In the scheme of things it wasn’t so bad.  They’d seen worse, of course they had.  Lots worse.  That’s what I told myself.  It wasn’t that bad.  I wasn’t that bad.

For reasons unknown even to myself, I’ve been driving with a suspended license.  For a while now.  I’m not sure why.  It was an easily remedied situation and I don’t know why it didn’t concern me.  That’s probably worth exploring too but in the words of Scarlett O’Hara, I can’t think about that right now.  If I do, I'll go crazy.  I’ll think about that tomorrow.

So I was driving with my suspended license, taking my 11-year-old daughter to a movie.  Her friend was supposed to go with us but at the last minute something came up.  Thank goodness for small favors.

We were almost to the theater; I could see the lights in the distance.  She was listening to the radio and I was lost in thought. About all kinds of things.  Upsetting things in the news, my father with Alzheimer’s who barely speaks anymore, various personal problems, all swirling around in my head like a toxic cloud.

That’s about the time I noticed other lights, in my rearview mirror.  Red and blue, refusing to be ignored like a big Fourth of July extravaganza.  I pulled over.

My daughter was alarmed.  “What’s wrong?  Were you speeding?”

“No,” I muttered and I added to the storm in my head what I knew was going to happen.   

I am not a crier.  This is an affliction of mine that I should work on improving.  Bursting into tears may not always change the outcome but it can certainly improve the game and the attitudes of those playing it.

The female cop sauntered up to my window and said, “Did you know you’re driving under a suspended license.”  I didn’t know they could figure that out by running your plates.  It was like throwing a lit match inside my head.

This would have been the time for tears.  But it was hard to cry when everything suddenly exploded like a giant mushroom cloud.  I should have listened to the voices of everyone who’s ever said to me “For God’s sake, think before you speak, Margaret.  Take a deep breath before you open you big mouth and regret what comes out.”  But I couldn’t hear them over the explosion.

Instead, I looked her in the eye and said, “This is just the icing on the cake.  Freaking fantastic.  Just shoot me.  Right now, just shoot me and get it over with.”  My daughter gasped.

Too late, I pictured a dead kitten and realized I could have squeezed out a few if I tried really hard. 

“Get out of the car ma’am.”  And to my daughter, “You stay in there.”

It would have been awkward changing roles after that.  And it would have seemed fake, somehow.  I was committed to my part now.

The rest is sort of a blur.  Not really but the details are boring; if you’ve ever watched a cop show you get the picture. 

But here’s a few highlights, things I learned. It is not a good idea to fling your cell phone, keys and wallet at a cop’s chest.  It is not a good idea to apologize for not having bigger boobs when she frisks you.  It is not a good idea, when the back-up cop arrives on the scene (Yes!  She called for back-up!) to sneer, “This is it? Barney Fife is who you call for back-up?”

And they do not act grateful when you desperately shout, “Just so you know, I voted no on Issue Two” (the referendum affecting public employee collective bargaining rights, recently defeated by Ohio voters).

Don’t make fun of their dumb-looking hats.  Don’t snidely correct their speech.  Don’t complain loudly about the lack of padding in the back seat of the cruiser and how uncomfortable it is.  This garners you no sympathy.

And when you’re all out of ammo, so to speak and you go for the big guns, in my case, yelling “I am going to make sure my dead husband haunts you two and also your children, for the rest of your lives,” don’t be surprised when they look at each other, raise their eyebrows, and one of them asks, “Do you want to talk to someone?”

As I sat on that miserably hard seat and wished I had a pillow, I heard them laughing.  Presumably at me.  Same old same old.  Maybe in some ways, worse than the same old.  A seemingly normal-looking minivan-driving suburban mother, who in reality was an irresponsible, potentially dangerous, hotheaded nutcase, and a terrible example to her daughter.

My daughter.  How was I going to explain this to her.  When the female cop got in the car I pounded hard on the dirty, scuffed Plexiglas divider.  “Hey!” I shouted. “HEY YOU!!!”  She ignored me.  I pounded harder, with both fists, and she angrily said WHAT without turning around. 

“Where’s my daughter.” 

“She’s in your car.”

“Why can’t she sit in here with me?”

What were they going to do, I thought in a panic.  Call Children’s Services?  Take her somewhere?  Way too late for tears now.

The cop finally turned around and looked at me.

“Yes, she can sit in here with you,” she said slowly.  “I asked her if she wanted to.  She said no.”

She didn't want to sit with me. 

I’ll think about that tomorrow too.