Shortly after my 18th birthday, I went to downtown Quito to get my driver’s license. There was a written test, after which an officer sat down with me to review my answers. Halfway down the page, he frowned and pointed to question 17: “Where do people pay their fines for traffic violations?” I had written, “They pay the officer.”
“That’s not the right answer,” he said sharply. And I answered, “It didn’t ask where they’re supposed to pay the fine – just where they do.” The officer’s eyes crinkled at the edges as he tried to hide his smile. I got my license.
Over the years, the police and I have continued to develop this somewhat odd relationship founded largely on amusement. Granted, the amusement is generally unidirectional, but I’m not about to quibble.
Like the time I was driving through Kansas and got pulled over for going two miles over the limit. As the policeman approached my car, I grabbed my map and rolled down the window. Waving the map at him, I burst out, “I’m so glad you’re here, Officer! Am I on the right road?” We reviewed my route, and then the officer said he was only giving me a warning ticket. Any guilt I might have felt at my feigned ignorance disappeared when he followed that with “because I see you’re from Texas – and don’t know any better!”
Then there was the state trooper who pulled me over on the way from Houston to Dallas. In the back seat, my two little boys carefully guarded an aquarium, complete with hermit crabs. It was a birthday present to my elder son from his uncle and aunt. I still haven’t exacted my revenge on them for it. At any rate, the trooper gave me a ticket for the expired registration (oops!) but let me go on the speed once he got a whiff of those hermit crabs.
And who can forget the patrolman who pulled me over after I’d dropped my kids off at school? I didn’t have my license with me. The officer grinned and suggested that if I wanted to drive my children to school while barefoot and wearing a bathrobe, it might be good to at least grab my purse on the way out.
But in all these years, none of my encounters have ever involved SWAT. Until today.
I was on my way to an assignment; the radio was on, and the traffic report warned of snarled traffic ahead. Sure enough, brake lights started flashing as cars slowed down. Not wanting to be late, I eased over and off the freeway into East Dallas.
Not terribly familiar with the roads in that area, I took the first westbound street with a name I recognized. Unfortunately, it didn’t go straight into town. After a few blocks, the left lane suddenly ended, forcing the driver to turn left. I was in the left lane. I didn’t want to go left. It was getting late and I was distracted by the to-do list that kept rolling around in my head. So I did what I righteously criticize others for: I came to a full stop and then edged the nose of my car toward the right lane, hoping someone would let me move back in.
In doing so, I accidentally cut off a white SUV, forcing it to swerve slightly. The driver kept going. The car behind me – also white – slowed down and let me move into the right hand lane. I glanced in the rearview mirror to wave my thanks. The white car behind me responded with flashing red and blue lights. Oh joy. I glanced ahead. The SUV had lights on top also. My illicit move had neatly sandwiched me between two police cars.
Meekly, I drove into a side street, stopped and rolled down the window. I couldn't help giggling a bit. The officer approached, shaking his head. He was laughing. “I’m so sorry!” I told him, “I’m on my way to court and got off the freeway to avoid traffic...”
“Court?” he asked, suddenly not laughing so much.
“Henry Wade,” I gave him the proper name for the juvenile courthouse. “I’m an interpreter.”
For some reason, that made him laugh again.
“Well, next time try not to cut off a SWAT car!” He gestured, and I saw the white police SUV approaching from the front. Dallas SWAT. The driver rolled down his window. He, too, was chuckling as he pulled up. I babbled an apology. The officer who pulled me over told his SWAT buddy, “Yeah... she’s an interpreter.”
And for some reason, that only intensified their mirth. After a few seconds, they both drove off without another word to me.
I didn’t mind. I’m sure we’ll meet again to laugh another day.
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