The Perils of Creedence Clearwater Revival

The radio was playing CCR, the sky was bright blue, the two-lane road was wide open; I was driving fast and drumming my hands on the wheel to the beat.  I was driving the Subaru that we leave out in Montanta, and compared to my truck, that car will fly.  The wind roared past the door seals.  Yellow dotted line smearing by, G-forces pressing me against my seat belt in the curves.  I’d never seen a cop on this part of US 191, and I figured it was unlikely that any cops would be working the beat on Thanksgiving morning, so I was cruising.  Radio playing as loud as Duke could stand.  You try driving a fast car on an open road in Montana when “Down on the Corner” is playing and obeying the speed limit – I challenge you.  It can’t be done.

A vehicle came over the hill ahead of me.  I peered at it as I got closer.  A blue pickup truck – no problem.  I resumed singing – “Rooster hits the washboard and people just gotta smile . . .” – and Duke stood in his seat, looking at me, wagging his tail, wondering what the hell I was saying and why.  The way fishermen wonder why fish jump.  I grinned and was reaching out to pat his head when a low-profile light on the roof of that pickup flashed blue, then red.

Damn.

I hit the brakes hard and Duke nearly fell off the seat.  I wondered how far over the limit I was – I didn’t know how fast I was going, but I was pretty sure it was north of ninety.  The truck started to pull off the pavement, so I slowed down and stopped.  In Georgia, I thought, you can lose your license for exceeding twenty-five over.  I didn’t know what the speed limit was on this road.  The truck turned around, lights flashing on the roof and in the grille now, and pulled behind me.  I swore.  How high would I need the speed limit to be for me not to have broken it by twenty-five?  Seventy?  In my rearview mirror I could see the cop step out of his truck.  I doubted the speed limit was seventy on a two-lane road.

I remembered someone telling me that cops like for you to have both hands on the wheel when they approach.  Apparently if you do that, the cop might figure you know what’s going on and think you’re involved in law enforcement.  I cut the car off and dropped the key in the cupholder and put my hands on the wheel.  Maybe he’d write me a ticket for slower than I was going.  I’d heard of that happening.  I would have to ask; this could end badly unless I caught a break.  The cop was growing larger in my rearview mirror.  A big cop, too; taller than six feet and broad at the shoulders.  I realized I’d forgotten to roll the window down.  I looked at the door – damn, power windows.  I put the key in the ignition and was fumbling around with the window switch when the cop bent down and placed his aviator-shielded face on the other side of the glass.

“Good morning,” he said when I finally got the window down.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” I said with more bitterness in my voice than I’d intended to allow.

“How are you today?” he asked.

“Well, I was doing alright.”

He chuckled slowly.  “You were doing –” he raised his left hand above the doorsill, held it palm-down and rocked it side to side the way people do when they’re describing something approximate – “about ninety-two.”  He paused.  “That’s a little fast for here.”

I looked at the wheel.  “Yes it is,” I admitted.  I was about to launch into my best excuse, which I had planned to use for this occasion because it would also lead into my excuse for not having an insurance card, that I didn’t usually drive this car, I normally drove a heavy-duty pickup, and this durn car is so smooth that you can get to going so fast without realizing it, and . . . when he spoke.

“Try and slow it down a little,” he said.

I couldn’t believe it – was I going to get out of this?  “Uh – yes, sir, I’ll do that, I . . .” I stammered, still looking down.

“Just slow it down some,” he reiterated.  I noted a large fleshy protuberance in the left side of my vision and realized that it was the cop’s right hand, extended for a handshake.  I looked up into his glasses and shook his hand.  It was not the hand of a man with whom you’d want to get in a barfight.

“I sure will,” I said.

He chuckled and rose to his full height so that I was looking at his belt buckle.  “Have a good Thanksgiving,” he said as he walked away.

As a wise man once said, I’d rather be lucky than good any day.  All the same, I set the cruise control to sixty-five on the way home.  It helped that CCR was finished playing.