The first time I changed a tire—for myself, anyway—I was 16.
I’d just bought my first car, a 1973 Chevy Impala, and thought I was competing
at Daytona—pretty much any time I drove anywhere. As you can imagine, the tires
didn’t fare so well.
I’d had the car
about a month when one day, as I went out to go to work, I saw the flat tire. I
hurriedly jacked up the car, removed the tire, and put on the spare. Tightening
the lug nuts, I let the car down, threw the jack in the trunk, and then raced
to the grocery store where I worked.
It just so happened that a police officer was also on his
way to the same store—or at least that’s where he suddenly decided to go. I
didn’t really get pulled over, as I was already parked and getting out when the
cop pulled up. He didn’t even have his lights on.
“In a hurry?” he asked.
Nodding, I said that I was almost late for work.
“Maybe you should try leaving earlier next time so you don’t
have to drive so fast.”
“Would’ve left earlier this time but I was changing a tire,”
I said.
He didn’t say anything for a bit—just stared at me. Then, he
sort of smiled. “You were changing a tire, weren’t you?” he said it as if he
were surprised at the realization.
“Well, yeah. That’s why I said I was changing a tire.” I
tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice but I’ve never really been too good
at that. Really, I was wondering what had clued him in that I was telling the
truth.
He must’ve seen the puzzled look on my face because he
pointed to me and said, “You have the evidence all over you.”
That’s when I looked down and saw that my clothes were
filthy. And then I noticed my hands were black as could be from handling the
tire.
“You might want to clean up before you start touching
people’s food,” the cop said, and then drove away.
I guess he must’ve felt sorry for me or something. Maybe he
was just shocked that I’d told the truth. I’m sure he’d heard all sorts of
excuses before. Either way, I was no longer upset about having a flat, and
pretty happy it had saved me from getting a ticket.
Thing is though, I would’ve been speeding anyway, whether
I’d spent time changing a tire or not, and whether I was late or not. That’s
just the way I drove. Of course, I hadn’t mentioned any of this to the officer;
I think that would fall under the heading of talking myself INTO a ticket.
Besides, I didn’t have time to say all of that—I was late for work! ~
Bruce
A. Borders is the author of more than a dozen books, including: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, The Journey,
Miscarriage Of Justice, The Lana Denae Mysteries, and The Wynn Garrett Series. Available in ebook at www.amazon.com/Bruce-A.-Borders/e/B006SOLWQS
and
paperback on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Books-a-Million. Bruce A. Borders
is a proud member of Rave Reviews Book Club.
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