So the last time, we left a story hanging with my big black truck leading a convoy down a little highway in Maine. We were in better spirits, we hadn't crashed, blown up or rolled over, and (at least this far) there were no major meltdowns from the young knights nestled amongst the piles of baby stuff in the back. I felt even better when we eased past the tricky intersection that is basically a three-way option all out of one lane. In Massachusetts, we would call this game "chicken." (i.e. you gun it at a spot along with the oncoming traffic until one of you peels out of the way, becoming the 'chicken')... in a truck, I am rarely if ever chicken, but today with so many impressionable future drivers aboard, I was extra polite. Figures.
Less than 2 miles from our final destination, I was distracted by a police car speeding up the other side of the road. I pulled gently over to the right to give him room up the center, then continued on. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him whip a hard U-turn about 200 feet behind me and pull into the traffic on our side of the road, so I eased back even further and let him go right past me. He declined my invitation, instead pulling directly behind us and flicking on the blue lights. He then had the odd sight of watching the next five cars behind pull off the road in perfect formation about 150 feet past us, all craning their necks to see what was going on. My brother, in the car directly ahead of us, had the cheek or the good nature (my vote) to give us a thumbs-up as we sat there waiting for the officer to tell us what was on his mind. He must have been in for a shock as he approached the big, rough-and-ready truck from Massachusetts ready to give me a piece of his mind, only to find a modern version of the Brady Bunch jammed into a pickup, nervously smiling at him. I think he was actually a little disconcerted.
"License, registration and insurance card," he boomed.
"Here you go-- insurance card?" Clearly I hadn't gotten the memo that I needed an insurance card with me at all times.
"Yeah-- do you know what I pulled you over for?" I don't get pulled over very often, but I do know what the correct answer to this question is... 'no sir, I don't.' The people that answer this question tend to end up on America's dumbest criminals-- "Yes, sir. I was drinking just a little bit, but I sure wasn't smoking the weed in the back seat." or "No sir, I don't know how the gun got back there." So I said I didn't know, which in this case was the whole truth anyway.
"I got you on radar doing 40 in a 25." This wasn't possible, and I now faced a awful decision. I hadn't been pulled over in Maine in a long time, and I couldn't remember how Maine policemen took to being challenged-- at this point, the way the day was going, I figured if I offered any resistance at all, I was going to be dragged from the car in handcuffs... now that would be a surprise for my grandmother! (and for everyone else, for that matter-- including the Queen, who to my knowledge has never driven my truck, and would have to learn in a hurry). So I once again said nothing. Elijah, meanwhile, was saying lots of things, quite loudly; "Look at the car, Daddy!"; "Pretty blue lights!"; "Drive truck now!" I couldn't have felt smaller if I were a midget playing NFL football.
Meanwhile, my beautiful wife, who is normally quite within her bounds to be termed the Queen, was steaming. "When he comes back, I'm going to tell him he couldn't have gotten you on radar," she said. "And then I'm going to ask where I can contest it, and how..." This went on for a decent while, until I suggested that it might cost as much in gas to contest a ticket 100 miles from our house than to just pay it. And her response is one of the reasons why I married her six years ago, and why I would again today: "It's the principle of the thing," she said.
While all this was going on, the officer came back from his car, and the game was clearly up-- sternly, he looked in my vehicle and said, with a hint (hint!) of a grin, "Make sure you go slower now..." and disappeared back towards his vehicle. Really... I thought to myself. Really. I didn't care that normally you let the officer pull out first. I wanted him to see the caravan pull away united. So I whipped out into traffic, five cars tucking back in behind and craning to see if I had a ticket, and started the (slow) drive the final two miles to our destination. It was noon... there couldn't be any more excitement to this day, could there?
This is why I never voluntarily go on vacation, I mused.
Tomorrow-- the grand finale-- what happened (or didn't) at midnight!!
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