Years ago, back when I was working for one of the big railroads – and let me tell you, it’s exactly as glamorous as it sounds – I found myself piloting a big, lumbering SUV down I-85 South. I was leaving Virginia for North Carolina, a state with barbecue so good it could make a grown man weep, but also a state with a habit of sneaking state troopers into every ditch and shrub along the way.
As soon as I crossed the border into North Carolina, one of their finest – let’s call him Officer Tar Heel – took an immediate interest in me. He slid in behind my aircraft carrier of a car, like a shark sniffing out lunch. Then, for reasons known only to him and perhaps his traffic cop handbook, he pulled alongside me, gave me a long, appraising look like he was trying to remember if he’d seen me on America’s Most Wanted, and eventually drifted back behind me. Finally, like a cat toying with a mouse, he lit me up. The blue lights came on, and my soul left my body.
So there I was, pulled over on the side of the road, full of dread and questioning every life choice I’d ever made. Speeding? No chance. Cruise control was set at a law-abiding 70 mph. Smuggling livestock? Not unless the half-eaten Whopper counted.
Officer Tar Heel strolled up to my window, all Southern charm and authority, and greeted me with a hearty, “How y’all doin’?” which, loosely translated, meant “You’re about to have your day ruined.”
He kicked things off with, “How fast were you going?”
“Exactly the speed limit, officer. Cruise control was on,” I said, trying to sound like the kind of person who donates to police charities. “That’s fine,” he replied. And then, here is it: “Do you know why I stopped you?”
I didn’t have a clue. Not a single clue. “No sir, I don’t,” I said, trying not to sound like I’d just robbed a bank. Apparently, I had been swerving a bit when I passed him tucked in his hiding place. Swerving! I mean, come on. Maybe I was adjusting the air conditioning or singing along to the radio, but sure, let’s go with a bit of swerving.
Then came the ID check. I handed over my registration and driver’s license, which, unfortunately, happened to be from California, despite my current home in Richmond, Virginia. “This is a California license,” he said, eyeing it like it might explode. “Yes, sir. From the Golden State,” I replied enthusiastically. “Is that where you’re from?” Now, instead of just saying yes like a normal person, I somehow blurted out, “No, sir. I just moved from Indianapolis, Indiana.” He blinked. “So, you live in Richmond, have a California license, and just moved from Indiana?”
“Yes, sir,” I nodded, as if this made perfect sense.
Then he pointed at my car and its registration. “And your plates are from Pennsylvania?”
“Correct, company car” I said, feeling like I was on a game show.
He squinted at me and asked, “This may seem out of the ordinary, but do you have a secondary ID?”
“Of course, officer,” I said, producing my British passport because, well, why not make this even more complicated? He looked at it, sighed, and asked, “So… you’re British?!”
“Royal Subject to Her Majesty the Queen, sir,” I replied promptly, “but a proud American who just happened to live a few years in England and, at the moment, has no valid U.S. passport.”
At this point, the poor man was rubbing his temples like he’d stumbled into the most confusing traffic stop of his career.
“You’re not gonna make this easy for me, are you?” he said with a tired smile. “Easy as it can be, sir,” I said, grinning like I’d just handed him a Sudoku puzzle with no solution. After what I assume was an internal debate about whether I was an international spy or just an idiot, he handed my paperwork back and, with a shake of his head, said, “Get out of here!”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I discovered that looking like a walking geography lesson can sometimes work in your favor.
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“Disclaimer:
Now, before anyone gets their high-visibility pants in a twist, let me be clear—this has been an attempt to capture my experience with a bit of humor. At no point was I suggesting that state troopers are anything less than essential, nor am I questioning their ability to keep our highways from descending into absolute anarchy.
In fact, I have nothing but respect for the men and women who stand out there every day, dealing with everything from criminals to drivers who think turn signals are optional extras. So, if you were about to fire off an angry letter, please, take a deep breath, have a nice cup of tea, and remember—I’m only here to make the world slightly less unbearable.
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