Leavitt-y
by Josie Leavitt

I’m not really supposed to go the creemee stand. I am not slender, my cholesterol is too high and I have a small gall bladder problem that is exacerbated by all the yumminess that can be found at Uncle Sam’s Dairy Bar. I try to limit myself to once a month. I don’t get a baby creemee, no, I go whole hog (pun intended) with a chicken tender basket, fries, no slaw and a chocolate shake. This particular night I was also bringing home a shake for Elizabeth.
So, here I am, driving back up the hill rounding the corner by the school, car filled with the delicious smell of fries, the chicken is so hot I can hear it sizzling, my first sip of shake is so delightful, I’m not even irritated by the endless VPR fundraising drive when I pass a State Trooper going the other way. I resist the urge to wave HI; I’m in such a good mood.
The mood quickly evaporates when I see the patrol car turn around by the Quonset hut. My mind went many places when I saw her turn around. She toyed with me for a few seconds by not putting her lights on right away. Maybe something’s happening and she’s going to stop a crime on Spear Street, maybe I’m not going to get pulled over in front of CHARLOTTE CENTRAL SCHOOL at dinnertime. Oh yes, I am.
Everyone driving by stares in my car. “Oh look Mom, it’s the Flying Pig lady. I wonder what she did,” I can hear children murmur from the back of minivans. Parents look sternly at me. I can tell you what I didn’t do, and that was enjoy hot fried food. So the State Trooper comes to the car, and I’ve already got my license out.
She tells me I was going 42 miles an hour. I tell her my speedometer said 38. I’m in a Prius, I’ve just come up a huge hill, seriously, I cannot go much faster than that. I express my shock. “What’s your hurry?” she asks. I point to the mercifully closed bag of the chicken tender basket and say, “My friend’s been sick and I’m bringing this to her for dinner.” She can see the two shakes in the cup holders, so maybe my story seems plausible: I’m an altruistic speeder.
She takes my license, registration, insurance card and heads back to her car. Now begins the agony of getting pulled over--the waiting. The waiting to find out how much the ticket will be is the worst. You play out the scenarios: Speeding in a school-zone, I might as well have been selling heroin to the incoming kindergarten class.
It seems that everyone who’s ever shopped at the bookstore is still driving by. I’m not worried about them; I’m worried about my food. I’m thinking to myself, can I drink a little bit of my shake? Or should I just wait while the shake gets warmer by the second. What’s proper thing to do when pulled over with hot food? I glance back at her, busy on the radio for far too long, and I think back, have I done anything that would get me in more trouble than speeding.
She comes back to the car holding paperwork. I’ve resigned myself to a ticket and silently grateful I’ve just paid my auto insurance for the year before it goes up from the multi-point ticket I’m about to get. She leans in the window, I actually catch her sniffing the fried food aroma that has filled the car. “I’m giving you a warning this time.” My relief is palpable. I thank her and wish her a good weekend. I make a promise to myself as one does when having squeaked by a potentially nasty situation: next time I’ll stay home and have a salad.