It’s 1:05 PM on a hot August afternoon and I’m racing to get home.
I have a 1:30 Zoom call, my dogs have been outside in their kennel since 6:15 AM and I need to get them out of the heat and into the house. Plus, I really need to pee.
Earlier that day, I did two, one-hour workshops with a client in Murfreesboro, TN. It’s about 85 miles from my house. I did the math. I should have made it back home in plenty of time, but I hung around a little too long chatting with my group and now I need to figure out the fastest way home.
I trust Google Maps. It gives me the fastest routes, warns me of accidents, and best of all, if there may be a speed trap ahead. Google tells me I’ll be arriving at 1:36 PM. That’s not going to work. So, I drive fast.
Most of the drive is interstate and in mid-day, the traffic shouldn’t be too bad. Unless there is roadwork or a semi-truck accident, both quite common on I-24 and I-40.
But not today. I’m rapidly making up time. By the time I get off I-40, Google informs me I’ll be back home by 1:20 PM. This is perfect. I can bring my dogs in, hit the bathroom, and still be able to log in on time at 1:30. Now I need to make the last 17 miles on two-lane country roads without incident.
Which is a problem where I live. I’ve discovered, living in a rural community, that most of the days the roads have farm equipment or logging trucks on them, along with the mostly old people who probably shouldn’t be on the road. They don’t drive fast. Or very well at all for that matter. Often, they cut right in front of you or worse, drive 20 MPH under the speed limit. My working hypothesis is that they believe they’ll burn in Hell if they go 1 MPH over the speed limit. So just to be safe, they go 20 MPH under it.
So far, things are looking good. The road has a posted 45 MPH speed limit, and the roads are open. I tighten my grip on the wheel, step on the gas and get up to 60 MPH. I might even have enough time to get a quick bite to eat. I feel myself locking into what I call “video game” mode where I’m driving and visualizing me trying to beat the clock while navigating around moving obstacles. Even though I’m tightly wound, I’m feeling good.
Until I round a curve and come up behind a Royal Blue SUV. Going about 30.
“Here we go!” I tell myself. “Another slow poke!”
I’ve never considered myself an aggressive driver. A former co-worker told me he was ASSERTIVE, not AGGRESSIVE. That’s how I consider myself too. Very assertive.
So assertive that I tell myself “Eat my dust bitch!” I stomp on the gas pedal and pass him at 60 MPH across the double yellow line.
“Yeah, that’s how it’s done son!” I nod and tell myself aloud with a smile.
And then, my heart sinks. The car I’ve just passed lights up like a Christmas tree. That blue SUV in an unmarked police cruiser. I’ve just road-raged a cop.
When I left home earlier that morning, I listened to my High Vibes Yoga Apple Music playlist. Soon though, I decided to start a book. It’s entitled Stories Sell, by Matthew Dicks. I’ve read a lot of his books. He’s a professional storyteller, the Tom Brady of competitive storytelling. The GOAT. And even though I’ve already finished it a month ago, it’s so rich that I’m going to listen to it again.
The time passes much quicker, and I arrive at my destination early.
“Good,” I tell myself. “More time to listen to Matt’s book.”
Since Matthew Dicks narrates his own audio books and he himself is an open book, I’m comfortable calling him Matt. I feel like I know him. I don’t refer to Stephen King as Steve though.
My workshops go well and on my way home, even though I’m racing against the clock, I decide to keep listening. It’s keeping me from focusing on the clock.
About 20 minutes into the drive home, a question arises in my monkey brain.
“I wonder,” I muse, “Would storytelling help someone get out of a traffic ticket?”
Little did I know I’d be personally wrestling with that question in about 45 minutes.
I know I’m screwed. No matter what I might try, there is absolutely no way I have any grounds or excuses to get me out of this. And I’ve learned, after watching the old TV show Cops, that you can’t bullshit a cop. They’ve heard it all.
So here I sit on the side of the road. Cars are passing around us. Really slowly. They want to see who it is. Southerners are notoriously nosey. I’m certain they’re saying “It sucks to be you.” They have no idea.
I dig into the glovebox for my registration and proof of insurance which of course is the old expired card. I’m hoping this won’t make things worse. I pull my license out of my wallet and watch him get out and walk towards me.
I wonder why he’s moving so slowly, but then I realize my windows are darkly tinted and he has no idea who is in the car. I lower my window, and he stands just behind the driver’s side door.
“What was that all about?” he asks me, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.
Still rattled, I asked “What’s ‘that’?” I didn’t know what to say, but didn’t want to offer up any more incriminating things.
“That stupid pass you just did at a high rate of speed!”
At that moment, I decide to just be honest.
“I have no excuse,” I told him. “None whatsoever, but since you asked, I’ll tell you.”
I tell him the whole story. My wife having to spend six weeks with her mom for her hip replacement recovery and helping care for her dad who has dementia. How I am babysitting her dog, my daughter’s dog, plus our two goldendoodles. Having to manage everything along with trying to work while being around to let the dogs out and not letting them stay in the outdoor kennel for too long because of the searing summer heat. The important phone call. And yes, I tell him I need to pee.
“I ought to write you up for reckless driving,” he mutters.
“I would accept that,” I tell him, hoping that might be better than begging for leniency.
When he heads back to the cruiser to process my punishment, I roll up my window and do a quick Googlesearch on my phone. The penalty for reckless driving in Tennessee is a $500.00 fine, five points off your license, and a possible six-month jail sentence.
Now I panic.
How am I going to explain this to Barb?
What will my kids think?
What will my grandkids say when they learn Grandpa Mack is in jail?
Will I have to wear the striped Dickson County Jail uniform and pick up trash on the road? With cops directing traffic around us? How embarrassing. And then, since I’ll no doubt be the oldest man on the crew, drivers that pass us will say:
“Yup Ethyl, thar ya go. Another career criminal out thar pickin’ up trash on the road.”
Are the other inmates going to try and beat up an old guy like me?
Will Lisa tell my upcoming SHRM HR Conference planners that I won’t be able to do their event because I’m in jail?
Who is going to take my Alzheimer’s-stricken mom her pills this Friday and make sure she has food in the house?
Will he at least let me pee in the bushes before slapping the cuffs on me?
After four excruciating minutes that seem like four hours, he gets out of the cruiser and begins walking towards me. I can’t help but notice he’s not carrying that metal clipboard with the tickets in it. Nor is he reaching for his cuffs. I lower my window.
“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” he says, “But I’m going to let you off with a warning.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say to him, even though he’s probably 20 years younger than me.
And then he tells me a story.
He tells me what it’s like to clean up accident scenes from aggressive drivers just like me. He assures me he doesn’t want to do that with me.
I thank him again and start back home. I’d now be home by 1:45 so I let Lisa know so she can hopefully reach the client. But now I’m setting my cruise control at 45MPH. Perhaps the only time I’ve set a cruise control at that turtle-like speed. I don’t worry about burning in Hell, but I don’t want to go to jail.
I make it home and everyone is fine. The dogs are happy to see me. They go in and lay down on the cool tile floor and summarily fall asleep. At long last, I can empty my bladder. I log onto my Zoom. It’s all going to be OK.
And then I realize that a story really did help me get out of a ticket. But more importantly, it was an important wakeup call for me. I am an aggressive driver. I own that. But the officer’s story changed my approach to driving. It’s foolish and dangerous. My responsibility is to be less assertive, and more reflective.
A lesson I’ll never forget.