Pulled Over at Midlife – First Time for Everything

Flashing red lights reflected in the rearview mirror caught my eye.

I slowed my car to allow the officer, no doubt hot on the trail of some nefarious ne’er-do-well, to pass. At the ripe old age of 40-something, I had never been issued a moving violation, or even pulled over for a warning, so it didn’t occur to me that the officer might be signaling moi. I stuck my arm out the window and waved him on.

Panic and dread set in as a siren now accompanied the lights, and the cruiser pulled in behind me. This can’t be happening. There must be some mistake.

Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t claim to be a perfect driver. Indeed, I’ve made my share of illegal U-turns, “California stops,” and sped through my share of yellow — Oh-shit-it-turned-red! — lights. But at the ripe old age of 40-something, I felt secure in the knowledge that I was blessed with a sixth sense about when to test these liberal interpretations of the vehicle code.

Until now.

What could be wrong? My late model Nissan could not have a burned out tail light. Oh gawd! Did I run that last stop light? Was it green when I approached, or yellow? I couldn’t remember. My face was on fire. I felt faint.

This was my maiden cop stop. My first hoedown with the heat. I didn’t want to blow it, but I had no clue as to the proper etiquette. They didn’t teach that in driver’s ed.

As the burly uniform approached my car, I reminded myself to smile.  Address him by name, I thought. Then I glanced at his badge. Lukasiewicz? Seriously?

“He-hello, Officer Luka…Lukassa…uh…Sir,” I stuttered.

“I just clocked you on radar at 57 m.p.h.,” he said, in his best Joe Friday. “Where you going in such a hurry?”

“Fifty-seven? That’s impossible. I never go more than five miles above the posted limit,” I wanted to protest. But instead I rambled. “I’m on my way to my daughter’s apartment…uh, in Pleasanton…uh, to take her some left over spaghetti.” I snapped up the translucent blue plastic bowl from the passenger seat for supportive evidence.

“License and registration, please.” More from Officer Monotone.

I popped open the glove compartment, tossed a Manilow’s Greatest Hits CD case and a maxi pad in a bright pink wrapper on the floor before retrieving the requested document.  My license — the temporary one you get before the permanent one with the hideous picture arrives — stuck in the little window slot in my wallet. I wedged my fingernail in to free it, then handed the papers through the window.

Unfolding the license, Officer Lukawhatsizname asked, “Do you have the one with your photo on it?”

“No, I just got married and changed my name. See?” I said, wiggling the fingers on my left hand in front of my face to display my wedding ring.

“Calm down,” he said, now chuckling. “I believe you.” Careful Joe, I thought, your emotions are showing.

“You know,” he said, regaining his cop tone, “the speed limit through here is 40 m.p.h.”