68? 71? 73?

He shines his flashlight through my passenger window, because apparently I haven’t pulled over far enough for him to stand at my left. The cars creeping by all know better than to travel more than 30 miles per hour for the forty-five seconds it will take them to pass through this town, even if they’re tempted to do five over because some asshole is tailgating them. I didn’t know he was a cop until he flicked on his lights. They’re still on, flashing scarlet and cerulean, but all I can see in my rearview is the blue, and the hollow globes of the cars sauntering past us into town.
I lean over, the seatbelt loath to release me, and shove against the window crank. It won’t budge. Because I’m pushing instead of pulling turn your brain on. I reverse the pressure and coax the window down most of the way.
“Why so fast? Late for sum’in?” The words are almost a chuckle. He marries the spout of the flashlight to his watchface as if to give it a close spotlight, then pumps the light up and down like cartoon characters’ eyes swell and retract. For some reason, this motion is obscene. The flashlight is obstructing his view of the watch as well as mine, but he’s made his point.
“No, sir, just going home to school.” because that made sense coming from home going to school you moron. His narrowed eyes dart back to his watch. “See I live in Salem, uh, my parents live in Salem, but I live on-campus in Forest Grove and I’m going back to school now.”
“Well I clocked you goin’ 68, 69 back you know that dip coupla miles back, an’ took me coupla minutes catch up with you. Your speedometer work?”
I look at it as if to ask it personally. “I assume it does… guess I just didn’t realize how fast I was going.” I know exactly how fast I was going. The needle covered the hash mark adjacent to the 80 at one point, because I had been trying to keep a hill between me and his blinding headlights at all times.
“Well le’s take a look at your license, and the insurance or the registration.” I dig out my wallet from the cavernous depths of my purse, hand him my ODL, and shutter open the glove compartment. “Zuh car yours?”
“Uh, in my father’s name. My sister’s name might also be on there.” I know for a fact that it is.
He confirms my father’s name while I search. I only have to sift through a few Express Lube scheduled maintenance printouts before I come to the insurance card. I check to see that it’s the valid one before I hand it to him.
“How d’y say the last name?” He is testing me to see if it’s really my license, or if I’ve at least studied it enough that I can lie effectively. I pronounce it for him, he repeats it back to me, mangling it less than my high school principal did as she handed me my diploma. I continue to shuffle until I find the envelope with the registration, just to prove I have it, but he declines it.
“Wherezat from, you know?” And my brain flashes to a scene from The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee. He’s been given a doozy, and he’s asking me for country of origin. No, he’s shining the light in my face.
“No, actually, I don’t.”
I do. It’s German, though my father’s adoptive parents are mostly French. We think it got changed to Terhune from Terhünen at Ellis Island. I also know my first name is Welsh for “white wave.” I tell him none of this, because to correct myself would make it seem like I’m lying to him instead of just scared shitless. He takes my license to run it, for which I thank him, because it will tell him I have a perfectly spotless record since I’ve never even been pulled over before.
Another patrol car approaches from in front of me. I flash to the scene in every cop movie where the cop and the criminal lock eyes in slow-mo standoff as their cars meet in passing. Non-illuminated, impenetrable glass meets my stare. He glides by, then pulls a U-ie and falls into line behind the other police car.
The din resonance of a door shutting.
“Busy night?” I am not supposed to hear this. The first officer must know this, because his response is unintelligibly low. “Damn.” The second officer must not know this.
They chat loudly about some bullshit second-rate version of the Academy that is apparently only for pussies.
The night is wafting in through the window, inciting my right arm to goosebumps.
I am waiting.
“So how fast did you clock ‘er?”
“71.”
“Nice!”
“Yeah, know.”
A third police cruiser creeps over as if curious. It swings around and pulls in behind the other two. Another door latch announces its job complete.
I stifle the burst of insane laughter that threatens to gouge its way out of my throat. When there’s an accident in Salem, you can’t get one lousy black-and-white unless there’s a serious injury. I know this; I’ve got connections. I could drop names. But I don’t. I let him continue to invent numbers and talk pussies until he’s good and ready to return.
“Now I’m not gonna give you a lecture, this is a low base, and what happens is at night, you go 67, 68, you overdrive your headlights Now what that means is you get there before you can see it, so if a deer or an animal comes out”
“You don’t have time to stop.”
“there’s nothin you can do So at night you gotta keep it under 70”
“Oh, ’s good to know that figure.”
“Awright, now you do me favor an keep it under 70 ok”
“Yes, sir I will.”
“kay you have a good night.”

I think I got all that.

Footsteps, then the door latches bid each other goodnight, and the third cruiser heads back the way I came. The first saunters off and makes a right onto the first side street. The second lingers. I wait. The second flicks on his headlights, illuminating the ticket in my hand.

The ticket says 73.