Dear Reader,
My husband never gets up before me, but this morning when I walked into the kitchen to make my coffee, he was already sitting at his desk studying something on his computer screen. Apparently he'd been up for over an hour working on a strategy to defend himself against the traffic ticket he got the other day when the two of us were out picking up trash in Sarasota. (Keep Sarasota Beautiful--we try to do our part.)
We were driving on an unfamiliar road, spotted some trash, turned onto a side road, drove a little ways and then my husband did a U-turn to get us headed back in the direction we needed to go. But almost immediately after the U-turn my husband saw flashing red lights in his rear view mirror.
"License and registration, please." My husband handed the officer his driver's license while I was digging through the glove box for our car registration.
"I'm sure it's in here somewhere, officer." Plastic fork and spoon, extra napkins from the deli, anti-itch cream, baby wipes, two little packets of ketchup and three insurance cards all from different carriers.
The officer was getting impatient, "If the car's registered to you, I can look it up on my computer." And away he went.
And then we waited--a very long time. I knew what the wait meant, especially when I looked in the rear view mirror and saw the officer filling out a piece of paper. Once they start writing the ticket, there's no turning back. (I know this from experience.)
Back in the kitchen, I wanted to make my morning coffee. But my kitchen counter had been transformed into the scene of the crime: the CVS Store on the left-hand side of the road (a bag of flour), a gas station on the right-hand side of the road (a can of string beans), the No U-Turn Sign (handcrafted with a straw and construction paper), the painted lines in the road (represented by a line of white candy sprinkles that I use on top of cupcakes) and of course our car--a Blue Toyota--was respectively represented by our grandson's little red triangle block. And my husband had several sheets of paper in his hand--including the county government's rules about deciding where a U-Turn sign is needed.
"Let me guess, Dear, you've decided not to pay the ticket and go to Traffic School and avoid being assessed three points?"
And my husband began to present his case, but I stopped him.
"Yes Dear, I'm dying to know how you're going to explain that you're Not Guilty when there was a No U-Turn Sign posted in the road, but right now I need to make my morning coffee. Judge Suzanne can't listen to any testimony until after she's had her caffeine. (And by the way, you might get rid of the sarcasm when you tell your story before a real judge.)
I wasn't buying his story, for one thing the tiny, red, triangle block was heading in the wrong direction and my recollection of how it all took place, where the flour was located (CVS store), and the string beans (gas station) were, was and how it all happened was totally different than my husband’s. Upset that I didn't believe him, my husband grabbed his camera and said he was going back to take pictures to prove his side of the story.
"Great idea, you go take pictures and I'll drink my coffee. And remember, no U-Turns."
It's been proven that eye-witness testimony is unreliable and my husband proved it again this morning. There wasn't any gas station, the driving lanes were positioned totally different from the white cupcake sprinkles on my kitchen counter, the bag of flour was actually on the opposite side of the street, and in addition to "our" No U-Turn sign, there were five others lining the road.
My husband is back sitting in front of his computer. He's signing up for traffic school.
Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.
Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]
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