I knew that I was going to be pulled over and that part of the encounter was entirely appropriate. I was speeding early one morning on a two-lane highway near my home when a highway patrolman passed me in a curve traveling in the opposite direction. He quickly disappeared over a hill and had not activated his blue lights. Just the same, I steered my late model luxury car onto the side of the highway, put it in park, retrieved my driver’s license and the registration, and waited. Soon, the law enforcement officer reappeared and pulled his cruiser in behind my car. I had already lowered my driver’s window as he approached.

He dispensed with the pleasantries: “Whose car is this?” I’m sure that I sighed and shook my head ever so slightly. I then said, “It’s mine.” I stretched out my arm and said, “And here are my license and registration.” He left me hanging. He asked, “What’s the make and model?” A lump formed in my throat, and I hesitated momentarily while trying to process what was happening. Then, even though I didn’t want to, I described my car to him. Since my arm was still resting on the windowsill, I again said, “Here are my license and registration.” This time he took them and returned to his cruiser. He issued a ticket and told me to have a good day.

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