November 10, 1999
Traffic stop real road test for drivers
By GARRET LEIVA
Herald editor
Passenger side wheels pulled off onto the gravel shoulder, hazard lights pulsating and engine idling, I was going no where after going somewhere too fast.
It had been six years since I last heard those polite words your parents and driving instructor warned you about: 'may I see your license, registration and proof of insurance.' I rolled down the car window, anticipating every driver's true road test - the traffic stop.
Now for many drivers, getting pulled over by a police car can cause teardrops to fall, four letter words to fly or multiple excuse pileups. Some people sweat like their driver's license reads Dr. Richard Kimble even though their record is clean as a 1950s sitcom script.
On this particular Sunday afternoon, 12 miles from the West Branch/ I-75 on-ramp, I didn't sweat, I didn't curse or cry - all I did was smile. After all, what are the mathematical chances of the police officer outside your car door knowing the words to your high school fight song?
Of course, smiling is hardly the facial muscles' natural reaction to a traffic stop.
Drop-jaw fear more aptly described the look on my 17-year-old face as the whirling red strobe of light filled the inside of my 1978 Chevette more than a decade ago. It was past midnight on a Saturday and I had been power shifting the four-cylinder as fast as I could pedal the accelerator and the clutch. I was too petrified to even contemplate an excuse for my 52 in a 45 mph.
The officer let me off with a verbal warning saying he knew my parents and advised me to tell them about the traffic stop or he would. The Sheriff Andy Taylor-Mayberry move worked, I told my folks that night. Eleven years later I still slow down around the American Legion Hall when I'm back home visiting my parents.
It wasn't until my senior year of college that I had more expensive run-ins with the law.
In the first incident, I questioned if my 1974 Buick Regal was stopped because I was going slightly over the speed limit or because my hair went well past my collar. This being my ponytail- "vote republican:it's easier than thinking" T-shirt-crank-the-speakers-with-Public Enemy-thought-I-was-a-radical phase, I drew my own conclusions.
The other traffic stop - my first freeway pull over - resulted in a $80 speeding ticket, which was almost as disconcerting as being halted by a police station wagon.
Both were hard lessons learned; one being human perceptions, the other end of the semester economics.
Waiting for the officer to approach my driver's window earlier this fall, I wasn't sure what lesson I was about to learn until he asked those standard six words: license, registration and proof of insurance.
Then came a surprise question. "Garret ... Garret Leiva? It's me, Anthony .. Anthony Eno," he said, removing his dark tinted sunglasses.
I recognized him without even looking up at his brass name badge. It was Anthony, right down to the same high school mustache.
"Hey, why the hell are you going so fast through my town?," he asked, half serious, half in jest. I came up with a weak excuse and an equally pathetic laugh.
For the next few minutes we talked about high school, jobs, and the state of Colorado - where I had vacationed for a week and he lived for several years. We talked about everything but the fact that this was a traffic stop.
After a moment of silence, he handed me back my license, told me to slow down, and asked if I'd say hello to his eleventh grade English teacher; who happens to be my father-in-law. I said I'd do both, rolled up my window and slowly pulled onto the roadway.
Driving away, I caught myself whistling "Hale, Hale, the Gangs All Here" with a few high notes from the "Andy Griffith Show." I couldn't help but smile.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail at gleiva@gtherald.com.