“Wackos Do Waco!” Pam cried, toasting our road trip to Magnolia Market with her hardboiled egg and a thermos of coffee. By the time we got home a week later from our adventure in her new Caddy, we needed a mantra just a tiny bit stronger. We settled on one we picked up along the way.
We Didn’t Die.
The three of us—Pam, me, and my sister, Lynette—spent the last six months planning our girls’ trip. My sister booked our rooms, I took up space, and Pam provided the transportation. We split the cost and left our husbands in charge of the dogs and the remotes. It was gonna be awesome.
“My mom drove a Caddy,” Pam told me as she settled into her comfy leather seat, clicked the number “1” on the driver’s door which was code for adjust my everything so I have a personalized driving experience meant for only me, set the cruise control to a secret number somewhat higher than the DOT recommended on I-10 east, and told her onboard Siri to cycle through her favorite songs. “She always said, when you drive a Cadillac, you can make the rules.”
The maverick in me liked that. I hate following other people’s rules. I also hate getting in trouble when my version of rebellion goes unappreciated, but I’ve gotten used to living in a state of internal conflict as long as it doesn’t involve time in the Big House.
We packed up our ride with plenty of luggage and eggs and Luna bars, told our husbands “Hasta la vista, babies,” and hit the road at five a.m. Look out, Waco, here we come! I don’t have the luxury of a number “1” to tap when I cruise around in my aging Tahoe, but when it was my turn to drive her car, Pam let me set the “2” to my specs. Just for me. Nobody else. Yeah. There’s probably nothing cooler than having a Cadillac adjust your seat and steering wheel because it knows who you are. Um hmm, I was important. Second in charge. Pam’s shadow.
Big mistake.
According to my husband—who usually drives across country while I navigate—if I keep up with traffic when I’m driving, I won’t have to worry about getting pulled over for speeding or getting shot by a road-rager for going too slow. It’s worked so far. It works every single week while I commute into Phoenix’s east side for hair appointments and coffee dates and grocery shopping. It worked when we loaded up our Tahoe last fall and drove it nine thousand miles to Nova Scotia and back. And it worked for Pam and me all morning as we drove east away from Tucson last week. In fact, it worked all the way to the New Mexico border.
And then it stopped working. Halfway to Amarillo, halfway through The Land of Enchantment, halfway to the next Starbucks, all that advice stopped working. I think even Siri must have bailed on us. Why else didn’t this super dooper, computerized-everything/please-do-my-thinking-for-me vehicle fail to warn us that a weary highway patrolman was about to shut down the joyride we were having in Pam’s car?
“Great,” she said under her breath as she slowed to a stop on the side of the highway. The officer walked up to the front passenger window and spoke to us on my side of the car.
“Ladies,” he said politely, “you’re probably wondering why I stopped you. You were doing fifteen over the limit. You’re on a bypass now—the limit is 55. Slow it down and drive safe,” he finished, looking like he hadn’t had a cup of coffee since he woke up at four that morning and was weary of pulling over red Caddies on road trips to Waco. As he headed back to his patrol car, Pam and I looked at each other wide-eyed.
“That’s it?” we asked ourselves. Then we texted our husbands.
Just
got pulled over in Alamagordo for speeding.
Slow down.
It was an accident.
Was anybody hurt?
I mean, we were accidently speeding.
Oh brother.
Slow down.
It was an accident.
Was anybody hurt?
I mean, we were accidently speeding.
Oh brother.
“I’m so glad you were driving and not me!” I gushed, relieved I wasn’t the one behind the wheel. It would have been awful to get pulled over in her beautiful car after she let me program its number “2” with my personalized specs. I would have felt so guilty. I’d have been so embarrassed to be the one driving when flashing lights blew up in her rear-view mirror.
I was right. It was awful.
We picked up my sister in Amarillo and hit the road again the next morning. Less than an hour later, we switched drivers. Now Lynette sat in the navigator’s seat up front while I pushed my little “2” on the driver’s door. “So, what’s a safe number to go above the limit here in Texas?” I asked her casually. She’s practically a Texas native, which made her an expert.
“Five over is probably fine,” she told me while Pam curled up in the back seat behind me with a red blanket thrown over her head. In the end, and in my defense, I think that’s actually why the Texas version of Smoky the Bear flipped his light switch in Clarendon, Texas, twelve minutes after I took over as driver and Pam sat snoring in a happy little REM cycle under that blanket.
“Crap!” I said with gusto, or some less acceptable version of the word, as I noticed blue and white lights in the rearview mirror. My exclamation woke up the owner of the red Caddy and she came out of hibernation while I came to a stop in a church parking lot. Appropriate, since I was pretty sure our guardian angels were having a laugh at my expense and I needed a lot of prayer on the double. New Mexico may have sensible, weary patrolmen who know when a girl just wants to have fun, but Texas has never been accused of producing cops who can smile. They’re pretty good at intimidation, though.
“M’am,” the serious man’s voice said while I stared at the gun in its holster conveniently located at my exact eye level. “You were doing 81 . . .” – my heart skipped a beat! – “. . . in a 75 zone.”
Wait. What? I got pulled over for going six over while Felony Melanie in the back seat zipped through New Mexico’s speedway fifteen above the limit?
“Is this a rental car?” asked the man who told us he’d followed us for two miles while I created an extra six miles per hour of chaos in the car sporting personalized stickers on its back window.
“No, sir,” I said with my best penitent manners.
“Are you the owner?”
“No, sir, the hostage—er, lady in the backseat owns it.” Okay, I’m not that stupid. But later I wondered if he’d followed us for two miles because he thought we were transporting either a dead body or an illegal alien under that clever blanket disguise behind me.
He turned his attention to Pam who had by now rolled down her window. “What year is this vehicle?” he asked. Hmmm. Since when do policemen want to know the year of a car they’ve been inspecting for two miles unless they want a closer look at the model their wife wants for Christmas?
“It’s a 2017,” she told him. Finished with my license, his curiosity satisfied about the car’s age, the officer announced this would only be a warning and to sign here. Then he and his partner followed us for half a mile and ditched us to make a lunch stop at the local café.
“Well,” my sister said, as we passed the hungry patrolmen, “we didn’t die.”
“You said five above would be fine,” I accused.
“Hey, I wasn’t driving,” she shot back.
“You’re fired,” I said.
Whether or not the cop in New Mexico sent out an all-points bulletin to his brothers in Texas warning them about the return of Thelma and Louise to Texan highways, we’ll never know. But I’m suspicious. And Pam and I were both paranoid for the next four days until we safely crossed the border back into Arizona where it’s too hot for patrolmen to bother with women who drive six miles above the limit and sport Fire Department stickers on their back windows.
We obeyed every speed limit after that. And nearly every traffic signal. Most of the time. While my sister chuckled happily to herself that, even though bad luck travels in three’s, she didn’t get pulled over for speeding a single time on our girls’ trip to Waco. Of course, it’s hard to get pulled over when you’re the navigator. But it’s easy to get pushed out of the car if you gloat about it too much.
Lynette was right. She never got caught for speeding like Pam and me. But she probably regrets buying those ballcaps we wore for most of the trip.
“What?!” my sister asked in annoyance once we got back in the car. “Do I look like my face belongs on a wanted poster?” It took her a while to see the humor in the situation.
“Well, I didn’t get accused of being a criminal in a gas station,” I said, rubbing it in.
“Nobody sent a security guard over to check me out,” Pam added.
Lynette bit her tongue.
“Ah, come on,” I said, trying to sweet talk her into laughing. “Look at the bright side. We didn’t die!”
“Yet.”
What can I say? If she didn’t want to bring the alibi, she shouldn’t have worn that hat.
No comments:
Post a Comment