The law. Monday, I had a brush with the law. That’s right, I got pulled over.
Being pulled over in New York is an entirely different thing altogether from being pulled over in the great state of Alabama.
In the state of Alabama, the law doesn’t mess with people driving, say, between zero and a hundred miles an hour. That is, unless you’re driving through a certain small town near Andalusia.
A year ago I was driving through this town at the maniacal speed of 36 mph. As I g. I saw the entire police force thundering up behind me, sirens wailing, lights flashing
I was a one-man crime wave.
The town’s police force, firefighters, city council, mayor, and dog catcher approached the car.
He looked at me and said, “Son,” (all great police monologues open with “son”. “You in some kind of hurry?”
“No officer, I’m just going to see my grandmama in Andalusia,” I said.
“Andalusia, huh?” “Yes sir,” I said.
“Ya’ll will be very happy when they build that bypass around us, won’t you?” he said.
“Oh, no sir, I just love this town. I eat at the Sandwich Shop all the time. I like slowing down to soak it all up. Especially at Christmas with the big tree by the railroad tracks. You can’t get that sort of thing from a highway,” I shamelessly said. I hoped he would buy it.
“Who is your grandmother?” he asked. “Edwina Murphy,” I said.
“Your grandmother is “Metalfoot Murphy?’” he asked. This was a bad sign.
“You know her?” I asked.
“Know her? Know her? Your grandmother and I are on a first-name basis. She blew through here just last week.”
“So I guess you’re going to write me a ticket,” I sighed.
“No, exceeding the speed limit is just in your blood, I guess I’ll put it on your grandmother’s tab.”
The law in New York isn’t quite that friendly.
Going 75 mph up 1-87 towards the Adirondacks, I was looking at the trees. I haven’t seen trees in about six months.
I wasn’t worried about the law.
I figured that in New York they’d be busy rounding up the drug addicts, mother stabbers, father robbers, and general nogoodniks.
So when the red rollers came up behind me I assumed the law was after someone up the road. Shoot, who would pull over a guy doing 75 mph in a Buick?
If you’re only going 75 mph in Alabama, you had better be driving in the breakdown lane.
Whenever I see police lights rushing up in my rear view mirror, one thought runs through my mind: I have the overwhelming desire the slam the accelerator through the floor, crank the wheel and send the car into a “Rockford Files” spin, and yell,
“You’ll never catch me copper!” as I wildly shout up the vehicle of my pursuer. Usually, however, I just pull to the curb and mutter expletives to myself. This is what I did Monday.
The New York policeman came up to my window and said, “License and registration.” It was a bad opener.
It took me five minutes to figure out where the heck my registration was.
I told him how much I loved New York. I said he had a snappy uniform. I admired the pen with which he wrote mę a ticket.
I even resorted to asking him if he knew my grandmother (he said she sounded familiar).
It didn’t work. He gave me the first citation of my automotive career. I wondered if he was a direct descendant of Grant or Sherman.
And that wasn’t the only fine I ended up paying during my jaunt in upstate New York.
Those of you who have driven up here might recall that there is a tollbooth nearly every 10 miles.
At one booth outside of Albany, I was running out of quarters and I decided to ask the keeper how many more tolls I would encounter, “You get a ticket,” he said. “Do what?” I asked.
“You get a ticket, swift,” he said a bit louder.
“I’ve already gotten a ticket. What’s the next one for?”
“You get a ticket, swift!” he hollered at me.
Clearly, Mr. Tollbooth wasn’t in a talkative mood. I didn’t want another ticket. I wanted to either, a: cry; b: burn down the tollbooth; c: turn the Buick around and drive to Alabama.
Since I didn’t have gas money to make it back to Andalusia, I decided to repeat to myself, “He is a Yankee tollbooth collector. He is also a jerk. That is why he collects quarters all day.” you’d be surprised how well that works.
Sure enough, I did get a “Ticket” for $3.50 to drive through the rest of the tolls.
And I did finally make it to my destination.
But my advice for any Andalusians trying to drive up here is this: take the bus.