Buzzed by the Fuzz!

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
A cop scares a new driver out of her wits!

Submitted: March 29, 2007

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Submitted: March 29, 2007



My husband Tom and I used to live on Highway 35, near Carmack, Mississippi. We had finally found and purchased a car that was small enough for me to drive. (I’m only four feet, seven inches tall.) The vehicle was almost too good to be true! It was a little maroon Plymouth Horizon, slightly larger than the Matchbox cars that my brother James used to play with as a small child. It amazed me that I could actually reach the pedals, with the help of two couch cushions.

Now that I had a small car to drive, I wanted to get my driver’s license for Mississippi. I had had one in California, but there was no sense in getting one for this state until I had a car small enough to use. My husband Tom had a truck that was built for "normal" (i.e., full-sized) people. All I could do in that truck was sit in the driver’s seat and pull the steering wheel back and forth. I couldn’t reach the pedals. I tried a few times, but to no avail. My pushing the accelerator down would be tantamount to long-jumping across the Grand Canyon! It was IMPOSSIBLE!

I was thrilled with my new little Plymouth Horizon, and the day after I got my Mississippi driver’s license, I found an excuse to drive by myself to nearby Vaiden to get ice. The trip turned out just fine. I bought the ice and laid it on the front seat of my car. Driving was a new privilege to me and I looked forward to my trip home.

It was the best ride of my life! I turned the radio up. It blared out an obnoxious country song about a guy sitting in a bar, drinking his baby off his mind. The window was rolled all the way down and the wind rushed through my hair as I held the steering wheel with one hand. If I had been blonde, it would have been a Kodak moment! I hadn’t felt this good since the FIRST time I had earned my driver’s license, back in California. The independence was INTOXICATING!

Then I looked in my rear view mirror! Driving behind me was a Sheriff’s car. My stomach muscles tightened and I turned the radio down. Maybe the sheriff didn’t like country music? Maybe he wasn’t a Southern sheriff at all, but a Yankee DISGUISED as a Southern sheriff. There was no sense in taking chances!

I checked my speedometer. I hadn’t been speeding. Shoot, I was only going forty-five miles per hour. Why was this guy following me?

"Maybe he’ll make a turn somewhere before I get all the way back to the house," I thought. There were plenty of roads to turn off onto, but he kept right on my tail.

I studied him through my rear-view mirror. He sat tall in the seat. He was very good-looking and had dark, curly hair. Well, if I was going to get pulled over, it might as well be by a cop like THAT! The thought still wasn’t very reassuring. Yet, I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t turn on his light bar!

"Maybe he wants to make me nervous until the last second," I thought. If that was his plan, it was working.

I was nearing home now. I had hoped that he would keep driving in the direction of Kosciusko when I turned off into the driveway. He DIDN’T.

Instead, the sheriff pulled right in BEHIND me.

"Please, God," I prayed. "Don’t let me lose my driver’s license NOW. I just got it yesterday!"

I pulled hesitantly into the front yard and shut off my car. I was more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

The sheriff pulled in right next to me and killed his engine. He stepped out in slow motion. Sunlight glared off the buttons of his uniform, sending rays of light in every direction. Standing outside his car, he looked even taller than he had in my rear-view mirror! My heart raced as he slowly turned to take a pad of paper off his dashboard. Was that where he kept his tickets?

I watched him with only one eye, daring not to open the other one, as he strode past my Plymouth Horizon and up the walk to the house. I noticed that the fabric on his cop shirt strained over the muscles rippling in his back. His boots made a heavy, authoritative clicking sound. The air thickened (or was it only my throat?)

My husband Tom stood on the porch, wondering how in a twenty-minute trip to the store, I had attacted the attention of the sheriff.

The sheriff showed no signs of hesitation. He walked right up to my husband, handed him a small business card, and asked, "Will you vote for me?"

I melted back down into my seat, my polyester jogging pants fusing with the fabric on the pillow. I felt as though I were made of lead, but was extremely relieved. It was safe to get out of my car now. Part of the ice had melted in the heat that I exuded as I watched the sheriff. I grabbed what was left of the bag.

I stepped out of the little Plymouth and walked shakily to the porch, where the sheriff was chatting jovially with my husband. It turned out that he was running for re-election and needed our vote to serve his term again! I heaved a sigh of relief. Then the sheriff offered to put my ice in the chest freezer on the front porch. (Hey, don’t most rednecks have a chest freezer on the front porch?)

We promised that we’d vote for him the following month. The sheriff took off back down the driveway, having made a quick transition from enemy to ally.

I think twice now before being nervous about a cop following me. I learned the hard way that it’s OKAY. They COULD be just running for re-election!

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