I’m sitting in my car on the edge of an embankment, snow is falling outside like a giant man’s dandruff. The flakes contrast the night sky and are the cause of my current predicament. I hesitate to move for fear of shifting the car and sending me rolling into the ditch to the right.
Let me explain: I had been coming down the slippery hill. And as I approached the bottom, I thought of how my dad used to take me to snowy, barren parking lots to learn the art of fighting the slide. He had me drive really fast then slam on the brakes and try to regain control. That’s how I learned to pump the brake in snow, don’t slam or you’ll skid.
So that’s what I did tonight. Yet my seasoned Ford Taurus slipped, apparently not realizing I had been pumping the brake. So askew I slid right to where I am now.
The tow truck is pulling my embarrassed vehicle from the side of the road. Wait…red, white and blue lights. My lucky night. A policeman is approaching my window.
“License please,” he says to me.
I look down at my wallet and begin to pull out my driver’s identification…
What illegality have I committed? The weather got the best of me — is that a crime? He doesn’t actually need my license, does he?
“Here,” I hand him my license. And I wonder aloud…
The word is out, though I wish I could reel it back in and shove it to where it won’t come back.
“Because you slid off the side of the road, that’s why,” he says with contempt. “You want me to write this up or what?”
What, actually. So I’m keeping my mouth shut.
Just pull this embarrassed boy from the side of the road, please.