Leslie was stopped behind a line of cars that seemed endlessly long. She strained to look around the van in front of her, but she had no idea what was the holdup. Finally, Leslie relented, and stopped trying to look for the accident or construction ahead. She couldn’t find a radio station that wasn’t twangy country, so she settled for watching Finding Nemo as a silent film. The van in front of hers had a small television folded down for the kids, and although the screen was tiny, Leslie was thankful for something to do. She pulled out a bag of Chex Mix, and imagined her own script for the movie. It wasn’t the most interesting way to spend thirty minutes, but it was better than nothing.
Finally, Leslie had crept forward far enough to see the lights of a few police cars. It seemed that the line in front of her was shorter, now, and that in a few minutes she might actually be allowed to pass on through. Leslie felt like cheering.
It was then that she saw a police officer approaching the van in front of her. He walked up to the van’s driver side, flashlight in tow. He looked friendly, and Leslie realized that this was, more than likely, a routine seatbelt or sobriety checkpoint. Still, she panicked. If she hadn’t been in the left lane, she surely would have tried to make a run for the next exit. Leslie tried to calm herself; if she acted normal, she could continue driving as before, without drawing any suspicion.
Still, her heart pounded. Even though Leslie always buckled up the moment she sat in a car, she double-checked her lap belt, and glanced around the car to make sure there was nothing that might look suspicious.
The policeman sent the van on its way, and Leslie pulled up. She stopped, and rolled down her window. With a planted smile, Leslie said hello.
“Just checking if you’ve got your seatbelt on, ma’am,” the man said with a slight drawl, looking at her. He glanced down at her chest, seeming to let his eyes linger longer than was necessary to check for a safety belt. Of course- of all the respectable-looking cops here, Leslie would manage to line up in front of the perverted one. Leslie wanted to berate him- and normally she would have- but this time she simply smiled sweetly, knowing that to create a fuss would only cause more problems for her.
The man thanked her with a greasy smile, and Leslie recoiled a bit inside. Still, she realized that the longer the time he looked at her breasts, the shorter the time he would be looking at her face. And he certainly wasn’t as likely to recognize her chest as her face in a ‘missing’ photo. The policeman moved away from her car’s window, waving her to move forward, and Leslie had to concentrate on driving away slowly. She felt like punching on the gas and holding the pedal to the metal until she was as far away from that man and the other police as she could be.
Again, Leslie was tempted to call. She wanted to talk to someone- anyone- familiar, who might be able to calm her nerves, but she didn’t feel she could risk it just yet. In the meantime, Leslie reached above her seat, and found Simon and Garfunkel’s greatest hits on CD. She quickly set it to track number six, and let the familiar chorus, “I am a rock, I am an island,” sink into her soul. She felt, more than ever, like an island. She was drifting, alone, without a specific destination, trying only to avoid being anchored somewhere she didn’t want to be. And luckily, Leslie was comforted by the soothing sounds of the band to whom her parents had listened while she grew up. She drove blankly for awhile, as though the music was absorbing all her emotion, but was suddenly shaken from her thoughts.
“We’re Glad GEORGIA’s On Your Mind!” a sign proclaimed.
Leslie was surprised.
She was proud of how far she’d gotten, and was probably slightly lured into a false sense of security, but in any case, Leslie’s eyelids started to feel heavy, and she pulled off at an exit without delay. She would stay a night in
Word Count: 5630 (a tiny 11.3%)
No comments:
Post a Comment