Lights, Camera, Pull Over
There are many things that make us jump, but none so more than the red-and-blue lights of a police cruiser burst from your rear view mirror.
Anyone who has driven with me, or behind me, know that I drive in the right lane at speed limit or below. Once, a friend drove behind me on the highway. After a few minutes, my cell phone lit up.
“Al, is that you?”, she laughed. “You drive like a turtle!”
Slow and steady wins the race.
So, the few times I was pulled over by the police, it was not for speeding.
About four years ago, the day before Christmas Eve, I dropped off supplies for a family gathering. With bad weather conditions forecast, I wanted to ensure that, if I couldn’t make the trip on the day of the party, my contribution would not be missed.
Afterwards, to get home, I had to take Route 31 in New Jersey. Let me preface this with, I hate Route 31. The road twists and turns so much that cars coming toward me look like they are in my lane. Now, throw in it was twilight and an absolutely driving rain/snow storm.
In my mind, a head-on collision was imminent.
To avoid that fate, under the rain and snow and death machines flying at me, I hugged the fog-line on the highway like we were dating.
Guess I squeezed a little too tight, because within seconds the red-and-blue lights beckoned me to pull over to the shoulder.
I turned on my interior lights, gathered my documents, and waited for the officer to appear by my driver’s side window, which was half-open to limit the amount of water that invaded my car.
When the officer arrived I hand over my documents, then we chatted a bit. His concern was that I periodically swerved over the aforementioned fog line.
He inquired that, since it was a few days before Christmas, perhaps I was coming from a work Christmas party and maybe had a few drinks?
At this point I have to either bluff my way through or tell him the truth.
Well, truth hurts, but here we go.
“No Christmas party, I just hate driving on this road and driving at night. I feel like the cars are driving at me, and in this weather, I prefer the fog line to the center line.”
A long pause followed, then…
“OK,” he handed me back the documents, “you have a good night.”
So, back to the highway of death I went.
Spoiler alert, I didn’t die.
Now jump to last week. Just a few miles from my house, on a two-lane back road, the car behind me exploded with red-and-blue lights and insanely bright headlights blinded me.
On the shoulder, turned on the interior lights, lowered the windows, and gathered my documents. The officer, now framed in my passenger door window, asked for my license, insurance, and registration which I promptly handed to him.
He introduced himself, and informed me that I was being filmed.
That was bad because I heard the camera adds about fifty pounds.
The officer then asked, “Do you know why I pulled you over?”
Told him no, I did not.
“Well,” he continued, “you weren’t speeding (which comes as a surprise to no one) but I noticed you swerved over the double line a few times. Where are you coming from?”
Then added, “Did you have anything to drink?”
I told him I was coming from The Rail, in Whitehouse, which is a bar/restaurant that does trivia on Wednesday nights (maybe too much of a back story) and that I had two glasses of red wine between 7:30 and 9:30.
In a very short time I found myself standing behind my car. The police cruiser’s headlights illuminated me to cars that passed.
“First,” the officer stated, “stand up straight with your feet together.”
With feet together, I turned into a Weeble about to fall down. At my age, and with a blind spot in my right eye, my sense of balance has been compromised over the years, and this would be a horrible time to waver.
“Keep your head straight, and follow my pen with your eyes.”
(Don’t fall over, don’t fall over, don’t fall over)
“Okay.”
The pen in front of me moved left to center to right. I followed with my eyes, but then:
“Don’t move your head.”
“Sorry.”
Center, left, center.
“Don’t move your head.”
“Sorry.”
You would be surprised how hard it is, standing on the side of the road, at night, bathed in the beams of a police car, not to move your head as an officer waves a pen across your field of vision.
After a few more minutes the officer, convinced I was not drunk, told me I could leave.
Back in my car, hands firmly cast at ten and two on the wheel, I made it back to my house unscathed.
Hopefully, in the future, no red-and-blue lights will come alive in my rear view mirror ever again.
Remember, slow and steady wins the race.
Maybe I should make a bumper sticker.
