Smokey and The Bandit

I pride myself on my law-abiding, safety conscious ways. I take great care to be the kind of weenie that increases her chances of watching her children graduate from University - preferrably with a PhD. It's something closely tied with my honor that I am able to drive safely and have the patience to actually follow (somewhat) the speed limit. "Five miles over at all times" is my motto.

My car still has Rhode Island plates. The car is registered in my husband's name - long, silly, stupid story. My driver's license with the hideous picture and different hair color is Rhode Island. My registration and insurance are all Rhode Island. I have asked my husband probably close to a thousand and twelve times to get us Maine plates - specifically, vanity plates that say 'Warbler'. I haven't wanted to change my license until my plates were.

So there I was, driving in my first carpool to Cumberland (just south of Yarmouth, where the chorus usually meets). The evening has been fun and exciting. The three ladies in my car have been gracious and patient with teaching me how to drive new roads. I've also told them "I usually don't drive more than five miles over the speed limit, so if I need to pick it up a bit, please let me know." We were not five minutes out on our way home when the car that's been driving up my a** suddenly flashes his blue lights.

"Ladies," I exclaimed, "I'm being pulled over."

I'm not sure if I was complimented by the acute disbelief or not. They all turned en masse to satisfy themselves that the blue lights were, indeed, flashing. Officer Murphy - that's right, Murphy - was a dour little gentleman with nary a sense of humor. I have learned enough not to try to make unwilling lawmen laugh when they don't wanna.

Now, I honestly didn't know that the speed limit was 35. Really. I hadn't seen it posted for a while and I admit I was doing 50, but it was an actual numbered route so I figured I was pretty safe. Oh, was I wrong. And who actually tries to tell a police officer, "Really, Officer, I didn't know what the speed limit was." Please. That's so high school.

Officer Murphy was thorough, polite, but did I mention dour? There's just no better word to describe the man. As he was conversing and doing a lot of checking of the front and back of my car (but he didn't ask for my insurance card, tsk, tsk), my license, my registration, he asked me where we were headed.

"Bath," I replied and wondered if I should say 'sir' after everything. I figured I was probably five years younger (if that) and I had earned the right not to.

"Why are you headed to Bath at 11:00 at night," he asked me, shining the light into my face and not even getting my good side!

"We live there," I answered politely. Polite was my key phrase for evening's adventure.

"You have Rhode Island plates and a license," he pointed out the obvious.

"Oh," being the honest goody-two shoes I am and not smelling a trap..."we just moved here."

"How long ago?"

"Five months."

"That's a $500 fine."

I must admit that common sense almost left me as I had to change a loud exclamation of "Are you shitting me?" into a lisping "Are you sherious?" He was still not amused.

"Yes, ma'm," he was serious. I doubt he was ever anything but serious. I'm not good with people who don't have a sense of humor. They make me nervous. And when I'm nervous, I get funnier. Except to Officer Murphy. (When I'm in pain I'm a frickin' two drink minimum.)

"How much time do I have to change my plates?"

"Thirty days from beginning of residency."

"Are you sherious?"

"Yes, ma'm." Like that wasn't more of a rhetorical question at this point.

It didn't take any kind of method acting for the tears to well in my eyes.

"But," and I admit I might have spluttered a little bit, "the car's registered in my husband's name and he doesn't live here during the week."

"But you're the one operating the vehicle," he said shortly and took off for his car.

Of course, the ladies were all abuzz as soon as he was safely esconced within his 'I'm-not-standing-out-in-the-eight-degree-air-listening-to-this-gal-try-to-make-me-laugh'patrol car. It probably had seat warmers. He seemed that practical. They were all for me. Couldn't believe anyone could actually ticket me. 'How can they prove you don't actually live in Rhode Island part time?' (which is a very good point, in restrospect).

My limpid pools of blue were just about to become waterfalls of gray when he walked up to the car (and took his own sweet time about it, too) and announced, "They must have changed it. It's only a $75 fine now. [which is still more than I can afford] You need to get those changed. I'm not going to write you up." Then he handed me a warning and without a single other word - even though I wished him a great evening - he turned and hightailed it back to those seat warmers.

Now I must refer to Officer Murphy as 'the kindly officer', musn't I?