My Highway Encounter With Officer Gorgeous

I recently was stopped by The Fuzz. Johnny Law. Five-O.  Driving along the 101 North, my music was down, my seatbelt was on and I had my cruise control set. I thought I was doing everything right, or at least okay. There were some annoying big 18 wheelers on the road and I was doing my best to avoid them. I was very responsibly using a headset to have a rather interesting conversation when I saw it: a black and white Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor. A CHP car going southbound as I went north: he went his way while I continued on mine. But something made me look in my side mirror and that’s when I saw the squad car make a U-turn across the dirt divider in a cloud of billowing dust, and come up behind me. It looked very dramatic, like a scene from a movie. Shit, shit, shit. I ended my phone conversation saying, “F@#$... I think I’m getting pulled over.”

He took his sweet, torturous time following me. I slowed down without braking; I didn’t want to be obvious, and everyone knows that slamming on the brakes sends the message that you know you were doing something wrong. It’s best to look innocent and hope he’s after somebody else. But he stayed behind me for a mile or two, and then the freakin’ lights came on, accompanied by a sole Whoop Whoop of his siren. I thought about flooring it and getting the hell away from him and doing a high speed chase, worthy of Breaking News and helicopter coverage. If nothing else, it would have been a great story to tell, and I would finally know exactly what those idiots on TV are thinking when the cops are in hot pursuit at ridiculous speeds. I quickly decided that it would shame my children too much, so I turned on my blinker and made my way over to the shoulder, complying with his ridiculous wishes.

I stopped and did a quick check of my front seat. Anything incriminating? My prescription pills in a labeled bottle? Yes. That bottle of vodka that was a gift and was to accompany me to my destination? It was in the trunk and still unopened. I had my seat belt on. My cell phone was on the passenger seat next to two bananas, my camera and an IPod. I had turned the phone off after I ended my conversation but made sure the headset was visible and attached so he couldn’t bitch at me for that. I was ready to meet my new officer friend.

He was slow to get out of his car and he seemed to be approaching my car with caution as he walked to the passenger window, which I had somehow remembered to open. He stopped short of the window and said, “Miss, please turn off your engine.” Miss? He called me Miss. Not Ma’am. That stuff is NEVER lost on me. I liked him already. But, what the hell?  Here I was with my engine still running and the car in Drive; he must have thought I was getting ready to haul ass up the highway. I apologized as I complied and told him that I’m unfamiliar with what to do when being pulled over.

That’s when the big, hulking man that I will forever think of as Officer Gorgeous leaned into the passenger window and asked me if I knew why he stopped me. I said no. He asked me if I was aware that the speed limit was 65 and I said yes. He then told me I was doing 85. “Oh my gosh,” I said as genuinely as I could. “In this little tin can car…really?” He smirked and said yes indeed, I was doing 85 and he would need to see my license and registration. I reached into my wallet and handed him what I thought was my license. “Uh, Miss, I need your license…” he said as he handed me back my AAA card. I apologized and laughed and told him I was just making sure he was paying attention. He actually laughed a little bit. “And your registration, please.”

I opened the glove compartment which was embarrassingly messy…similar to a junk drawer in a kitchen, or a closet where everything gets tossed and in order to close it you have to shove stuff in and slam the door as fast as you can before anything falls out. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I found that my little black car book was buried under two Ziploc® bags of loose change, as well as a lip gloss, three pens, two sheets of Forever stamps, and pardon me for saying it but it has to be said, four tampons. I quickly thought that perhaps I could use that angle and act depressed or weepy or hormonal and maybe he’d go easy on me.

As I tried to get to the buried book, one of the bags of change opened up and spilled all over the floor, landing next to my prescription bottle in my purse. Inside the black car book was a stack of envelopes: I must have had every piece of mail State Farm Insurance has sent me in the past year. I apologized to Officer Gorgeous for being so disorganized and slow. He smiled and gave me an understanding look with his fabulously blue eyes. Maybe it was sympathy…maybe the hormonal idea was working.  Where the F@#$ is my registration? I went through every envelope and paper as he waited patiently, saying nothing. I kept apologizing. I can’t believe my F@#%ing registration is not in here. I have a car insurance card from December 2009 but not my current registration. He told me to stop looking and asked me if the car was registered to me. Yes, I told him; it’s here, I know it must be here, if you’ll let me keep looking. He said it wasn’t necessary and took my license and proof of insurance back to his car. I kept looking—no registration anywhere.

I watched in the rear view mirror as he did his job. God, he was cute. Not quite six feet, but tall enough, dark enough, and better than handsome; he had lovely eyes and a pretty good disposition for a man that spends his day driving up and down the highway targeting unsuspecting fools. Quite scrumptious, actually. I was half watching Officer Gorgeous and half looking for the registration…I never did find it. He came back to the passenger window with my license and insurance perched on the clip of his metal clipboard and ticket book. He said he clocked me at 85 but he had written the ticket for 75. “Does that make a difference,” I asked very innocently. He told me yes, it makes a difference, and smirked again. I thanked him. He handed me a pen and asked me to sign the ticket. I asked him where. In fact, I must have asked him three or four times. I dropped the pen. When I picked it up, I pulled my hand back too fast and knocked the clipboard almost out of his hand. He asked me where I was headed and I told him. We made a little small talk: weather, big trucks, watching my speed. It was insignificant stuff but worthy of discussing just so I could admire him. And he seemed like he had the time. I asked him what I should do about my missing registration and he told me; I told him I was surprised that I wasn’t getting another special fine for not having it in my overstuffed glove compartment and he laughed again, saying “Oh, you have plenty in there already.”

It was a lovely encounter, if I say so myself. He declined my offer of one of the bananas on the passenger seat. He also declined my request to pose for a picture on the side of the road, telling me he didn’t think it was against policy but it would certainly seem unusual. But you guys do it all the time when it’s a big story…I see it on the news, I said. Officer Gorgeous just laughed and told me to be careful and to slow down and to have an excellent week. I told him I would. Oh, and he asked me when I’d be headed home. Saturday, I told him. “Well Miss, (he called me Miss again) I’m working Saturday. Let’s hope next time we meet under better circumstances.” Whoop Whoop, Hot Stuff. One can only hope. 

I was going to add the CHiPs Theme but embedding disabled...as though it's too good to share. 

This is even better.