Here’s the last chapter of my trip to the Arizona deserts and back.
Toward midnight on Friday, March 29, hours of driving east and north from Tucson had gotten me to within a hundred miles of Albuquerque. I was lost in thought, humming along on autopilot and a cruise control that I’d set too high in my eagerness to be home, when blue and red lights suddenly flashed in my rearview mirror. Before that the night was just black, plus the silver dust of the stars over New Mexico and the gold of my lonely headlights tracing I-25 northbound. The flare of color was a shock. A surge of terror bloomed up through my belly as I signaled right and coasted to the shoulder.
Then it simmered down and slowly dissipated. I knew what would happen next. I’d be fine. I’d sit with my hands atop my steering wheel, bathed in the red, white, and blue lights of the state trooper’s vehicle parked behind me. I’d wait for the officer’s silhouette to boot-crunch up to my side and, when he tapped the glass, I’d use a single clear gesture to lower my window. He’d call me ma’am. I’d call him sir. He’d ask for my license and registration. After a few minutes of shivering but not moving a muscle as the frost of the March night blew through my cracked-open car, I’d be on my way again.
Which is exactly what happened.
Officer Wilson’s last words to me were “You drive safe now,” and mine to him were “I will, have a good evening.” I gave myself a long, slow runway to accelerate up to precisely the speed limit and simply steered my way home. Two hours later my shoes were off, my teeth were brushed, and I was bundling myself up in blankets for the night in my own bed.
But what if that’s not what happened?
What if I weren’t me?
What if I weren’t a blonde girl who happened to be born a thousand miles from here, but in the right direction—to the north, rather than to the south.
What if a single stop by law enforcement were enough to destroy my entire life, make it so I’d never see my home or my family or my books or my neighborhood’s blocks, ever again?
Officer Wilson didn’t ask if I knew how fast I’d been driving. He knew, and he knew that I knew. But he did ask if I wanted to accept the ticket or take it to the Socorro County Magistrate Court. I suppose I could’ve contested it, but why bother? I knew I was guilty of speeding.
“So you want to pay the fine?” he asked.
“Well, I don’t want to pay,” I said with a laugh, without thinking, because the adrenaline had mostly drained by then. I caught myself mid-sentence. “But yes, sir, I’ll accept the ticket.”
He smiled and half-laughed too. And gave me the ticket.
I accept; I plead guilty. Guilty of wanting a safe home and trying to get there by any means available, even the ones that aren’t quite legal or especially safe.