And so, I have returned from my beach excursion with a story of woe.
After four hours of driving toward the coast – Why did I move so far inland?! – with another two hours ahead of me and a freshly topped-off tank of gas, I decide to call my parents and inform them of my progress. Clearly my driving skills were less inhibited at that moment and I veered above the 75 mph range … in a 55 mph zone. And, since lady luck has never fallen in my favor, the flashing lights of assholes the North Carolina State Troopers begin flashing in my rearview.
I pull over – to the left, because naturally I was speeding in the left lane – and the officer approaches my window as I already have my license, registration and insurance information in hand. Apparently I move rather quickly when struck with fear.
I explain to him that although I am a licensed NC driver, my car is titled and registered to my mother, thus the Pennsylvania plate and tags. I was already in trouble for speeding and did not need any suspicion of grand theft auto added to my charges.
He walked away and spent far too long in his car, still lit up like a trailer park Christmas tree with its blue and white lights, before returning with the pink citation. Pink was always one of my least favorite colors.
I ask him what the damage is, and he replies with, “You’ll have to appear in court.”
WHAT!? Thus crybaby MinD emerges and there I am, on the side of the road, acting like a crazy person at the age of 23.
Through tears I manage to say “but I don’t even know where I am,” and he tells me Williamston, which naturally I had never heard of in my life. He repeatedly asks if I’ll be okay to drive as I attempt to catch my breathe between sobs – I’m one of those criers, indeed. The girl who can’t breathe because she’s so overcome by emotion. Go me. – to which I reply “I guess.”
He obviously did not entirely believe me because he pulled up on my right hand side and stopped before departing, something I wish he’d done after viewing my cleavage instead of writing me up for speeding 22 mph above the speed limit.
As I continued to sit there, my head against the steering wheel, wishing I had used the restroom at the disgusting gas station instead of hoping to find one ahead, thus perhaps allowing Mr. State-y to pull over another vehicle – maybe even one less noticeable than my yellow Cavalier – another vehicle pulled up to see if I was okay. They must have assumed my car had failed me on the side of US-64 as opposed to my luck simply being nonexistant. Following them, about three minutes later, another state trooper loomed on my still-parked rear end and approached my open window. I likely looked like a tomato, continuing to bawl my eyes out as I told the officer his “coworker” cited me before he said “well, that does happen,” turned and left.
Eventually – about half an hour after the sirens first reared – I took to the road and continued my voyage toward the Outer Banks. My near-week at the beach kept me from thinking about my Sept. 17 court date until I traveled back home and passed Williamston, muttering “bastards” from my car and considering flipping off a state trooper if I passed one on the road.
Four letters from attorneys wanting my money to represent me awaited my arrival back in MoTown. $300 is an approximate for their services, which would, however, keep me from wasting eight hours driving to and back from a court hearing that may last an entire 10 minutes. The penalty, aside from the monetary fees, for my speeding is a loss of driving privileges for 30 days. I’d be a newspaper reporter pedestrian for an entire month! So I may have to hire some blood-sucking leech lawyer just to keep that from happening, if that’s possible.
Looks like crime really doesn’t pay. Rather, it eats away at your soul steals all of your money and cares very little that you’re already fairly destitute.
Last time I went to the Outer Banks, the high school friend I brought along and I fought the entire time, causing her to pack her belongings and leave the beach three days before schedule, creating a rift in our friendship for the next two years. The jury is out as to which OBX incident was worse. I’ll let you know after Sept. 17.
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