I have a vanity plate on my car.
For those of you who don’t subscribe to such frivolity, allow me to educate you: you must also pay for a “regular” tag – the kind with the combination of letters and numbers that are impossible to memorize – and keep it (up to date) and in the vehicle at all times.
Today I was speeding north (literally) to make a meeting….and I got pulled over by a Highway Patrol motorcycle cop. Not so much even “pulled over” as “he stood by the side of the highway next to his bike and angrily waved me over.”
Like when the teacher jabs her finger at you without a sound and you slither to the floor like warm Jello…viscerally paralyzed…beyond your own control.
<Must work on my “jabbing demonstrably” game.>
I veered starkly onto the shoulder, slammed it in park, hit the hazard lights, rolled down the window, and placed my hands on the steering wheel. [I’m a good little girl.]
He approached and I asked what he needed (like I’d never been pulled over before – HA!) and he said “license” – which I produced immediately, and I asked, “insurance, yes?”
And he nodded (curtly, of course, or as curtly as one can nod wearing a motorcycle helmet that weighs forty pounds and is so tight with so much padding he could (a) hardly bend his neck, and (b) barely open his lips to show his teeth).
I began rummaging in the center console and in the glove compartment (why do I have a mini box of Honey Nut Cheerios in there???) and apologized profusely for not being able to produce documentation quickly. He waved me off and said he could “look it up” and began strutting back to his chopper. He stopped, turned, and spat out, “by the way, you were doing 67 in a 50 in a construction zone. That’s why I pulled you over.”
(You mean magically waved me over…) I puffed air upwards into my hairline and winced.
He went back to his cop cycle and “looked me up” (for all I know they stand back there for five minutes playing Angry Birds) while I sifted through two flashlights, another (!!) box of cereal (Golden Grahams), some baby wipes (I don’t have a baby…but they’re great on leather seats), a hairbrush, the owner’s manual, 14 ponytail ties, and – no joke – SIX pairs of sunglasses.
I finally found my papers as he was goose marching back towards me. “I found them!” I crowed, and he kind of waved me off but then said, “it’s okay…no, wait, let me just take a quick glance…the system isn’t pulling up your tag.”
“Oh! I have my regular tag in my trunk – would you like me to get it?” (IMMEDIATELY regretting this statement as I had ZERO idea what else was in my trunk.)
“I can get it, ma’am (please stay in the vehicle you ignorant broad was implied). Can you pop your trunk from there?”
Uhhhhh….new car and I’m still familiarizing myself with this new fangled machinery, but I just learned four days ago (I’ve had the vehicle since July) that I actually CAN pop the trunk from inside. Neat!
I leaned my head out as I hit the button and said, “I know the plate is in there, but…please, sir, if you don’t mind, could we just ignore the bodies I have stashed back there and focus on the speeding part today?”
And then wished one of those flashlights was a sword so I could commit hair-kari on the spot.
WHAT DID I JUST SAY???????
He returned to his motorcycle (to get his Taser, I presumed), played some more Angry Birds, talked on the walkie, and probably arranged to have S.W.A.T. descend in a helicopter.
When I saw him striding purposefully towards my window again in the side-mirror, I braced myself for the silver locking bracelets. Oh, God…this is going to suck. Orange really washes me out.
He knelt down by my open window with his gloved hands on my sill. “Here’s what I did,” he said, like a fat kid whose face has been squished in the elevator doors, “I only wrote it for 10 over, not 17, and I left off the construction zone. That took a five hundred dollar ticket down to a hundred bucks. Think of it as an early Christmas present.”
My faith in humanity has been restored. The Highway Patrol has a sense of humor.
And a blind eye. 😉
Half Maverick 
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