The Fast and the Mildly Perturbed

My job sucks. That’s not such a big deal, but it does mean that when I finally punch out at eleven p.m. and change, I’m in a hurry to get home, sink a couple of cold ones, maybe throw a porno on.

One of the current spanners in the works is the fact that the road that connects the two highways on my route is currently a construction zone. And has been for the past six months.

As I’m cruising at a not-so-cruisy pace through after my first turnoff tonight, a road crew and two narrow lines of traffic cones appeared at the foot of the hill, and I thought nothing of it as I coasted down to the 40kph construction zone limit.

As I passed the roadcrew, tired and cranky, I noticed one of them giving me a shit-eating grin from the side of the road.

“The fuck are you laughing about, cunt?”, I thought rhetorically. A few seconds before the road lit up behind me. Highway patrol.

What followed was a fairly tense conversation.

“Good evening sir, how are you tonight?”

“Tired.”
(shitting myself.)

“Do you know why you’ve been pulled over?”

“Yeah, I was a little bit over the limit back there, I know.”
(about 50kph over the limit.)

“A little? We had you clocked at 90 back before the hill.”

“90? Really?”
(GPS said 92. Gotta get that fucker calibrated.)

“Have you been drinking tonight?”

“I’ve been working tonight.”

“Where do you work?”

“I’m the night super at [REDACTED]. I think I served you last week.”
(And was probably more of a smart arse then than I am now, for god’s sake do NOT look at the front of the car.)

“Our concern was that you were speeding through a construction zone. You were obviously going too fast to slow down in time for this construction.”

(That’s not the speed. That’s the dangerously worn brake pads.)

“License please… Where do you live currently?”

“Ballajura.”

The cop gives me a blank look, then looks at my license again.

“That’s my mother’s address on there.”

“That’s a fine you know. And the car?”

“Also registered at my mother’s address.”

“That’s also a fine.”

(yeah, so is the shiv concealed in the side pocket of the door. Watch where you point that flashlight, officer.)

“I know. I’m really sorry, my dad was a fireman and I know how many accidents are caused by speed.”

The cop grunts in reply and takes a step back from the car, pointing his light at the back tyres.

“Car alright?”

“Pretty much.”
(if you ignore the non-functional electric windows, the aforementioned brake pressure, the busted corner lamp, the dead rear left indicator, the worn rear tire, the lack of park lights, the blade-less rear window wipers, and the dodgy alternator…)

“Go home and update your address tonight. If you’re involved in an accident, we wouldn’t be able to find you, you know.”

(Kind of the point, officer.)

The policeman looks briefly at what can only be the infringement book in his pocket, tips his hat and trudges back to his car.

What the fuck just happened?