Confusing times on a Sunday. Was driving through the 111 from the 10 Friday night. It’s a speed trap, miles of lengthy road, just two lanes with no cars in sight, in the middle of the desert. Was going seventy, eighty, kept my eyes off the speedometer. Was stuck in la-la land, thinking about work and rock bands to keep my mind off work all through the ride back from LA.

The 111 has spaces between both two-lane roads where cars can turn around and go the other way. Passed one of them and there was a bike cop, just waiting there. I saw it in my rearview, him turning around and following me. “Oh fuck,” I thought. So I did what every civilian would do and hit the brakes, suddenly trying to obey the law. There were no speed limit signs in sight, so I guessed the limit was fifty-five. I slowed to that. The cop rode my tail for about a mile before he turned his red and blue lights on in the rearview mirror. That was my signal to pull over to the shoulder.

Once the car was in park and I saw him climb off his bike, I thought, “What the hell is he gonna tell me? Maybe he’ll just give me a warning. Yeah. I’m a nice guy. I’ll just act politely toward him, and he’ll appreciate the respect I’m giving.”

He stopped at my passenger side, so I pressed the button for the automatic window to slide down. He didn’t reach his head in or nothing like that. He just stood straight, wearing his cop uniform of course, but also some kind of heavy vest that looked as if it carried a mase canister and a taser, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t usually see cops wear vests, but they do around here. He kept his helmet on naturally and said, “I’m Officer Martin. I stopped you because you were going eighty-seven in a sixty-five.”

Eighty-seven in a sixty-five? I knew I was going fast but nothing that egregious. Maybe he’d radared the wrong car. Either way, I knew I was screwed. No talking my way out of this one. I just said. “Okay.”

“Your driver’s license, registration, and insurance please,” he said.

I handed over my driver’s license and fumbled around in the glove compartment for the registration paper and handed it to him. Then he looked annoyed and said, “Your insurance?”

“Oh right. Sorry,” I said

I was so nervous and caught in the moment that I forgot that he needed that. I forgot where it was for a second and remembered I kept it in my wallet. So I pulled that little card out and handed it over.

“Give me a few minutes. Don’t go anywhere,” he said, as if I was gonna drive off without my license, registration, and insurance.

I waited for him as he filled out the citation, watching him do it in my rearview, and just thinking how shitty this was. A lot of self-loathing after speeding so fast down the 111 I tell you. It’s a speed trap. I’m never gonna take that road again, but I have to if I want to reach the 10 freeway. There is no other route there from Palm Springs. “Come on. Just hurry up and give me my license and stuff so I can leave,” I thought. “I’m so screwed. How much is the ticket gonna be? What’s all the crap I’m gonna have to do to make up for speeding?”

He gave me my stuff back and spoke so quickly that I couldn’t register what he’d said. He handed me my citation and said, “Drive safely” before he walked back to his bike.

What did he say? I looked in my wallet because I didn’t think he’d given me my insurance card back, but it was there. I was so nervously caught in the moment that I didn’t remember him giving it back to me. But anyway, he’d also written my old Hollywood address on the citation because it was still on my driver’s license. So now I would have to straighten that out with the court. What a headache. Speeding tickets are a bitch, not because of the steep fines but because of all the other nonsense that you have to put up with, such as traffic school. Gotta do that to keep the points off my driving record. My insurance will skyrocket.

I yelled for the cop to come back, but no sir. He drove off, left me there stranded. I also noticed in my rearview another car that was pulled over and a cop bike behind that one too. Those vultures were trying to meet their quotas by the end of the month. It felt better knowing I wasn’t the only one. So I drove off carefully as if another cop was lurking in the bushes somewhere, ready to pop out and write me another citation. I was in the outskirts, right outside of Palm Springs, about five miles from home. It ruined my weekend and will probably ruin my month as I worry about where the speeding ticket will go. To my old Hollywood address? I hope the post office somehow figures their shit out and mails it back to me, or else I’m never gonna get it. And they’ll sting me with late fees. Not to mention having to sign up for traffic school. Who has time for that? I sure don’t. I don’t know, man.