I got stopped by a bullet in Denison last week.
R. Bulit, not an exploding bullet, but the result seemed much the same.
R. Bulit is a police officer. He stopped me just after I inadvertently ran a red light smack dab in front of him. Yes, inadvertently. That light was green when I looked at it, then I scanned the sides of the street for road signs - I needed to find a specific highway.
"You know you're going through a red light," my friend said.
That light was so red my color-blind brother-in-law could have recognized it as red without the stoplight post to give it away. There wasn't one chance in 50 million I wouldn't get a ticket, so I just pulled over and waited. Within the minute, his cute little head poked around the side of my open window.
He said, "Hello, I'm R. Bulit of the Denison Police Department." Or words to that effect. I don't think well - or remember - in a case like that.
"I thought you were going to laugh," my friend said later.
Laugh? Me? At a cop named Bulit. I know a retired cop named Barney, and I didn't laugh when I asked if he got more than one bullet. I have some self-control, after all.
Still, as soon as we were on the road and away, I smacked my friend's arm and screeched, "You couldn't have said stop?" Earlier that morning when we were still in Dodge, she yelled "Stop!" when I was half a block away from the stop sign. I think I worry her with my driving, and now I've got a much more difficult time convincing her I'm a good driver.
I seldom drive when I'm with people and I always thought it was my decision. I drive all the time, and I like sitting shotgun, but now I'm wondering if that's the reason they let me.
When I think about it, I seldom had to drive when Walt and I would go on vacation. I always thought that was because he was being nice to me, letting me rest - and we all know I can rest with the best of them. Just as soon as my behind hits the seat, I can rest.
Then, when I could tell he was getting tired and I offered to drive, he would accept, but doggone it, he never slept.
His eyes stayed wide open, just as if I had taped the eyelids open.
"I can't relax when you drive," he muttered one time.
I knew he was tired because I was tired, too, and I hadn't done anything, but I pulled to the side of the road, got out and went to the passenger door. He seemed surprised when I opened it and said "Get out," but he got out. Still, it took him a bit to figure out just what my purpose was, and I'm thinking he didn't like it so well.
Too bad. I didn't like him slamming on imaginary brakes or moving his hand as if that could move the car to the side.
It hurts to remember that. I always thought I was nice.
So long friends, until the next time when we're together.
Contact Sandy Mickelson at (515) 573-2141 or firstname.lastname@example.org