| ——- My first time to be stopped by a policeman was when I was 19 and dating James. We had broken up (again), and I was driving down Elm Street in Crossett bawling my head off and deliberately going fast. The night was dark, and there was not a soul anywhere. When that flashing light came up behind me, I was horrified, scared, wanting to cover up. The man was nice. Did I know I was going 45 in a 15 zone? I didn't know that, but I did know I was pushing down the pedal. But that had to do with emotion and rejection and sadness, not a desire to break the law. With my tears, blond hair, tiny voice and the face of a brokenhearted 14 year old, it must have been hard for him to believe I was a bad person. He decided to just give me a warning since he knew Granddaddy and said he was such a nice man. Twelve years later I was driving south on JFK in North Little Rock. I had been to Jack and Jill and had bought the cutest little nightgown for Jenny. It had a tea pot with a face singing, "I'm a little tea pot short and stout. Tip me over and pour me out." Desirous of beholding all that cuteness again, I was peering into the sack and driving at the same time. Suddenly a police appeared from nowhere (Don't they all?) and had me pull over. Did I know that I was wobbling back and forth across the yellow line? Oh, no, I was enjoying looking at the little teapot short and stout and was not paying attention. "Well, Lady," he said, "you have a sticker on your car that says you're on your way to heaven. You're going to get there a lot sooner than you intended if you don't quit doing that." I received a warning—and had to find a bathroom as soon as my fear subsided enough to let me drive. I was stopped again at about age 40 near the old icehouse in Conway. I didn't really "run" the stop sign and had actually looked both ways and felt safe to move on. But the policeman said I hadn't had "rolled" through the sign without coming to a dead stop. He just warned me, I suppose, because I'm sure I seemed sincerely surprised. Policemen have no idea how a warning works with me. It makes me physically sick. It makes me want to be a good girl. Shortly thereafter I took a group of kids on a field trip to the police station. I told the officer in charge about my "rolling" incident and how I felt safe because there was no car in sight. He had a sane and reasonable answer: "They all think that." Then I asked him something I had wanted to know for a long time. "Do ya'll come back to the station, tell these stories about scaring women, and then laugh?" "We have to laugh," he said. The way he said it meant that they, having serious and dangerous jobs, need to laugh. I wasn't offended and completely understood. I'm not a bad guy—just dimwitty. Barrett says blond is not a color but an attitude. —— Mary's death has left me in a curious predicament should a policeman ever stop me. Not having blond hair, copious tears, tiny voice, or brokenhearted face, I'll probably have to pay for all the trouble she managed to escape. Unless, of course, I exercise the proper respect she always mustered as well. Permission granted for not-for-sale reproduction in exact form including copyright. Other uses require written permission. |