Washboy
06-25-2008, 08:55 AM
Ah…the days of my youth, when full throttle travels were the norm. After burning rubber through the downtown intersection, I was lit up by Officer Boyd, the self-appointed thorn in the side of the town’s rascals and scalawags. He was an absolute stickler for order; no action that disturbed the peace or violated the town’s ordinances were left unpunished, regardless of how minor. His rumored legends included the story of his ticketing his mother for jay-walking during one of the three traffic jams that occurred in the 1950s. He possessed a very short temper, a trait that was matched by his stature. To see over the dash of his Ford Galaxy Police Interceptor required the addition of a 4 inch foam seat cushion.
Somewhat giddy from the evening’s prior events, I pulled to the curb to await my fate. But, my fearless attitude, fueled by adrenaline and raging hormones, wouldn’t let my smart-aleck mouth keep me from digging a deeper hole for myself. I wiggled in the driver’s seat as Officer Boyd exited his cruiser. In the rear view mirror, I could see him adjusting his gun belt as he approached. He strode quickly towards my door, his highly polished boots clacking loudly on the pavement. He struck his classic pose; feet apart, hands on hips, chest out, jaw clinched, eyes pierced under the brim of his Smokey Bear hat. His angry face reddened as I s-l-o-w-l-y rolled down the window. Expected a scathing diatribe on the order of a disrespected Marine Corp Drill Instructor, I was prepared to respond without animosity and all due respect for the authority before me.
“Yes Sir, No Sir, I’m sorry, Sir,” were typically regarded as the appropriate replies when confronted by this Napoleon Syndrome affected mega-maniac, this keeper of law and order, this protector of the peace, this little jerk who never experienced the joy of having a good time. A chill ran up my spine as he stood glaring and wordless for what seemed like an hour. Finally, he uttered the words that would result in the one year suspension of my driver’s license.
“I’m NOT happy!” He stated with a growl.
“Yeah?” I replied inquiringly. I turned to look at my nervous wide-eyed buddy in the passenger seat. The wide, smart-aleck grin formed on my face as I blurted my next regretful question. “Which one are you?”
Somewhat giddy from the evening’s prior events, I pulled to the curb to await my fate. But, my fearless attitude, fueled by adrenaline and raging hormones, wouldn’t let my smart-aleck mouth keep me from digging a deeper hole for myself. I wiggled in the driver’s seat as Officer Boyd exited his cruiser. In the rear view mirror, I could see him adjusting his gun belt as he approached. He strode quickly towards my door, his highly polished boots clacking loudly on the pavement. He struck his classic pose; feet apart, hands on hips, chest out, jaw clinched, eyes pierced under the brim of his Smokey Bear hat. His angry face reddened as I s-l-o-w-l-y rolled down the window. Expected a scathing diatribe on the order of a disrespected Marine Corp Drill Instructor, I was prepared to respond without animosity and all due respect for the authority before me.
“Yes Sir, No Sir, I’m sorry, Sir,” were typically regarded as the appropriate replies when confronted by this Napoleon Syndrome affected mega-maniac, this keeper of law and order, this protector of the peace, this little jerk who never experienced the joy of having a good time. A chill ran up my spine as he stood glaring and wordless for what seemed like an hour. Finally, he uttered the words that would result in the one year suspension of my driver’s license.
“I’m NOT happy!” He stated with a growl.
“Yeah?” I replied inquiringly. I turned to look at my nervous wide-eyed buddy in the passenger seat. The wide, smart-aleck grin formed on my face as I blurted my next regretful question. “Which one are you?”