I swing through the light onto Powell Boulevard, a four-lane road chock full of despair and legacy businesses.  Halfway to the next light a beard on a bike suddenly appears out of the darkness, entering my path with no intention of stopping.  I yank the wheel and swerve into the right lane.  I exhale, relieved that I saw the guy in time.

As I cruise through the next signal, blue and red lights start flashing in my rearview mirror.  I hit my blinker and edge into a parking lot between a sleazy bar and a mexican restaurant.  I sigh, keeping both hands on the wheel.  I’m driving a tint-free, un-lowered car, so I probably won’t get abused, but I’m not taking any chances.

An officer approaches on my left.  I glance over and breathe out a sigh of relief when I don’t see a monstrous gut.  It’s not always the case, but guts tend to attach themselves to angry men, so I always become more wary when I see one.  The officer, a young guy with a thin goatee like mine, stares into the car.  I’m hoping for a brotherhood of marginal facial hair here, a bonding between men who can just barely pull off the beard thing.

The officer looks at me and says, “You made a pretty quick lane change back there without signaling.” I’m not even going to try to convince him that Charles Manson appeared on a Huffy and tried to cut me off.  These guys don’t appreciate challenges to their authority and must hear lines all day long, so any effort at explanation will only make things worse.  I apologize for the bad lane change. “But,” he continues, “the light works since you used it to turn in here.”  I silently congratulate myself for this.  You always need to praise yourself when you do something right, especially if you innocently screw up at the same time.

The officer grabs my license and heads back to the cruiser.  I sit perfectly still and look over at the stripclub.  I’ve driven past here hundreds of times and never realized that they opened for breakfast at 7am.  I’ve had no idea what I’m missing. I’m musing over the idea of taking the in-laws to breakfast here when a car creeps up beside me.  Five guys are squeezed into the rusted out sedan, which signals before turning into a parking spot.  I laugh – no one signals in a parking lot unless a cop car is present.

But I stop laughing when I think about a ticket.  I can pay the $50 if I skip my next twenty-five loads of laundry, but it’s the long run I’m fretting about.  For all I know, my insurer is probably facing insolvency, so a nasty long run bump in rates is most likely heading my way.

The officer returns and hands me my ID.  He sighs and says, “I was gonna give you a citation, but my ancient printer isn’t working. Doubt they’ll get me a knew one.”

You just gotta love budget cuts.  Maybe these conservatives are onto something.