The hour we'd allotted to our financial advisor had extended into an hour and fifteen minutes. (The reader might well ask: "What, when you're well past the mid-point between your eighth and ninth decade, is the need for more financial advice? That is grist for another mill. I digress)
I felt this urgent need to get back home, have a quick bite, and prepare for a financial session of a different kind with our priest, to wit: the annual parish report to the diocese. This was a command performance, if ever there was one.
When in haste, I have this tendancy to take a short cut with the seat belt: instead of slinging it over my shoulder, I do the under-arm wrap-around. It must save at least five nano-seconds of precious time. As we pulled out and onto the main boulevard, and arrived at the first stop signal, I glanced to my left, and there was a motorcycle policeman; gazing over at me and my prize boy-toy, the Mini Cooper.
I smiled, and waved. I always smile and wave to cops. It's just the simplest of gestures to convey that their work is appreciated. The Bride thinks this is a mistake. Now, she is even more convinced. "Officer Friendly" sort of half-smiled back. Then, as the signal changed to green, he pulled in behind me. The next instant, my rearview mirror was shimmering in hues of red and blue.
I pulled over, stopped, and (sort of....) reflexively pulled the seat-belt strap out, up, and over my shoulder. As I rolled down the window, the man in black remarked, "I looked over at you twice, and didn't see your seat belt."
I unabashedly replied, "That's because I had it clicked, but wrapped under my arm."
"I am a retired teacher," said I, "and teachers don't lie."
He expressed some reservation about the second half of my claim, but did not elaborate. That kept us both on a safe, if tentative, path of discourse.
A few minutes later, he emerged from the back side of his bike with two, long, personalized printouts. What a wonder of modern technology, I thought. A computer and printer! Behind the seat, on this guy's bike! Wow!
As he handed me the detailed error of my ways, Officer Friendly spoke candidly: "I'm glad you told me your honest version of what happened. That has made my job much easier. This citation is for driving with an improper use of your seatbelt." I was mute, but so very relieved to have eased the demands of his work. Yes, the sarcasm finally surfaced, deep within.
He sort-of consoled me, allowing that I could attend a driver-safety class at a hospital an hour's drive from home, and that after a two-hour session, I would receive a certificate, which would wipe the citation off my driving record. Cost of "tuition" for the class is ninety dollars cheaper than the fine for the infraction. Assurance was given that my classmates wouldn't be an aggregation of derelicts. This is an offer that can't be refused.
I asked, "Will this certificate be suitable for framing?" "O.F." was somewhat taken aback by this line of inquiry; not discerning the wink tacit in the question. He thought a few extra moments and then responded with straight face that perhaps it would. He probably surmised that teachers are really heavily engaged in gathering certificates of completion. Truth is, we are.
As we parted company, our connection to the thin, blue line exhorted me to "Drive Safe". I was tempted to tell him that the correct word to use in that context is "safely", but my inner GPS directed me to an alternate route. I simply nodded, and drove off; seatbelt in its proper place.
