“You’re driving under a suspended license.”
I was in utter disbelief. I’m a photographer, and it was late in the afternoon at the end of a fun and successful shoot. I was on Route 355, a four-lane suburban crudscape outside of Washington, D.C. I was about to get arrested. And Lauren, a beautiful and nice model, was with me. A cop had just pulled me over after running my plates, and was now telling me that I was driving on a suspended license. Further, he said, it was well within his power to arrest me.
I had no idea why this was happening. I told Lauren that whatever came next, my first concern was to get her safely back to the hotel where we had been shooting earlier in the day. If I was arrested or the car impounded, I would call her a cab or ask the officer to take her back. I really would have no choice, especially since my car is a VW Jetta with a manual transmission. Not many people drive stick anymore, never mind a twenty-something model.
The officer explained that he had pulled me over because his system said my license had been suspended. He explained that these things usually happen through “reciprocity” with other states — that is, when you have an outstanding violation from another state, it will ping on the computer (why can’t we be so ruthless with jihadis?).
I told him about the only out-of-state ticket I have ever gotten: the one I got last summer in Bethany Beach, Delaware, a resort town three hours from Washington. Bethany is a beautiful place, but the cops are bored and spend a lot of time harassing drivers coming down Route 1 from points west like Maryland, where I live. Also, the laid-back beach-town vibe of Bethany’s local government makes Mayberry look like Tokyo. Let’s put it this way: it’s 2013, and you can’t pay a speeding ticket in Bethany online. You have to mail in the ticket along with a self-addressed stamped envelope; then they mail you the receipt.
And this, I would learn, was where the problem had occurred. I had been at the Maryland MVA a couple of times for routine things since my trip to Bethany (usually paying a parking ticket), and I just assumed that when the clerk behind the counter punched up the computer and did his thing, it would show if I had any outstanding tickets — or if I had been suspended. In fact, when I was at the MVA for a renewal of some sort a couple months after the Bethany stop, I specifically asked the clerk if I was clean. He said I was. But apparently I had to have the Bethany Beach courthouse fax a record to the MVA. Naturally it couldn’t be done by phone or by computer — next thing you know, people will be trying to fly airplanes! In short, the whole reciprocity thing works about as well as Obamacare.
After waiting for what seemed like days, the officer delivered the verdict: he was going to let me go. The thing was, he was keeping my license and couldn’t let me drive. I would have to go to the MVA the next day, then deal with the Bethany Beach bureaucracy (which I always picture as a Jimmy Buffett lookalike with a gavel and a Hawaiian shirt), then get a temporary permit, then go to court. All for a $70 ticket I had paid months ago.
I was about to ask the officer if he could take Lauren back to the hotel. But then she spoke up: “I can drive stick,” she said, holding out her hand for the keys.
Well alleluia and thank you, Jesus. We got out and switched sides (the whole world was watching). Then I thanked the officer. I couldn’t be mad at him — actually, I was grateful. He seemed like a nice guy. And what if he hadn’t caught me, and this had happened at a far worse time and place? I could only imagine if we had been shooting in Bethany. I could see it: in jail, three hours from home, and with a model who has no way of getting back. That would have been a wonderful scene, like a redneck “Fast and Furious.”
We headed for the hotel and I thanked Lauren, who handled the Jetta like a pro. I told her I was amazed she could drive stick. “I grew up in southern Virginia,” she said. “My dad always said that there are two things a woman should know: how to fire a gun, and how to drive stick.”
Mark Judge is the author of A Tremor of Bliss: Sex, Catholicism, and Rock ‘n’ Roll.