NOW it’s an Adventure

The Texas State Trooper sees me (and my California plates)
before I see him.
They’re good at that.
If I wasn’t texting I would’ve seen him.
He wasn’t even hiding.
This is Panhandle Texas: flat and devoid of trees.
There ain’t nothin’ to hide behind.

I look in my rear-view and see him start to pull onto the highway.
I don’t think I was going more than 10 mph over the limit but
I pull over immediately.
Y’know, send the message that
Okay, I see you and you got me.  I’m not a criminal.
I got no reason to run.

I reach into the glovebox for my registration and insurance.
I roll the driver’s side window down, but no,
he’s coming to the passenger side.
Okay, I’ve seen that video where a trooper gets hit by a truck
while conducting a traffic stop.  I get it.
But wait, from the passenger side
he’ll have an un-obstructed view of…
PIANO RACER 5®.
Hmmm….

“How ya doin’ today sir?”
“I’m good officer, how are you?”
He looks like he could be half Mexican or Native American.
I try to think whether that could work for me or against me.
“Fine thanks.  Where ya headed?”
“All the way to New York.”
If the California plates weren’t enough,
now he has twice as many reasons to hate me.
“What’s goin’ on there?”
I resist the temptation to blurt out
A heck of a lot more than is going on here
and instead, I’m not sure why,
play a scale on the PIANO RACER 5® gaming console.
It wasn’t powered on, thank God, but it was clearly
(if he took the time to look)
plugged right into the car stereo.
“Gigs” I say.
Now this guy is probably thinking he’s hit the frickin’ jackpot.
A weirdo loner musician from California
driving all the way across the country to New York
playing a goshdarn keyboard on the passenger seat.  He says
“Okay.  C’mon back and hop in the cruiser with me
and I’ll write ya a warning.”

Now I don’t know about you, but I have NEVER heard of this,
or even seen it on TV.
Come on back and hop in the cruiser?
Best case scenario, he’s going to try to kiss me.
Worst case, I will be chauffeured to the local police barracks
(where they have special cells for city slickers)
and PIANO RACER 5® will be taken out to the back forty and shot.

“Okay” I say.
Now my inner voice self-coaching begins in earnest:
This is totally fine, Joe.  It’s broad daylight and you’re on an interstate.
He seems like a perfectly nice guy.
Step out of the car the same way you always do.  Now…
to lock or not to lock?
If you lock it
(and I don’t have a clicker,
so he’ll see me put the key in the door and turn it)
he’ll think you have something to hide.
If you don’t lock it and he wants to try to search the vehicle…

I don’t lock my car.  I walk back to his cruiser.
I put my hand on the handle, lift it, open the door,
get in, sit down, and shut the door.
I am now inside a police car.  All the windows are rolled up.
As he starts writing (a good sign,
no kiss attempts or other zaniness has yet ensued)
I look around.
In the back seat is a shotgun and a frickin’ M-16.
In the front seat is a laptop mounted on a really nice swivel arm
that holds it in a very ergonomic and accessible position.
Man, I need one of those for PIANO RACER 5®!
I can’t help myself and
“This is the first time I’ve ever been inside a police car”
comes right out of my mouth,
but when I hear myself say it, I think
Good, now he surely knows I’m not a criminal.

He’s writing.  I’m sitting and trying to look relaxed.
“How long ya been out in California?”
“Oh, about three years now.”
“Ya ever exper’ment with marijuana out there?”
Oh boy, here we go.
“Oh, no, not at all.”
Thank God I have short hair, am clean-shaven, and wear glasses.
“Have ya ever been around people
that were exper’mentin’ with marijuana?”
“Oh, yeah, y’know, it’s everywhere out there.”
(You know those crazy no-good Californians!)
“Ya mind if I have a look at yer eyes?”
Huh, maybe he does want to kiss me.
I take my glasses off and look at him.  He looks at me.

In my peripheral vision I see another patrol car
coming down the other side of the highway.
It slows down and starts to pull across the median.
“Here comes one of your, uh, associates” I say.
He looks over, then gestures toward my car
and resumes the questioning.
“Ya got a lot of stuff packed in there?  Sounds like a long trip.”
“Oh, yeah, but I made sure I can see clearly out the rear window.
Safety first.”
“Who’s respons’ble for the vehicle?”
“I am.”  Where’s he going with this?
Meanwhile trooper #2
has walked up to the passenger side of trooper #1’s cruiser,
and is sizing me up while putting on some badass looking black gloves.
“Ya got anything illegal in there I should know about?”

Now kids, you should stay in school,
stay off drugs, and stay under the speed limit.
But I did have some, how shall we say… medication in my car.
A tiny bit of bud in a plastic pharmacy vial.
And oh yeah, the CBD / THC chocolate.
And oh yeah, the THC espresso beans.
And oh yeah, the pre-roll in the glove box
that lives next to my registration and insurance.
I forgot about all those!
Sheesh, maybe I need to lay off the drugs.

As I open my mouth to answer,
I glance at his badge and see his surname:
HONESTO.  I s#!t you not.
I am about to lie to a cop named Honesto.
You can’t make this stuff up.

“No, no, not at all.”
“Alrighty then, ya have a nice day.”
He hands me the warning.
I get out of the cruiser.
Cop #2 is still sizing me up but then starts looking at Honesto like
Dude, WTF?  I thought we were gonna have some fun with
crazy city-slicker occasional pot-smoker guy?

I get back in my car.
I turn the key in the ignition,
put my signal on, textbook-style,
and gently drive back onto the highway.
I’m sorry Mom, Dad, God, and George Washington.
Apparently I can tell a lie, and make it plausible, too.
But seriously, Officer Honesto,
this one was handed to you on a silver platter.
You’re giving the smart cops of the world (all six of them) a bad name.
Oh well.  Some long-haired California idiot who’s actually high
and playing PIANO RACER 5® (or maybe Djembe Racer 5)
when you pull him over is bound to come along before too long.
Until then, if you somehow happen upon this blog,
pull me over again when I head back home in a month.
I’ll buy you a beer, or maybe a joint.
It must be stressful dealing with all of us wackjobs.