Eating My Words

Megan and I are driving south of Tucson to the little burg of Patagonia to help some friends work on an old ranch house. It is New Year's Eve, so traffic enforcement on the winding highway climbing up to Sonoita has been beefed up. State Patrol cruisers parked conspicuously on fast, straight stretches of highway look dark, menacing.

The old truck makes deep moaning sounds at speed, so I keep it under 60. I am not worried about drawing attention.

We talk the way couples talk, lapsing into subtle irritations and criticism just because we have to vent a bit once in a while. Megan reminds me how hard it seems for me to let go of things -- shoes, T-shirts, youth, vigor, hair, height -- little things. I politely listen in silence, building up a litany of rebuttal that will soon be delivered, once I can get a word in.

The lovely tawny hills of Sonoita spread out like a blanket from the foot of Mount Wrightson. It is winter and the sky is cold and bright. Snow fills the shadowy defiles cut into the rocky heights. It is movie backdrop, a scene fit for real drama.

"You know, a bunch of people have gotten speeding tickets lately near Patagonia," Megan advises. She mentions friends and family, scofflaws who ought to know better, who have been cited. All the locals have talked their way out of, even when drunk with no registration or insurance papers. She says there's a wing-nut cop who is obsessed with giving city folks tickets, a spit-and-polish ex-marine. "Even the gas station guys don't like him," she adds. Between the lines of her counsel is the implication that I am not so lucky -- or charming -- as our friends who gotten out of big fines.

This is particularly irritating because I rank below the local malcontent reactionaries. The gas station guys pride themselves on being PIGS, the "Politically Incorrect Gas Station.," and tend side with law and order while opposing "bra-burners" and "tree-huggers."

I have to sit with that for a bit. I have a spotless record (except for the one time near Duncan, AZ that I do not like to remember and tend to omit whenever the subject comes up) for traffic tickets. Everyone in my family has had a ticket, but for more than 15 years I have been ticket free, in spite of my tendency to drive faster than I should. I feel I can drive how I want, even through speed traps.

The writer in me takes over and composes a dialogue fit for the occasion.

"I don't get tickets," I say.

That is a good start, I think to myself, but is not quite enough. It needs some elaboration.

"I am special."

Ah, yes, that is good too. But special in what way?

"In fact I have a sixth sense about when to speed. I can tell when there is going to be a cop with a radar gun."

The hole has been dug.

As these words are leaving my mouth, we enter the town of Patagonia's way reduced speed limit, and I slow a bit, but not enough.

True to script, the sheriff is parked in his truck with the gun on. Right on cue he pulls out behind me. Within seconds I am below the speed limit and I am sure it is just a coincidence. We drive s-l-o-w-l-y into town, and I make the turn toward Harshaw Canyon and the ranch house. He turns too. The lights come on.

Megan grins a big grin. I sink into my seat.

So, I will be spending this coming Saturday at traffic school with the other scofflaws. We will all be eating a piece of humble pie, hoping to return soon to the promised land of exception from the laws of man and spirit. After all, we are so very special.

Megan will not let me forget.