The day started with Son coming to tell me that the toilet wasn’t behaving. I ran into the bathroom just as the water was reaching the top. “Did someone put something in there that doesn’t go in there?” I demanded. My family stared at me like I was speaking in tongues. Then Daughter, who’s never sick, said she couldn’t swallow. “Okay,” I told her, “stay home, watch your soaps, drink plenty of liquids, don’t use the upstairs bathroom and I’ll check on you later.” I left feeling worried and guilty.
To get to work every day I drive through a neighboring upscale area we’ll call Tonytown. For all the years I have lived where I live Tonytown has been a well-documented moving violation hell. You cannot traverse the length of Tonytown Lane during the morning rush without seeing cars parked by the curb like big dead roaches with flashing lights behind them. This ribbon of road is a cash cow for the municipality as commuters hurry through the dozen or so stop signs that pop up around every bend like clowns out of a Volkswagen.
I nonetheless travel without fear because I am a stop sign junkie. I have other serious driving quirks like checking my lipstick in the rear view mirror and making sudden turns but stop signs are my friends. So when I was unexpectedly distracted by the lights behind me I blithely pulled over so the patrol car could pass me and go after the lawbreaker. Who shockingly turned out to be me.
I rolled down my window certain that this little misunderstanding would be cleared up as soon as the officer saw my innocent face and realized what a dreadful mistake he had made. He glared at my friendly smile.
“You missed that last stop sign.”
“Me? I what?!”
“That last stop sign. You didn’t quite make it.”
“What are you saying?” I gasped. “I always stop at stop signs. I’m militant about it. My house faces a stop sign. I go out there and harass drivers who don’t stop. I’m detested, I swear.”
“Well you almost stopped at that last one but your wheels were still rolling a bit. That’s not what I call stopped. THIS is what I call stopped.”
“This is PARKED.” I answered outraged.
If you ever find yourself in this situation let me share that outrage is not the way to go. My policeman’s mouth tightened against his teeth and his eyes went squinty. He hissed for me to stay right there and he stalked back to his car where he disappeared for eternity after which time he emerged with an illegible document written in Klingon. He thrust the ticket through my window and wished me a cautious day. In a mood that could best be described as foul I proceeded to work, late.
In a last ditch effort to preserve some order in a day that was obviously on the downslide I stopped at my favorite deli for an extra-large decaf as usual. There was one of those appealing light drizzles falling so I dashed back to my car and yanked open the door which was, of course, locked. Inertia being what it is the ensuing jolt caused the coffee to slip from my hand and smash at my feet creating several new designs on my pants and shoes. I trudged back into the deli.
“I dropped it.”
They all looked at me. In the two years I’ve been stopping at that deli in the morning I have never dropped my food. I’m very good that way. They held up the nearly empty decaf pot. “Would you like to drop a regular next? We’re out of decaf.”
“I can’t drink regular. It makes me hear voices.”
They squeezed a small cup of decaf from the pot and looked at me sadly.
“Hold on tight now.”
“I will.”
I went back to the car and flung the door open angrily. The whoosh of air that followed caught my glasses hanging from the visor and sucked them down into the puddle of coffee and mud at my feet. I could feel little tears forming in the corners of my eyes. I was wet and sad and my glasses were covered with muck. I got into my car, turned on the radio and drank my coffee quietly. Pelts of rain stung the windshield. Ben E. King came on with Stand By Me. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. Today I would be very late.
Copyright 1995 by author