seemingly everyone in the state was trying to merge onto I-680 North. On a whim I decided to take a more eastward route instead. The new course would quickly dump me into the Central Valley and send me through scenic wonders such as Tracy and Stockton—cool if you’re into cows, strip malls, or tract houses—but the road might be less congested.
I was wrong. And although I wasn’t in a huge hurry to show up at my parents’ door, I also wasn’t especially fond of squeezing between lumbering semis or swerving to avoid the dimwits who couldn’t stay in their own lanes. Those dotted lines are there for a reason, people.
When traffic finally lightened up on I-5, I celebrated by putting the pedal to the metal.
Too bad there was a highway patrolman waiting for me.
When I was a little kid, I used to watch CHiPs reruns and imagine that when I grew up, I’d be a more Semitic version of Ponch. I dug the uniform with the shiny black boots, and of course the idea of getting paid to zoom around on a motorcycle was pretty appealing. But my tween attempts at dirt biking ended up in emergency rooms, and I eventually decided I was more interested in getting into other men’s uniforms than getting into my own, so the dream died. After that, I wanted to be an actor, and then I thought maybe I’d end up as a famous zillionaire.
No child has ever dreamed of becoming an accounts receivable clerk.
The guy who pulled me over near Stockton was driving a cruiser.
“How come they don’t let you drive a bike?” I asked.
I couldn’t be sure, since he was scowling, but I was fairly certain he couldn’t boast pearly whites like Erik Estrada’s.
“Do you know how fast you were going?” he asked.
There’s no good answer to that, is there? You can admit you were breaking the law or lie your ass off and claim your speedometer read sixty-five. Or you can do what I did—squint a little and tap nervously on the steering wheel. “Um… no?”
The cop glared at me as if I’d just admitted to being a serial killer. “I clocked you at eighty-two.”
Had I been going that fast? Possibly. Probably. There didn’t seem to be much point in arguing over it. I handed over my license, registration, and proof of insurance and hoped there were no thirty-year-old Nathan Roths floating around California with outstanding warrants. I’d never had to ask my parents to bail me out of jail, and today didn’t seem like a good day to try something new.
The other Nathan Roths must have been relatively law-abiding, because the cop soon returned with my documents, gave a skeptical look at my bruises and stitches, and handed me a traffic ticket. “Enter a plea by the date indicated,” he said. “Court date’s here if you want to contest it, or you can go online to plead guilty and pay. Fine’ll be double since you were in a construction zone.” He gave an evil grin and strode off without another word.
I know that a speeding ticket isn’t a huge big deal—Julia gets them almost as often as I end up visiting Urgent Care—but I’d only been nabbed once before. Today the citation felt like an official governmental seal, certifying what a loser I was. I slipped back onto the freeway and crept along at a glacial but law-abiding fifty-five, earning myself the hatred of the unticketed masses who zoomed by.
My parents live outside of Sacramento, which isn’t all that far from Stockton. But the closer I got to them, the more miserable I felt. My arm ached, my stitches itched, and I fervently wished the holidays were past and we were stuck in the depths of January. Up ahead I spied the freeway oasis, with its gas and fast food restaurants under one roof. I took the exit, rolled into the vast parking lot, and chose a spot a good distance from the building. Then I cut the engine and had an existential crisis.
Just a few years earlier, my life had seemed ideal. I had a steady job that paid enough for me to live reasonably well. Sure, it wasn’t
I was wrong. And although I wasn’t in a huge hurry to show up at my parents’ door, I also wasn’t especially fond of squeezing between lumbering semis or swerving to avoid the dimwits who couldn’t stay in their own lanes. Those dotted lines are there for a reason, people.
When traffic finally lightened up on I-5, I celebrated by putting the pedal to the metal.
Too bad there was a highway patrolman waiting for me.
When I was a little kid, I used to watch CHiPs reruns and imagine that when I grew up, I’d be a more Semitic version of Ponch. I dug the uniform with the shiny black boots, and of course the idea of getting paid to zoom around on a motorcycle was pretty appealing. But my tween attempts at dirt biking ended up in emergency rooms, and I eventually decided I was more interested in getting into other men’s uniforms than getting into my own, so the dream died. After that, I wanted to be an actor, and then I thought maybe I’d end up as a famous zillionaire.
No child has ever dreamed of becoming an accounts receivable clerk.
The guy who pulled me over near Stockton was driving a cruiser.
“How come they don’t let you drive a bike?” I asked.
I couldn’t be sure, since he was scowling, but I was fairly certain he couldn’t boast pearly whites like Erik Estrada’s.
“Do you know how fast you were going?” he asked.
There’s no good answer to that, is there? You can admit you were breaking the law or lie your ass off and claim your speedometer read sixty-five. Or you can do what I did—squint a little and tap nervously on the steering wheel. “Um… no?”
The cop glared at me as if I’d just admitted to being a serial killer. “I clocked you at eighty-two.”
Had I been going that fast? Possibly. Probably. There didn’t seem to be much point in arguing over it. I handed over my license, registration, and proof of insurance and hoped there were no thirty-year-old Nathan Roths floating around California with outstanding warrants. I’d never had to ask my parents to bail me out of jail, and today didn’t seem like a good day to try something new.
The other Nathan Roths must have been relatively law-abiding, because the cop soon returned with my documents, gave a skeptical look at my bruises and stitches, and handed me a traffic ticket. “Enter a plea by the date indicated,” he said. “Court date’s here if you want to contest it, or you can go online to plead guilty and pay. Fine’ll be double since you were in a construction zone.” He gave an evil grin and strode off without another word.
I know that a speeding ticket isn’t a huge big deal—Julia gets them almost as often as I end up visiting Urgent Care—but I’d only been nabbed once before. Today the citation felt like an official governmental seal, certifying what a loser I was. I slipped back onto the freeway and crept along at a glacial but law-abiding fifty-five, earning myself the hatred of the unticketed masses who zoomed by.
My parents live outside of Sacramento, which isn’t all that far from Stockton. But the closer I got to them, the more miserable I felt. My arm ached, my stitches itched, and I fervently wished the holidays were past and we were stuck in the depths of January. Up ahead I spied the freeway oasis, with its gas and fast food restaurants under one roof. I took the exit, rolled into the vast parking lot, and chose a spot a good distance from the building. Then I cut the engine and had an existential crisis.
Just a few years earlier, my life had seemed ideal. I had a steady job that paid enough for me to live reasonably well. Sure, it wasn’t
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