It was mid-August, 2007. I was headed down Maine’s I-95 on the way back to the boat down in coastal Georgia. The traffic was fairly heavy but moving. As I drove I was a bit distracted as I attempted to gobble my tuna salad hogie without having most of it fall in my lap. Something flashing in the rear view mirror caught my attention: Damn! a police car was riding my bumper!
I pulled off the highway and stopped, dreading what was coming next. I rushed to prepare for my visitor: I slid the window down; pulled my license out of the wallet which was tucked away in my purse which was inside the console which was under the sandwich. I found the registration inside the owner’s manual in the glove compartment. I then tried to push the hogie, its messy wrapping paper and a bunch of napkins out of sight. Still bent over, distracted, I heard a sound like someone clearing his throat, right over my left shoulder. I rose, turned my head, and at the sight of the bulky uniformed body filling the window, I confess I exclaimed something quite undignified like “oops!” or “yikes”!
The cop was certainly wide and short enough to stick his head half inside window. He had a round, normally cherubic face, which it certainly wasn't now. He put his fists on his hips. With almost visible effort, he screwed his face into his idea of a threatening scowl and said,
“Do you know the speed limit?” (pause) I said I believed it was 65.
“Do you know how fast you were going?” (pause) I took a guess at 75.
He took a deep breath, then said in a voice more plaintive than accusatory, “Why you were doing 80 - - you passed ME!
Dead silence. I guiltily shrank back in the seat and awaited the coup-de-grace of a monster fine.
He pursed his lips, furrowed his brow and said forcefully, “So…..WAKE…..UP!”
With that he about-faced and marched back toward his car. I was dumbstruck for a moment, astonished at my good fortune, then poked my head out the window and, in a venting of emotion blurted, “Th-thank you, officer!”
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