Originally posted on Confessions of an Imperfect Life:
The speed limit is 75, so I figure 85 is probably okay. I’m zipping along in my white Nissan Altima that I picked out by default at the airport, because the cuter grey VW had a broken headlight. The highway seems endless through the desert between Albuquerque and Santa Fe, brown for miles in every direction, with brown mountains in the distance to break up the view somewhat.
I look up ahead at what I can just barely discern is a man standing at the top of a hill on the side of the road. He’s pointing a gun at the cars as they speed by. It’s a radar gun, and it immediately makes me think of the scene in Bridesmaids where Rhodes shows Annie how to use one and they chase after speeding cars. I didn’t think they existed outside the movies; I’d never seen one before. The trooper is dressed in brown, almost hidden in his brown surroundings.
Before I reach him, the cop jumps into his car and turns on the light. I know he got me. I don’t even know what speed I was going, but I know I didn’t see him early enough. I brake, I move to the right lane. I don’t even pray because I know he got me. What use is prayer now? I haven’t been pulled over since the night after my high school graduation, and the fear surges back at me, as palpable now as it was then.