by Craig Birk
Chapter Fifteen
Breakin’ The Law
7:18 p.m.
“Breakin’ the law, breakin’ the law . . .
– Beavis, Beavis & Butt-head
With the port-o-potty incident now safely a dozen miles behind them, the moon began to assert itself in the sky to the north of the freeway. On this night, however, it appeared as a sliver of its entirety, only dimly lighting the vast expanse of cacti and dirt below.
Inside the BMW, Alex had agreed to put the Stanford game back on. Roger and Mike were sitting quietly in the back listening while Alex and Gary discussed who they would rather have, Jennifer Anniston or Angelina Jolie. Both quickly agreed they would rather fuck Angelina but would rather marry Jennifer. A consensus was also reached that Brad Pitt was stupid to leave Jennifer Anniston even if Angelina was more desirable sexually. Gary referred to him as a douche-bag, but agreed with Alex’s positive reviews of his performances in True Romance and Fight Club.
Conversation halted for the next few minutes because Stanford had taken the ball inside the three-yard line after a forty-eight-yard gain on a broken tackle on a screen play. The Cardinal tried to run it straight in on first and second down but managed to gain just a yard on both efforts. However, on third and two, the Stanford quarterback drew one of the linebackers in too far on a play action fake and then spun and hit his tight end in the back of the end zone for a touchdown and a six-point lead.
Roger’s parlay was looking better and everyone was happy for it, especially Roger.
“I think we are in for a prosperous weekend, fellas,” he exclaimed while mentally figuring which NFL games he could bet on Sunday. “Hot-Damn! I feel lucky. Very lucky,” he added.
As if to punctuate his statement the car suddenly exploded in bright blue light. A loud siren pierced the air.
Alex’s widened eyes shot downward to the needle on the speedometer, which had secretly crept just to the right of the 100 figure. “Fuck me,” he exclaimed as his foot flew from the gas pedal to the brake. The BMW slowed from one hundred and two to sixty-six in the same one-point-eight seconds it took for Stanford to successfully add the extra point.
Alex quickly made an appeal to God that the California Highway Patrol car would pass him and pursue other business, but instead it turned off the siren and settled in just twenty feet behind him with its side lights still flashing. It maintained this posture as Alex moved to the right lane and then slowly onto the shoulder, decelerating until the BMW reached a full stop. During the process, Gary, Roger and Mike frantically tried to hide their beers. The task was complicated by a very bright white light emanating from the patrol car.
To avoid it, Mike slouched down below the top of the back seat and tilted his head back while chugging the remaining four ounces left in his Budweiser can. He then shoved the empty receptacle under the seat in front of him, causing a crunching sound as another empty already there put up a futile resistance.
Roger’s beer was still half-full and he did not think he could rapidly finish it. He saw Mike’s sweatshirt lying between them and tucked his beer under it in a position he hoped would not spill too much. With the beer now basically out of sight, he reached over his right shoulder and pulled the seatbelt strap over his chest while trying not to move his head or shoulders.
Alex once heard from an old high school friend who became a cop that the best way to get out of a speeding ticket is to be firm but polite and also to have your license and registration ready to hand to the officer when he arrived at your car. The other choices were to act like you had a really bad stutter or were slightly retarded, but Alex didn’t feel confident he could get away with either of these in the current situation. He pulled the registration out of the glove box and his wallet out of the front pocket of his sweat pants.
“Make sure the booze is hidden,” he commanded, suddenly very glad he had chosen not to commence drinking with the guys.
With that, he saw that both of the officers in the patrol car were approaching the BMW. He began rolling down the driver’s side window as one officer arrived at the front of the car. The cold air struck him in the face and filled the car almost instantly. Alex extended his hand out the window, offering his drivers license and car registration. The CHP officer was tall, his uniform immaculately pressed. He was also wearing one of those goofy police hats that were like cowboy hats but with the perfectly straight brim. Alex thought only park rangers or Smokey the Bear should wear these, but he didn’t say this. He noted that the officer looked quite a lot like Jeff Kent, longtime second baseman for the New York Mets, San Francisco Giants, Houston Astros and Los Angeles Dodgers, and the National League MVP award winner in 2000. The look included a neatly groomed mustache that wasn’t quite blonde and wasn’t quite brown. “Good evening, officer,” he said as he exchanged his documents.
The Jeff Kent cop took the papers while keeping his eyes firmly on Alex and Gary. Meanwhile, officer number two approached the back right of the vehicle where Roger was sitting. He rapped on the window by Roger’s head. Roger responded by rolling down his window as well. Lacking creativity, he said, “Good evening, sir.”
Officer number two spoke first while officer number one finally took a look at Alex’s license. “Generally, we recommend you fasten your seatbelt before getting pulled over,” said officer number two. “Please hand me your identification,” he added.
As Roger and Mike were fumbling for their wallets in the back seat, officer number one shined his flashlight into Alex’s face and asked him if he had been drinking. Alex indicated that he had not. He was then asked if anyone else in the car had been drinking. Alex could not remember what the potential penalty was for having open containers in the car but he really did not want to find out.
“No, I don’t think so,” he responded stupidly.
“You don’t think so?” Kent-cop asked.
“Well, no, I mean, not that I know of.”
With this, Kent-cop shined his flashlight toward Gary’s feet. Alex followed the beam of light and was happy to see that there was no evidence of any beer, though he wasn’t sure the illuminated display of two women about to engage in lesbian sex was helping the situation. He guessed not, due to the cop’s complete lack of reaction.
Kent-cop: “Do you know how fast you were going?”
Alex: “No, sorry. Perhaps it was a little too fast. Maybe eighty-five?”
Kent-cop: “Yes, perhaps. Actually, we got you at one-oh-two. It took us five minutes just to catch up with you.”
Alex: “Oh jeez, are you sure? I don’t think we were going that fast.”
Kent-cop: “Yes, son. I am quite sure. Technically, this is considered reckless driving, meaning you put yourselves, other drivers and us in considerable danger. Additionally, I have a strong suspicion that you have been drinking and it is quite obvious your dipshit buddies here are.”
Alex had a bad feeling about where this was going and it did not get any better with the cop’s next question.
“Maybe you can tell me one good reason why I shouldn’t take you into jail right now?” he asked.
Not sure of the best response, Alex decided to stick with the truth this time. “Well, Officer, the fact is we are going to Vegas and we are kind of in a hurry.”
He realized how dumb this sounded the second it left his mouth and wondered if the bad karma from lying to Blair and the outhouse incident had already come back to kick his ass. A quick vision of himself sharing a Barstow jail cell for the night with a large meth-head in a Hells Angels jacket ran through his head.
“Son, Vegas is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week,” the cop responded. He ordered everyone to stay in the car and remain still and then the two officers retreated back to their vehicle. The guys used the opportunity to double check that the beer cans were fully out of view. Alex cursed several more times.
A few minutes later, the two cops re-approached the car in the same formation. Kent-cop went to the driver’s side window while
cop number two returned to Roger’s rear window. In the back, cop number two handed back Roger’s and Mike’s driver’s licenses. They didn’t say a word.
Kent-cop, however, straightened his mustache and his hat and leaned in to ask Alex a few more questions. “Do you boys know anything about an incident at an outhouse at the Chevron a few miles back?” he asked in a tone that suggested a mutilated body had been found.
“An outhouse, sir?” Alex questioned, doing his best to sound incredulous.
Kent-cop stared at him for about thirty seconds without saying a word. It was really freaking Alex out, but he simply maintained eye contact without trying to look like he thought he was a tough-guy.
Finally, the moment of truth arrived and Kent-cop began to speak again. “Okay, son, here is what is going to happen. I am going to give you a ticket for going ninety-five. You are going to consider yourself very lucky. Also, you are going to slow down the rest of the way to Vegas. If I see you again tonight, or on your way back home, you will deeply regret it.”
Although the ticket ended up costing $545 and required wasting a few hours on an online traffic school course, Alex did indeed feel lucky.
