Peggy Dover

I got pulled over the other day.

The last time it happened, I was driving my daughter’s Cabriolet convertible and she was in high school. I had no business driving that stick-shifted, motorized pop can. I would say soup can, but that would indicate substance. When it rained, a small creek formed near the driver’s seat. The novelty of its awkwardness drove her to distraction and she drove us to distraction until it was parked in our carport. When I spoke politely to the officer, I laid all the blame for the defunct brake light squarely on Emily.

The other day I had nowhere to place blame except in my own bosom. I’d been on my way to work and there’s a new trick light at the corner of Scenic and Highway 99. It hangs onto the green just until it judges you’re about oh, say, 20 feet away and going for it, then switches to yellow. I thought I had plenty of time before it screamed red. Apparently not.

Red is in the eye of the beholder, which happened to be an Oregon State Police trooper waiting at the light as I careened, I mean, as I safely executed the turn. I saw him make a quick U-turn, flip on the lights, and I knew his invitation was for me. It’s such a strange feeling, that blend of guilt, self-pity and panic.

Fortunately, I knew where my registration and insurance cards were, though I noticed later that the insurance showed expired. It hadn’t, but the card was old. If he’d waited and caught me the following week, my license would have been expired. Timing wasn’t against me entirely. I had made an appointment with the DMV to renew and get a real ID — there’s more to this story below.

He asked me if I knew why he pulled me over. He didn’t realize he’d become my straight man at that point. I was tempted to say, “Safe driving award?”

Being the other half of an unwitting comedy team can prove costly, however, so I said I reckoned it was for a late turn. I used the wrung-out excuse that I didn’t think it would have been safe to stop. Unsafe for whom? There was nobody but him within a half-mile. I forgot the new light was there? Then I prayed as I pictured my new insurance bill. He took my license and the whole caboodle back to his rig where he punched in my info to see if I was a fugitive from justice, while motorists drove by with sympathetic looks. Either that or riotous laughter. I put on a hangdog expression. Giovanni the Honda sat immobile and felt highly undignified.

When the officer returned and handed me my paperwork, he told me to watch the lights — no ticket. Oh, the relief that flooded my soul. I wanted to kiss him. It was then that my eyes were opened to how good looking he was, but I thought not to push it by asking him what he was doing later. He might opt for a sobriety test.

Last week, I went to my DMV appointment to renew my driver’s license, get a real ID and become legitimate. It had been eight years. I passed the eye test, never imagining that I might not, and realized how much I take for granted — like the freedom to drive. The friendly gal behind the counter read my old license with height, weight, eyes. All the same? Well, um, yeah. Then she asked if I wanted to continue with brown hair. Now, I was standing right there in front of her with hair the color of moonlight reflecting off the riffles of Little Butte Creek, and I had a choice? I could claim to be a brunette despite a full head of evidence to the contrary? I said no, I have silver hair and I’m proud. Shine on, silver sisters!

Oh, but the new picture? It’s ample reason for me to watch those lights.

I’m set for eight more years.

P.S. Thanks, Eric, for subscribing to read The Rogue Wanderer.