2002-07-21 - 11:19 a.m.
OH CRAP! I muttered under my breath as I glanced to my right and saw a police car lurking on a shadowed side street. I was accelerating to make a light, trying to keep from having to idle in traffic while watching the temperature gauge on my old car climbing steadily. And sure enough, in a matter of seconds he was in my lane with the red light blinking.
I'M BUSTED.
The young cop comes swaggering up to the car. When I roll down the window he says, "Ma'am, you were clocked going 45 miles an hour in a 35 mile an hour speed zone."
And I wanted to say "Look, you don't understand.... my car is overheating, and I'm just trying to get home and it's 100 degrees out here, and I've driven all over hell today..... I NEVER EVER speed. I even complain about people who speed. It was just an accident. I'm the biggest Grandma driver you ever met....."
But what I did say was: uh-oh.
He asked for my driver's license and I handed it out the window.
"Is all this information still current?" he asks.
I thought of saying, "Well, that picture is pretty unflattering. I don't wear my hair that way anymore, and I've put on a few pounds...."
But what I did say was: yes.
"Do you still live on Orchard Street?"
I thought of saying, "Well, yes, that would be included in my affirmation that everything was current. Or are you cleverly trying to catch me in a lie? We desperate criminals can't be trusted, you know."
But what I did say was: yes.
He takes my license back to the police car, probably to call in to headquarters and see if I am a desperate felon. (At least that's what they would do on TV, which is the source of all my information about the police.) It takes a while. I imagine that somebody is having to go to the basement to dig out my previous record. Because I AM a repeat offender: I got a speeding ticket in 1984.
Finally he returns, presumably having determined that my criminal record does not warrant the handcuffs/miranda warning routine.
"You'll receive notification in the mail of the amount of your fine. There is a number on here you can call to get a court date."
"You mean I have to go to COURT?" My mind flashes through all the court scenes I've watched on Law and Order. Am I a threat to society? Will I need character witnesses?
"Only if you want to try and dispute the ticket." he says with a smug little smirk, to let me know how certain he is that I wouldn't have a chance in hell.
He hands my drivers license and the ticket through the window. "There you go. Have a safe evening" he says.
I thought of saying, "I was driving safely when you were in diapers, buddy."
But what I said was: ok.(Proud, though that I refrained from saying "thank you." That'll show him.)
What started the whole odyssey in the first place was a (supposedly simple) trip to the photo supply store in Neighboring Suburban City. Skootie is a seriously talented photographer, and we have a basement darkroom into which she disappears from time to time to print her own pictures. She has been away from it for a while, dealing with a demanding new job and the master's degree. So she was looking forward to getting some new paper and chemicals, and printing some of her vacation pictures this weekend.
When we pulled up, the windows were blank and the doors were locked. It was gone. Just a couple of weeks ago we found the other good photo store had closed..... and now this one. Sometimes we joke about how our liking a store must be the kiss of death. Because things we like just seem to go away. Maybe it is partly because we tend to like the smaller, home grown places, rather than the big chains, and they are increasingly an endangered species. In this case, however, I think we are seeing the results of a technological sea change. Fewer and fewer people are developing and printing their own pictures since digital photography got so good, and you can do so much without chemicals or darkroom. But I hope there will always be some appreciation for the beautiful gelatin silver prints that a good photographer can create.
Disappointed, we made a long trek in the opposite direction to the grouchy-old-guy-downtown photo store, and finally got what we needed. It isn't so bad really, except that it is one of those places where all the merchandise is in the back room, and you have to know exactly what you want and ask for it. And then he will sell it to you if he approves of your choice.
So that was enough of the all-American pastime (driving around buying things) for one Saturday. We parked the car at home, and after cooling off for a while, strolled down to the Plaza for a book and Saturday evening supplies: a bottle of wine, some good cheese and crackers. On foot.
Having a safe evening.
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