Taking A Stand: For once it paid for me to be in a fog
Emerging from the dense fog much like a pirate ship from a cloud bank on the sea, I was greeted by a welcoming committee as I entered the outskirts of Woodbury Monday evening.
“Hmmm, I don’t remember Woodbury being here,” I said to myself as I saw the blue lights light up like a tilted pinball machine in my rear view mirror, hoping in vain my wife, who was sleeping in the passenger seat next to me, wouldn’t wake up during my moment of shame.
Sure, I drive a car with a high-performance engine, but I generally abide by the speed laws of what ever jurisdiction I’m in, that is, when I know what jurisdiction I’m in. Unfortunately, given the fog, which was thick as pea soup Monday evening, I hadn’t the slightest idea of where I was until I saw the high beams of the Woodbury officer firing through my windshield.
“License and proof of insurance,” the officer said as he approached my window.
Passing my license out the window, I looked over to see my recently awoken wife, bathed in the revolving blue lights, staring in wonderment at me. Blue is really her color I think.
“I got pulled over,” I said, stating the obvious as the officer stood at my window and his blue lights lapped through my car, lighting it up like a disco dance floor.
“Duh,” she responded. “I figured that out.”
At that point, the officer detailed his gripe with my driving, saying I was doing 57 in like a 40 or something. Not exactly Jeff Gordon, but still a speed frowned on in those parts.
“Now this is going to sound dumb, but I didn’t realize Woodbury was here,” I responded, immediately realizing a bonehead statement like that could have me walking the line outside my car.
“It’s always been here sir, we haven’t moved it lately,” the officer quipped, thankfully not asking me to recite the alphabet backwards or something. By the way, I was sober as a sober judge, but trying to do the alphabet backwards would have likely landed me in the workhouse.
“No, what I meant was the fog was so foggy (actual statement) that I couldn’t see where I was,” I retorted. “I thought I still had a ways to go before I got to Woodbury.”
With that the officer went to his car to run my license to find out if I was a psychotic felon wanted in three states, leaving me to re-tell the story to my wife and imagine what my bank statement would look like when it became $100 lighter. And, by the way, I never did see the Woodbury signs nor the reduced speed signs on the highway due to the fog and I was actually doing the speed limit I believed I was in so I wasn’t just doing a song and dance to get out of a ticket.
Scarcely before I could re-hash my brush with the law to my wife and explain my lead foot, the officer re-appeared at the window. His quick return had me thinking that maybe I was wanted somewhere and it was cuff and stuff time.
“Well, Mr. Sherrill, it appears you have a clean driving record so I’m going to let you go on a verbal warning,” the officer said much to my relief. “This one is on me. Guess who the next one will be on.”
“Um, that would be me, I believe,” I responded to the officer, who nodded his head in agreement and wished me a safe trip, not wanting to hear anymore of my foggy fog explanation which I continued spouting even as he was walking to his car.
(Duane Sherrill is a reporter for the Standard. He can be reached at 473-2191 or by e-mail at [email protected].)