A confrontation with the Sheriff

Yesterday, driving home from Cape Cod, I ran into a construction site, one that was swarming with state police and assistant Sheriffs. I proceeded with caution. One of the sheriffs motioned to me, giving me hand signals that might have meant “Stay where you are.” or “Drive to this spot.” I interpreted his direction as the latter since it reminded me of commands I and Bismarck had learned in dog-training school.

I rolled down the window. The sheriff was young and had the air of a man who shaves two or three times a day. I took an immediate liking to him. For one thing, he wasn’t wearing sun glasses even though it was not yet dusk. For another, instead of ferreting out the most humiliating thing he could call me, he addressed me as “Sir”.

“Sir, I want you to focus on me. Do not move until I say ‘go’. The traffic here is thick and very dangerous. When I say go, I want you to accelerate on to the highway. Try not to hit me or any of these workers.” He didn't smile. And he made a vague gesture towards a flock of men who stood, chatting and smoking, around approximately one million dollars of earth-moving and paving machines. Their huge diesel engines were running.

And so, I focused. I glued my eyes to his every gesture. He gave me a warning look from time to time, as though he thought I might be contemplating a break-out. It was late. I was tired. And, as the minutes passed, I did eventually do a cost/benefit on running him over after all. The traffic seemed light and intermittent.

Finally, I got the signal. “Go! Go! Go!” cried the cop. For a moment I was on the beach at Normandy with John Wayne urging me on as I squashed the gas pedal on the ancient Mazda into the floor, and I was off.

Once I got up to highway speed, out of pure curiosity I took a look in my mirror. The straightness of the road allowed me to see back almost a mile, I think. The road was totally empty.