One journalist's musings about the beautiful, bizarre world in which we live
DEC. 15, 2010
Lights and sirens. Again.
This time, somewhat legitimate.
We are back on the road in our little blue Sunfire, and my travel partner was driving us through Mississippi, doing 70 miles in a 50-mile zone.
In Cancún, I picked up a Guatemalan flu from my friend. That flu moved to my lungs, giving me a nasty cough. Now, as we were driving, I had a pseudo-pneumatic fit and the speed limit changed. My partner was distracted, and he didn’t slow.
As I was opening the window for air, I saw the officer sitting there in the ditch, waiting for speeders like us.
We pulled over, my partner patted my leg nervously and said, “Just keep coughing.”
So I did. The officer approached, and my bright red face and spit-spluttering kept him further than most would have stood.
“Gimmie your license.”
He handed it over.
“What kind of license is this?”
“A Canadian one,” my partner said, leaving out the obligatory “eh?”
“Where y’all headed to?”
“Do you know what the speed limit is?”
“It was 70, but then she started having an asthma attack and I didn’t see it change to 50.” I coughed a little harder at the mention of me.
The gruff officer handed back the licence.
“You slow down, now.”