I like a good story

I like short, and very sincere or emotional, tales. The kind that can talk a policeman out of giving you a speeding ticket. I also like long, convoluted explanations that raise questions, where you must peel away some layers to get at the truth of the matter. Sometimes you never do get the whole story.

I just bought a yellow Coupe de Ville with black leather upholstery. I then experienced a delightful evening with a girl at the drive-in movies. Then I did a 70 mph power run up the half-mile-long High Bridge over the Mississippi in St. Paul. When I slowed down at the top, a St. Paul officer hit his lights and pulled me over. I had my license ready when he came up to the window. I spoke first, respectfully, “Hey, I’m sorry, I just got this thing and I guess I got carried away.” He answered with a smile, “I’m just going to check you for warrants.” A perceptive man. You can’t fake sincerity; it shows. 

I was a cop in a coal mining town in western Colorado. Some people there liked to fight cops. One afternoon, I was perched on the main drag with the radar gun. A pickup truck I recognized as being from town, but I didn’t know the driver, came blasting down the street at a clocked 50. I hit the lights, and he pulled over right away. We both got out of our vehicles and he, about my age with 6 inches and 40 pounds on me, came stomping toward me all wild-eyed. I was getting ready to go to fist city when he stopped in front of me and started bawling, with tears a-flying. “My mother-in-law just died, and I have to go home and tell my wife and …” “Go, just go, but slow it down,” I told him. I believed him. If it was an act, it was an Academy Award performance.

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