You watch my back - I’ll overlook yours

copyright 2005 Dale Hansen - no reproduction without permission

Two stories to tell today; they’re kind of related.

One:

Once, when I was about five or six, I was riding in the back seat of our car. We’d gone somewhere for the day, and were returning late that night.

I'd declared the entire backseat as my personal playground, and I didn’t need to worry about seatbelts – the car didn’t even have them.

At one point, I propped my chin between my parents, resting on the top of the bench seat and looked around up front for anything to distract me just a little longer.

The inner workings of a car were still a mystery, and anything left of the radio was pure unexplored territory. I spotted a little shiny metal button in the corner of the floor near my father’s left foot. I asked what it was.

Dad seemed to be feeling a bit more garrulous than usual and told me it was a switch to change the headlights from low-beam to high-beam.

(If you remember cars that had those, you may proceed to feel old now).

I was fascinated; it was just like Mom’s sewing machine.

He even demonstrated it for me. He stomped it once, and the car in the far distance could be easily seen, another stomp and the car once again disappeared into the night.

“Do it again!” I squealed, excited at a new discovery.

Obligingly, he did it again.

Too cool!

For the next five minutes, the three of us spoke of headlights and driving and other random things. I was happy just be a part of the “adult” conversation.

Then we were pulled over by the highway patrol.

The patrolman approached our car very slowly and cautiously, his hand never straying far from the gun slung against his hip. When he arrived at my father’s open window, the relief in his eyes at seeing only a small family in the car and not the Manson family he’d been expecting was obvious, even to a six-year-old.

“Everything OK here?” he asked.

My parents looked at each other, totally confused. The only problem any of us knew about was the cop’s.

“Ah... yeah, everything’s fine.” My father replied.

“Well,” the patrolman said, “when you flashed your lights at me twice, I thought you were trying to flag me down, like you had a problem.”

None of us realized the disappearing car in the distance had a revolving light on top.

My father, in a reflexive B.S. move I’d have thought was beyond him, said, “Oh, the carpet rolled over the switch and I was trying to clear it with my foot. I guess I must have hit it while I was doing that, Sorry!”

It was an almost jaunty “Sorry”- like a greeting.

His response was immediate, well spoken, plausible, and a total fabrication.

I was so proud of him.

I was proud of me too, because I kept a completely straight face as I looked the officer right in the eye; more importantly, I didn’t say a word. I kept quiet until we were back on the road and the highway patrol was long gone.

My dad had lied. It was the first time I’d heard him lie, and I thought it was the funniest thing ever.

But the point is: I covered for him.

OK, that was background for story number two.

Two:

I tell people I have never had a speeding ticket, nor have I ever had a moving violation. Ever. It’s not for lack of trying, mind you.

And that’s – almost – true.

The actual truth is; I did get one. Once.

I was 17 at the time, and my parents and I were driving back from Minnesota to Arizona. We had moved a couple of years prior, and that summer we traveled back to Minnesota for reasons unknown. I drove most of the way as Dad was already experiencing declining health, and I had the bottomless stamina of any 17-year-old.
Mother was in the passenger seat as we drove through Colorado, Dad was in the back seat having a nap.

The national speed limit was 55. In other words, the national speed limit was thirty miles an hour slower than I was going.

The patrolman came out of nowhere - literally. One moment, there was nothing on the road for miles, and suddenly BAM! there he is! right behind me with the light bar on his roof looking like a hyperactive Christmas tree.

Pulling over, I gathered my thoughts, rehearsed my excuses, put on the best, most innocent boy-next-door face I had in my collection, and prepared to look “shocked” and “dismayed” that I could actually be going that fast!

“I had no idea! I’m so sorry, and I vow to pay closer attention to all of my gauges from now on! I have learned my lesson, yes sir, and I know how dangerous speeding can be!”

The patrolman came to the window, ticket book in hand. I took a deep breath and readied my “Is something wrong?” look, but before I could say a single vowel, my father rose from the back seat like Dracula coming up from the grave and said, “I knew you couldn’t keep up that speed without getting caught! I told you to slow down hours ago. I said that if you kept up that speed, you’d get a ticket.”

He was right; I’ll give him that. I got the ticket, and he laid back down on the seat, his duty faithfully discharged.

I should have ratted him out when I had the chance.