Yes, Officer. No, Officer.

Day two, 2,661 more miles to go to reach my hallowed halls of higher education. It's just me, and my trusty red sports car, Ethel Mertz. Three more days before class starts, and I've got to pick O up in Sioux City, Iowa. I'm cruising along on a 158 mile 2-lane stretch of Highway 54. The windows rolled up, air conditioner and techno music blasting, I'm making rock star time going through the panhandles of Texas and Oklahoma.

Signs ahead

Seeing a construction zone, I slow down to what I subconsciously believe is a reasonable speed. More braking pressure, and the red bullet becomes a buggy, as I approach a school zone inside the construction zone. Cars pass on my left; the radar detector goes off as a police vehicle passes by. A few more yards, and I'm home free. I speed up again...

An hour and a half later...

Getting caught up in the 900 mile day-trip, I fly over a hill bopping my head to the beat, when the radar detector goes off. *Beep* Reflexively, I tap on the brakes. *Beep* *Beep* The sounds get faster. I see nothing. *BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP* The black box has a cataclysmic fit, and over the hill in the rear view mirror, I see the familiar red and blue of the movies. "Oh, they must be pulling someone else over, I should slow down," I think. 85, 75, 70, 66, 63, 60, 55, there I maintain speed. Red and blue approach.

Trouble from the back

The white police car rapidly approaches my rear bumper and holds steady. "Oh my god! He's pulling ME over! What do I do? What do I do? Ok... remain calm." Disturbing the roadside gravel, my hot tires give off a little steam. I kill the ignition, and start hyperventilating... the officer condescendingly saunters up to my car, hand on his gun. *tap tap tap* I roll down the window. Sternly, the aviator style glasses request, "Drivers license and registration. Now." I obediently produce them. Looking at the papers, he gruffly spouts, "Do you know why I pulled you over?" Hands becoming clammy, and the fleshy vibrance disappearing from my face, I respond, "Because I was going too fast?"

"Yes. Do you know how fast?"
Tears welling up in my eyes, my voice crackles, "I don't know! Maybe like 90? All I remember is there was a 0 at the end of the number! I'm so sorry, officer!"
"Ok. That's not why I'm pulling you over. An hour and a half back, I caught you speeding through a school and construction zone. It's 15 mph there, and I caught you going 35. I've been chasing you since then. I was about to call in a roadblock before you crossed the state line. Step out of the car, and put your hands on the top of your car. Don't move from that position."

My head racing, arms shaking, I miraculously find the strength to open the door. Eyes electrified, and legs of spaghetti, I do as I am instructed while the officer goes back to his car, presumably to get a baton to beat me with. Mentally screaming bloody murder, I think, "Oh no, I'm so screwed! I'm out in the middle of nowhere, no one to help me, I have to get to school, and pick up my friend, and now I'm going to jail. Help!" To make matters worse, I couldn't pull out my hair. A minute passes.

The officer approaches again and tells me to follow him to his car. I get in, and he calls the dispatcher, "I have a 19 year old BOY here," and transitions into unintelligible codes, with the dispatcher responding in a smokey array of static. He begins writing, as my peaked body anticipates the cold slap of hand cuffs, and becoming a hardened chain gang member.

His head turns toward me, glasses dark as night, "So what's your hurry?" Bursting into tears from fear and a surge of adrenaline, I bawl out, "I have to get to school!" He asks where. Head bent low, sniffling and white as snow, I point toward the east, and say, "Dartmouth. It's in New Hampshire! I'm so sorry!" His head jolts back, and asks, "When do you have to be there?" Rubbing mucous from my runny nose, "I have to be there Tuesday, and I have to pick up my friend in Iowa, and it's already Sunday! And now, I'm never going to graduate, because I'm going to be in jail, and I'll have to get a certificate through a mail-correspondence school!"

He jots down a few more things, contacts the dispatcher of the CIA, jots down a few notes, and looks forward. "You know, I could throw you in jail and get you in a lot of trouble. First, speeding in both school and construction zones, breaking the speed limit by 40 mph on a 2-lane highway, passing cars without signaling, and then not stopping for a member of the law." Then he turns to me and authoritatively says, "But, I'm going to cut you one hell of a deal. I'm going to give you a warning for the construction zone, and I'm not even going to mention everything else." Handing me the piece of paper, he continues, "Here you go. Now you slow down, and drive there safely. Do well in your studies," looking forward, "Now get out of my car. I have work to do."

He pulls away to fight the good cause. I wearily get back into Ethel, sit there for a few minutes, and then thank my lucky stars as I blaze off toward the Kansas Turnpike. The moral of the story? Stay in school, kids, even if it's 2500 miles away, oh, and don't speed.