Identical (17 page)

This could go a number of ways,

from a simple ticket to a trip

to county lockup. I hope

it’s Option Number One.

But as the cop—

a burly deputy sheriff—

strides purposefully closer,

my heart slides down into my gut.

Poor Mick is white.

Do something!

Is he talking to me?

“Like what, exactly?”

I dunno. Tell him

you’ll give him head?

Hmm. Nah. “Just shut

up and don’t panic.”

Believe it or not, he shuts

up. As the cop reaches

the window, he sniffs.

Uh, license and registration.

Mick digs for his wallet,

reaches too quickly toward

the glove box. The cop’s hand

dives in the direction of

his holster.
Easy now,

he urges.
Open it slowly.

What? Is he thinking gun?

“No problem, Officer,” I say.

He looks across Mick, to

me. Instant recognition.

Hey. Aren’t you Kay

Gardella’s daughter?

Damn news conference!

What can I say? “Mm-hmm.”

A number of ways, depending

on how the guy feels about Mom.

Maybe even how he feels about Daddy.

Both of my parents carry plenty

of baggage—both good and not so—

with local law enforcement.

See, before Mom ran for Congress,

she was a county supervisor.

Not everyone was always happy

about the decisions the board

made, especially when they

involved money. Still, she has always

been a fan of law enforcement.

As for Daddy, his decisions aren’t

always favorable toward the arresting

officer, although Mom is right. He’s

a reasonable judge who does the best

he can within the structure of the law.

So, depending on too many variables

to have a clue, the outcome of this

particular encounter is unpredictable.

And beyond all that, it just may come

down to how much of a tight-ass

this particular cop happens to be.

It’s so tight it squeaks

when he walks. He takes

Mick’s information back

to his patrol car. We watch

in the rearview mirror as

he radios in. This is not

looking particularly good.

Back he comes, hand

dipping toward his hip

and what’s attached to it.

He stands back from

the door.
Please exit

the vehicle.

Okay, really, really not

good. We exit the vehicle

and Mr. Policeman gestures

for us to move to the front

of the truck. I am an idiot!

Holy shit. My dad is so

going to be pissed!

I noticed a definite odor

of marijuana in your vehicle.

Have you been smoking

pot this afternoon?

Can’t see how lying is going

to help at this point, but I’m

not real keen about admitting

it either. I shake my head

just about the time Mick

is dumb enough to say,
Yeah.

Which seems to amuse Deputy

Dawg.
I should probably haul

your ass in just for being so

stupid, Mr. Moron….

That’s Morona, with an
a, replies

the moron(a) in question.

The cop pretends to look

at Mick’s license.
Oh yes, I see

it now. Well, Mr. Morona, you

wait right there for a minute.

Ms. Gardella, would you

please come with me?

This is headed, but I trail

the deputy to his car, out

of earshot of Mick.

The cop gives me a hard

glare, then softens.
What

exactly do you think

you’re doing? This is

too stupid for words,

you know that, right?

I nod and finally glance at

the name pinned to his chest.

Deputy Carson. Familiar.

Okay, here’s what I’m

going to do. You go

get whatever is stashed

in that pickup. I’m going

to write Mr. Morona

a ticket, sixty in a forty-five…

Holy crap. He’s going

to let us walk. My eyes

must betray my disbelief.

I’d probably do things

differently, but Kay

deserves to win that seat.

Won’t happen if the press

gets hold of the news that

her daughter is a stoner.

Kay? Sounds terribly

informal. Exactly how

well does he know her?

The man is good at reading

body language.
Yes, I know

her. We met eight years ago.

I was a highway patrolman

then. First on the scene

at a certain accident….

I stare hard at his face,

try to erase several years,

and sure enough, it swims

into view, just as it did

in the backseat of Daddy’s

wiped-out Mercedes.

As Deputy Carson writes

the ticket. When I break

the news about his pricey

ounce, he actually gets mad.

What? No way! That cost

three bills. Add the fine

for speeding, I’m out more

than five hundred dollars.

“Shut the hell up, would you?

At least you’re not going to jail….”

And I’m not going to juvie, and

my parents won’t be involved.

As the deputy hands Mick

Moron his ticket, I’m feeling

all warm and fuzzy, until

his final admonition.

I know the last eight years

cannot have been easy.

But hanging out with losers

won’t make your life better.

I’ve come to believe that people

who survive accidents like that one

are either just plain evil, or saved

for a reason. Which are you?

I don’t feel evil. But saved

for a reason? Like what?

I guess I’m pretty good

at sex, but I don’t think

I was saved

because the world needs

more (even better) sex.

Maybe Deputy Carson

is completely full of it.

Was I saved,

or was fate simply too

damn busy killing other

people that day to catch

up to me, too?

I don’t

let myself return to that

backseat very often. It’s

the place every waking

nightmare began. I

know

(think, anyway) that had

that day gone any other way,

nothing would be as it is

now. Right? Right? I guess

I really don’t know.

No fate. No God. Just time.

The concept of God escapes

me. Some all-powerful being,

who rules sometimes gently,

and often not so, all in the name

of love? Who dreamed that up?

I see people who really believe

in God, in hope, in charity.

Mostly, they look pretty happy

and, on the surface, satisfied.

Christian. Like Christ. So why

are so many Christians unlike him?

We don’t go to church, but in

my search for personal answers,

I have explored the Bible some.

(Weird, I know, but when you get

no answers at all, you reach.)

The Old Testament is scary,

filled with misery. That God

was pretty creepy, all in all.

But Christ’s testament asks

for patience, harmony. Not war,

nor ostracism. Not hate crimes, lies,

or offering plates filled to the brim.

I wonder if there’s really a place

in heaven for hypocrites

who preach love, all the while

kicking the downtrodden.