DRIVING THREE

My driver side-view mirror, having broken free and now floating down the Cape Fear River, is long gone. I’m not sure what to do.

I’m panicky, expecting to be pulled over at any moment by the police. Not having a side-mirror must be some type of safety infraction, probably punishable by death.

I consider using my makeup-compact mirror as a replacement. However, I can foresee problems with that. I doubt masking tape (all I have) is strong enough to hold it down. And whatever will I use to powder my nose? Besides, a 10x magnification mirror may help me spot blackheads, but I doubt it will help me see traffic.

Sure enough, as I’m thinking about police and prisons, I see flashing lights behind me. I figure I’ve been spotted, but I change lanes and slow down like I’m a law-abiding, innocent driver. My inspection is up to date. There’s no “improper equipment” here.

The lights get closer. I wish I could just disappear. But, I take time to ponder why the police get to travel at any speed they want.

I can understand it when they’re in pursuit of a dangerous criminal or rushing to Krispy Kreme® for a donut. But I think in some cases, they speed just because they can. No one is giving them a ticket.

I think about real car chases on television — the ones that make the evening news. I consider briefly if I should make a break for it. I’d careen dramatically off the next exit, tires squealing, and lay down some serious rubber; making a clean get-away.

My picture, the one where I’m grinning like an insane hyena, gets plastered onto the Post Office’s “Most Wanted” wall. Mothers toting small children are aghast reading about my crime.

My reckless driving disgusts even teenagers. And they should know — they wrote the book on it. They draw graffiti all over my poster, giving me a bushy mustache and crossed eyes.

I picture my mother talking to news reporters. Shaking her head, she cries over my fugitive status. She’s long been resigned to me turning out badly, despite my upbringing, which she claims was nearly perfect.

Mom appears on the talk-show circuit. Her hair is done up and she’s wearing the $100 suit she got at Kohls® on-sale for $5. She chats chummily with the hosts, dispensing advice on how to successfully raise kids.

She tells everyone she’s not surprised I’m an outlaw. She’s just surprised it took so long for those traits (not on her side) to come out. After all, I’m already a deserter. I left my family in the wonderful, frozen Northlands for the slimy low-lands of the South. So certainly, I can’t be expected to have proper manners or car side-mirrors.

As I contemplate this dire scenario, I notice I’ve already passed the exit. So, spectacular escapes are now out of the question. Though I suppose I could exit off-road through the swamp and gators. Maybe next time.

The flashing lights are now only three cars behind me. The vehicle is matching my speed, which has dropped below the posted minimum. 

I look back. The flashing lights have moved into the center lane. The vehicle is moving faster. With consternation, I realize it will pass me. Perhaps this cop thinks he’ll get promoted if he brings me in all by himself.

The vehicle flies by, trailing a long plume of exhaust.

It’s a tow truck.

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