Before I tell you how I felt when I saw the flashing lights in my rearview mirror, let me back up a bit.
I'll rewind to last Thursday. Picture me wearing shorts and rainboots, squeezing two students' life possessions and one mothers' luggage into a mid-sized sedan. Then picture a crammed car ride north from Washington, DC to New York, NY.
Then, Hurricane Irene comes in. I know we've "officially" downgraded her to Tropical Storm Irene, but considering the havoc she managed to create, I consider it appropriate to honor her with the superior title.
As far as we could tell from the newscasters, Twitter, and the mayor of New Jersey, Hurricane Irene could only create one of the following three situations:
a. New York City Will Go Underwater, Ending Civilized Life As We Know It.
b. Flooding Will Cause Millions Of Subway Rats To Surface And Take Over New York City And Subsequently The World, Establishing A Ratocracy And Ending Civilized Life As We Know It.
c. Alec Baldwin Will Lose His House In The Hamptons, Ending Civilized Life As We Know It.
Fearing one or a combination of these situations, New York City shut down almost completely. In the end, this is what happened (in our neck of the woods, which is, for the purposes of this illustration, West Harlem):
a. It rained.
b. There was wind.
c. I couldn't leave on Saturday or Sunday, because some of the major bridges were threatening closure.
d. My mom's flight home to Brazil was canceled.
e. My sister's flight to Rome was canceled.
f. My other sister's college move-in day was moved.
There's something I should mention here. The night before Hurricane-But-Really-Tropical-Storm Irene hit, my car overheated. This may not be such a big problem generally, but it is a big problem when you've just had $1,300 worth of work done on the car to ensure that it doesn't overheat. So, to this list of Things Hurricane Irene Did, we might add:
g. Garages were closed.
Many thumbs were twiddled and many movies watched while we waited for the storm to pass. Meanwhile, I got a cold. Monday came, I watched the car towed away. More thumbs were twiddled and more movies watched as I waited for the mechanic to find more stuff wrong with the car. Wednesday came. By this point, I'd missed my entire first week of classes.
After picking up the car, I spent 20 minutes driving around Hell's Kitchen looking for a gas station, then another hour driving around the Upper West Side looking for a Bank of America. Finally, I was on the road.
Seven hours later, I was on I-90 between Syracuse and Buffalo. This is the home stretch. My hand was deep into a box of Wheat Thins (inexplicably my favorite snack ever ...), and I was listening raptly to a podcast of The Moth, hearing Fab from MillyVanilly talk about the pressures of being 19 and a fraudulent pop star. Apparently, I was listening too raptly, because that's when I saw the blue and red lights in my rear-view mirror.
A speed-trap in lieu of a welcome commitee. It figures.
The officer seemed persuaded by my pentitent face ("I was going 75 in a 65? Oh my!") and wrote me a fix-it ticket instead of a speeding ticket.
"Of course, your headlight's not actually out," he explained. He told me I could go to any police station tomorrow and show them my working headlights, and then everything would be taken off the record. He just had to write me some sort of ticket.
The irony? I am, in fact, missing a headlight. I had the bulb replaced twice last week, but no luck. I had to leave DC before I could figure it out. The trick is, I drive with my brights on, so no one (not even a police officer, apparently) notices that one of the regular lights is out.
I just hope my trick is good enough to fool another one.
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