Breakin’ the Law, Breakin’ the Law (Hey, I’ve had it stuck in my head all day now, so I thought you might as well, too.)

As previously documented, Tuesday is the day of the week on which being a member of The Scratches Family is akin to being a frozen fruit of some sort—let’s go with “strawberry,” shall we?—yes, it’s akin to being a frozen strawberry thrown in a blender with some other frozen strawberries and frozen blueberries and a fresh banana and some protein powder and soy milk and, hey, that reminds me, I keep meaning to start making a smoothie each day to help me get the nutrition I need in order to keep up with my exercise regimen. Of course, I keep meaning to start my exercise regimen, too. Probably should worry about the latter part first.

Where was I? Oh yeah: Tuesday. So Tuesday is like being a frozen strawberry in a blender—with the selector set to “Demolish.” And yesterday, life almost tossed a frozen cantaloupe into the mix, which would have really pulverized us.

It was just after 11 a.m., and Zan and I were in my car. (After spending the first half of the school year in afternoon kindergarten, he is now in morning kindergarten, so my Tuesday duties involve picking him up at 11, after which he and I pick Jayna up from preschool at 11:30, after which I transport them to our daycare provider’s house, after which I pray for the day when Mommy doesn’t have to work two days a week to help us make ends meet, thus sparing me of the Tuesday madness—and the way things are going, that’ll be happening roughly never.)

I had brilliantly mapped out a strategy for getting a couple of things done in between picking Zan up and picking Jayna up. First, we would hit my usual drive-up ATM so that I could deposit some long-awaited, much-needed checks that would help plug up that big, sucking chest wound in our bank account. Then, scant feet away from my usual drive-up ATM, we would drop an envelope in the drive-up mailbox. From there, it would be practically a straight shot up the street to Jayna’s preschool. Brilliant, I tell you.

As we approached my usual drive-up ATM, I saw a line of cars, which I’ve never before seen at this particular ATM. As we got closer, I realized there were no drivers or passengers in any of the cars, and subsequently realized that the reason no one was in the cars was because they were parked in front of the ATM—which, it turns out, no longer is an ATM, but, rather, is a wall. No, I don’t get out much.

But not to worry, I’ll just shoot up the street to another ATM. Let’s just turn down here, and drive through this intersection here, and take this little road that merges onto Main Street, and doo-dee-doo-dee-doo, almost there, and, hey, what’s that I spy in my rearview mirror? A police car? With its lights on? Pulling over … who? ME?

The nice policeman was behind me for probably a little too long before I noticed him, because my rearview mirror is positioned not for the purpose of viewing the area to the rear of my vehicle, but rather for viewing the kid(s) in the back seat … so it took a moment before I glimpsed in that semi-opaque nighttime mirror angle the flashing blue-and-white lights behind me. I turned on my right blinker and began pulling to the side, during which time a small part of me was still thinking, “Well, maybe he’ll drive around me to go get the bad guys he’s chasing.”

It soon became clear to me that I was the bad guy he was chasing, so I continued forward until I found a spot where there was no curb so that I could actually get both he and I out of the road and as far away from the passing traffic as possible. (When I was a military police K-9 handler in another life, I occasionally pulled people over, and I would always tell them via the loudspeaker to pull forward into a parking lot or up onto a non-curbed side-of-the-road area before stopping so that I didn’t have to place either them or myself in the direct path of fast-moving vehicles. I always appreciated it when they took the initiative to do so on their own … and I was hopeful that the lawman who was on my tail would have the same kind of appreciative feelings for me. Couldn’t hurt.)

So I pulled over, and Zan, after craning his head around to look out the back window, said, “Why is the policeman stopping us, Daddy?”

“I don’t know, buddy,” I said … and I meant it.

As the officer exited his vehicle and approached mine, I quickly located my registration and driver’s license, which I was able to proffer as soon as he got to my window. So now I figure I’m two-for-two: we’re out of the traffic and I have my shit together. I was hoping he’d like that.

“You didn’t come to a complete stop at that ‘stop’ sign back there,” he informed me. I wasn’t about to argue with him because: 1.) speaking from experience, the cop pulling you over usually doesn’t want to hear your sob story, and 2.) I probably did roll through the stop sign. So I kept my mouth shut about that.

I also decided to not call him by his first name and try to suck up to him by pointing out that I knew who he was because we graduated from high school a few years apart, and that I’m friends with a number of his fellow officers, and that I used to be “on the job,” and any number of things which may or may not have worked in my favor, because I’m just not that guy. I should probably learn to be that guy, because I’m sure there are times when being that guy would benefit me greatly, and this might have been just such a time, but I decided to go the “keep my mouth shut” route and let the chips fall where they may.

There might even have been a part of me that felt like I should set a good example in front of Zan, with that example being: when a cop pulls you over, don’t be a dummy, and when you do something wrong, take responsibility for it. (Or maybe I’m just imagining that now because it conveniently makes me sound like a hell of a dad.)

The officer asked me to stay put while he returned to his car—which I did, ’cause, like, where was I going to go with a cop sitting in the driver’s seat of his patrol car behind me with my driver’s license and registration in his hand?

“Why did he pull us over, Daddy?”

“Because Daddy made a mistake and didn’t stop at a ‘stop’ sign.”

“Did you see the sign?”

“Actually, no, I didn’t,” I answered, which was the truth, because the intersection in question is one that I’ve driven through nine gazillion times over the past 20-plus years, and it empties into Main Street at angle that makes it more of a merge than a full-on intersection, and I can’t remember ever noticing the actual ‘stop’ sign, believe it or not.

“So can you tell him it was a mistake?”

“Um, it wouldn’t really matter, buddy. Even if it’s a mistake, it’s still against the law.”

“Is he going to give us a ticket?”

“Well, he’s been back there for a while now, and it looks like he’s writing, so I’m pretty sure he is going to give me a ticket,” I answered while visions of a large fine and a crippling insurance-premium hike and a lifetime of being viewed by my son as a criminal danced in my head.

A couple moments later, the officer returned to my window and handed me this:

Let us examine this document a little more closely, because there are noteworthy good and bad parts. First, the bad part:

Yes, I violated. I am a violator. Please don’t judge me.

But, behold! The good part:

In closing:

Dear Officer M,

Thank you, thank you, thank you. Plus, also, thank you.

Sincerely,
Jon

P.S. – Did I mention “Thank you”? Thank you.