For me, driving through Texas is therapeutic. Seeing the big sky, the wide-open spaces, the cattle, the trees, and the cacti out my window is always a pleasure—coming from New York, it’s always a memory come to life.
Last week, however, another memory returned—that dreadful feeling when you look into your rearview mirror, and see flashing lights from the car behind you. I thought I was being careful, but when I looked at the odometer I saw that I was indeed going a bit too fast. Yep, for the first time in 20 years, I was going to get a speeding ticket.
Pathetic doesn’t even begin to describe my pleading with the officer. I explained to him that it was an honest mistake, and that I hadn’t meant to go fast. I said that I had a clean record and that surely there were more criminal types out there who deserved a confrontation with the law. As a last, desperate attempt at getting out of the ticket, I told the policeman that I was scared to be driving by myself in such a remote area, and I was in a hurry to return to civilization. Well, he didn’t buy any of it (and in hindsight, I’m lucky he didn’t haul me to jail). So when he handed me my ticket, I simply said, “Thank you,” and bid him goodnight.
It was getting late, and as I was in the middle of nowhere, by the time I returned to a place where I could grab some dinner, all of the restaurants were closed. My remaining choices were gas-station food, Whataburger or a 24-hour taco joint. I’d already enjoyed a couple of Whataburgers on the trip, so I opted for the taco joint, seduced by its offer of shrimp quesadillas. Well, that was a mistake, as it was a handful of rubbery shrimp that had been sealed with bland cheese into a cardboard tortilla. I was disappointed.
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