Running, Part 3

To say that I was a bit freaked out over the State Trooper busting me from running from him was an understatement. And, in the interests of disclosure, here is what the ticket stated I had done:

– Speeding
– Driving Without A License
– Tint Too Dark
– License Plate Tags Out Of Date (fuck!)

Basically the guy threw everything but “Running From The Cops” on the ticket so he wouldn’t actually have to book or cuff me. Which I appreciated, obviously.

It also scared me so damn bad I didn’t speed for a whole week. Yeah, I know! The life changes were immense. Suddenly I was:

– Late More
– Pissed Off To Stay In The Slow Lane
– Pissed Off To Slow Down At Yellow Lights
– Tired of Leaving Earlier Than Usual

These culminated into a few MPH per day until I was back up around the comfortable 65–70. Better yet, that long stretch of road of which I had ran from one cop and got busted by the trooper? I have never, to this day, have seen another cop on it.

“But, but,” you protest, “you said you were busted on the same road!”

Yeah, but the same road name doesn’t have to be the same stretch of road.

Stupid nomenclature. Always messing with me.

Anyway, the road in question was intersected by a major highway, then began again in an even curvier stretch. A stretch in which hills and dips and 20MPH turns were not out of the question.

This is how I went 50MPH over a 25MPH hill, roller-coastering my way directly into his path. He was parked on the other side of the hill, waiting for shlubs like me to forget about them. Which I already had, of course.

It wasn’t until he was walking up to my car did I realize who it was.

Um, oh crap. “Hello Officer.”

“You know how fast you were going?”

My mind reels. He hasn’t mentioned the fact that just two weeks ago I dashed from his presence like a death row inmate set free. “Yes, too fast sir. I’m very sorry.”

“License and Registration.”

I hand them over. Okay, I say to myself. This is it. I’m totally busted.

He sits in his car, fills out paperwork, and gets back out of the cruiser. The cool morning air is nice, but the (now) familiar feeling of getting another ticket isn’t. Not to mention he has to have remembered me at this point.

“I’m writing you up for speeding,” he says without looking up, by rote. “Your court date is October 13th. You can call this number in a few days and find out how much the ticket will be if you would rather mail in the fine. The address is on the back.”

And…nothing. I make note not to look at him—I’m not that damn stupid—but nevertheless, he got all of my information last time. I was still driving that ratty ole Nissan. The same dark tint. I do believe I had updated the license plate, though.

I finally take the clipboard, sign it, and hand it back to him.

“Have a nice day,” he says.

“Than—Um, you too,” I say, because being the only guy who thanks cops for tickets will make him recognize me for sure.

He walks back to his car and drives off. I reach into my glove compartment, fish out the other ticket, and turn them both over. I would definitely have to show up to court for the tint thing on Ticket #1, so Ticket #2 would simply be taken care of by association if the dates were close.

Then I gasped. Oh my God. The court dates are the same!

Tomorrow: The finale.

Past sidewalk ashes, a last lover’s arc
You come apart to intertwine