the headlight fixed, and, if my promise to my realtor is to be taken seriously, just about ten days to get my house on the market. If I were a bettin' woman, I'd put my money on the headlight. It's manageable, and, frankly, I think I can afford it.
The house may never be ready. But in ten days, when I drive by that cop parked in plain sight in the school parking lot, you can be damn sure I'll have my hands at ten and two and my cell phone will be out of reach and my speedometer needle will be hovering just below thirty. And both headlights will be shining brightly, even if it's light out by then. And maybe I'll even slow down -- just so he can see me wink.
No comments:
Post a Comment