Much That Is Hidden

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We cruised along the windy two-lane road in the new-to-us sedan with the “touring” suspension and supercharged V-6. The car rolled the hills and took the turns like buttah. The conjunction of that with the bucolic scenery of backroads Tennessee and the pleasant conversation with Sweet Baboo, Mominlaw and Buddha Boy made it easy to lose track of the speedometer. You surely know by now where I am heading. Yes, a tiny little unincorporated burg, the proverbial “wide spot in the road,” sits just a few miles from our destination. “School zone, honey,” said the caring teacher of potential tragic roadkill.

“It’s Saturday, love,” I replied a second after tapping the brake in semiautomatic response to the yellow-trimmed sign, sans lights flashing. By the time she redefined the information as “Birchwood, 30 mph” (48 kph for our international guests), I was rounding a curve, the end of which revealed two county sheriff patrol cruisers parked in front of a boarded up something or other in that opposite vis-à-vis position convenient for conversation and the sharing of donuts and/or stashes of evidence for planting. The adrenaline surged my pulse enough to bug the eyes slightly while my throat did its little tourniquet act. They’re just hanging out, I unconvincingly told myself just a few seconds before the one that had been facing me flung a sprightly U-turn and engaged his blue light specials (didn’t I blog about that just a short time ago? Wow, I must be psychic, friends).

As I recall in most every instance of being pursued by the police, and I assure you that the majority of those times were for minor traffic offenses, there is this weird mental ritual I put myself through. It’s a kind of self-delusional surprise at realizing that the public safety employee is concerned with little old me, a sort of “Humdeedum deedum... What in the Sam Hill fiery brimstone tarnation of Islam?! Well bless St. Patsy (the patron of southern euphemisms)!! I better pull aside to facilitate this dedicated gentleman in getting to the emergency he surely must be responding to.” Reality sets in by way of that rather oxymoronic concept known as Fat Chance. I thought that perhaps by pulling into a church parking lot I could appeal to his sense of old-timey religion. Fat's evil twin Slim Chance, being more ironic than moronic, shot that one down right quick.

“Howah we dooin’ this mawnin’?” said the deptee as I held out my driving and insurance credentials.

“Not really so well. You?” I folksily replied with a sheepish grin. His look quickly reminded me that his type don’t take kinely to having any Yankee upstart pissin’ in their corn flakes on a fine summer Saturday morning. He had me dead to rights, 61 in a 30 (98/48 metric) – ouch. That’ll likely be a reckless driving violation and therefore a much heftier fine. If I’m lucky the Tennessee law enforcement computers won’t converse with Georgia’s and thus my insurance company’s to screw my premiums up for the next three years. The occifer took my documents and said he’d be back in two minutes. About 43 shakes of lamb’s tail later he returned with his clipboard and my citation mostly filled out. He leaned over and asked me few augmentary questions that didn’t seem to have shit to do with shit, then he raised up and started looking about from left to right with a “who farted?” look on his face.

“Ahm getting’ a STRONG whiff of...” in his pause I quickly thought, oil burning? “...Alkeehawl. Has anyone been drinkin’ recently?” The three adult occupants chimed in cheerfully incredulous unison in the negative. My mischievous brain devised a playful scenario in my head that was thankfully not forwarded to my mouth.

“Well sir, I’m the designated driver for our celebration last night (current time - 11:00 a.m. EDT). Yasee, mom here’s getting shipped out to Iraq on Monday, and we just wanted to take her and the grandkid out for a piss-up to remember before she goes. Now the little tyke got a bit crazy and so now he’s back there sleepin’ off a bastard behind the eyes, not to mention he’s teething, which I gotta be honest with ya was giving him NO trouble last night if ya’ know what I mean (insert knowing wink). Now if it’s all the same to you I’ll take that ticket off your hands. We’re a little pressed for time as momma and the boy still gotta go get their matching tattoos before she heads over to the armory.”

Now Sweet B is a smart little cookie, and she quickly surmised that since none of us had in fact been imbibing, the source of the smell was undoubtedly mom’s tin of Altoids, thoughtfully brought along to prevent her breakfastless stomach from giving the rest of us the supercalifragilipstickextrahalitosis weepies. Enter playful scenario #2, which twisted the curiously strong mint theory while zeroing in on both MIL's faithful hydration habit of carrying a water bottle with fresh lemons and B’s incorrigible germaphobia.

Sung to the tune of my best Foghorn Leghorn: “Well sir, I’m the designated drivah for our crew this mornin’ because momma here jes cain’t leave the house without her Absolut Citrontinis, and my luvly galpal in the back has a mild addiction to Germ-X, and I’m talkin’ the girl oughta just git a straw, if ya’ know whutta mean (insert knowing wink). Now I ain’t sure what the boy’s deal is. Hell I ain’t even sure he’s mine, but I will say that in the times I’ve had to watch him while his momma’s passed out, he’s sneaked off for a moment only to come back with a bad case of the bong breath. That’s um, from what I’ve been told the bong breath smells like, you see what I’m sayin’? So you’re prolly jes smellin’ them there furiously strong Altoids he’s all the time poppin’. But hey, that’s neither here nor there cuz he can’t drive anyway, right? Heheh. Say, can I go ahead and take that ticket off your hands? We’re a little pressed for time as junior, and that’s just a nickname since he’s really named after a negro jazz musician, junior’s got a Swim Babies session at noon, although I don’t see him doin’ much more’n staring at the sparkly water and drooling. Boy’s got what I call a cattywampus of the grey mattah, see? I mean the lad couldn't pour piss out a boot if’n the instructions was written on the heel, ya hear me?”

I signed it, he ripped it, handed it to me and said, “Don’t lose that now. Y’all have a wunnerful day, heaya?”

Playful scenario #3, The Courtroom. “Well Yeronner, I was the designated driver that fine summer morning...”

Aw, nevah you mind.

Labels: family, law enforcement, The South