In a matter of seconds my joy-ometer plummets from a real groovy 95 to a total vacuous 0. There we were, me and my best mate, NigelÑtwo fun loving limes living California, grabbing the spirit of the west as we tore down route I 15 heading for Las Vegas. Blue skies, empty highway, freedom.
With the stereo pounding out the thunderous rock and roll beat of the Sex Pistols, I felt uncontrollable, frenzied, a savage of the highway. I grabbed the coke can out of Nigel's hand, took a swig, then (with one hand) crushed it into a microphone: "We're so pretty...oh so pretty vacant...And we don't care!" Cracking a snarl into the rear view mirror, I shout yes Trevor, you are James Dean. Expect no mercy. Viva Las Vegas baby.
Suddenly, I was shaken out of my reckless persona by a little red light in the rear view mirror.
"What the bloody hell is that Nigel?"
"It's probably some UFO going to steal us away and do experiments on our bodies."
"That's not right...not on a Friday. You would have thought they would have the decency to wait until Monday."
But laughter turned into anxiety as the fantasy of the little green men turned into the reality of one large white one dressed in blue. Panic. This is not going to be a normal speeding ticket. This is the final police notch on my license. Good-bye Bug mobile. Good-bye freedom. Hello public transport, in LA...oh please.
When an animal's against the wall, about to become a tin of dog food, he thinks fast. "Nigel do you still carry your UK driving license with you, friend, buddy, and all that rot?" While keeping one eye on the mirror, and trying to ignore Nigel's feeble attempt at humming the mission impossible theme, I take his driving license with my right hand and remove my Californian license from my wallet with my left and place it underneath my seat. Smooth...very smooth.
Finally, the cop gets out of his car, removes his shades in a I've-got- business-to-take-care-of kind of way, and heads over towards me looking like John Wayne walking into a saloon full of bad guys. Gosh, what am I doing, trying to cheat Robo Cop? Too late now. He bangs on my window and gives me this expression like I've parked on his prize rose garden. I give him a nervous smile then fumble for the window lever. "Yes officer?"
"Do you know how fast you were gong back there?" I played this game before, it's like talking to a car dealer. You start off really small and then work your way up.
"65."
"82."
"W...wow."
He knew I was lying, and I knew that he knew that, but we have to pay this little game so that he feels he has earned his pay packet and gets to be right, and I get to jerk the law around a little. All good clean fun.
"License Please."
Trying to be as cool as Bond but ending up like Peewee Herman, I reach for my wallet, and at the same time, feed him a clumsy and cliched line: "on holiday...great country America."
Terrible I know, but at least I gain some comfort courtesy of my British driving license: four pages of convoluted sentences and strange looking codes. Despite the facade of intelligence, the quick shifting eye movements and nods of the head, I know I have him. Then. "What's your date of birth?"
I feel like a radio, suddenly been changed from Beethoven's "Moon Light Sonata" to Motorhead's "Overkill." The blood drained corpse that had only seven minutes ago been a dead ringer for James Dean turns slightly towards Nigel and whispers from the corner of his mouth "whatÕs your date of birth."
"Right, if you donÕt get your proper California ID out your going to jail," comes a somewhat heated statement from the man in blue. It's no good Mr. Bond the game is up. Looking like a puppy that had just been caught fouling an ancient Persian rug, I slowly put my left hand underneath the seat and pull out my California driving license.
My Captor marches me over to the patrol car and tells me to place my hands on the hood while he gets on the radio. Oh no Jail, I think...I don't want to go to jail...I'm too pretty...I'll get... This is the end of my life. I close my eyes and plead with God, promising all sorts of changes in behavior, if only he'd make that nasty man disappear. Then, right in the middle of my no gloating over Victoria's Secret's oath, I hear this ripping of perforated paper.
"Your fine is $85 payable by March 10. On that same day at 10:30 a.m., you have to come to Victorville County Court House to show your license to the judge. Have a nice day."
"Thank you. Thank you."
Making me drive 150 miles to Victorville to show my license might have been his punishment for lying, but I didnÕt care. Not at that moment anyway. I was free.
My speedometer never hit 55 all the way to the Nevada state line, we drank Caffeine Free Coke, and Willy Nelson replaced The Sex Pistols. James Dean was dead... well at least until he got to Vegas anyway.
© Robert Stevensom 1995