At 10 P.M. on a Friday, a testosterone-driven decision was made to drive the 80 miles from Baton Rouge to New Orleans for a night of alcohol, women, and general brutal hedonism. I was the designated driver so I had none of libations or herbal succors that my friends, J, B1, and B2 had. Traffic on I-10 clips along at an Indy car pace. Slow vehicles cause others to stack up like cholesterol in the bloodstream and choke the flow of traffic and if you happen to go slow in the fast lane, a gas-guzzling four-wheel drive truck will do his best to ride in your backseat. Thus, I was quite comfortable traveling 80 in a 70 mph zone on the interstate. I needed to drive slower than normal because the wards I was in charge of needed liquid salvation to prime themselves for their New Orleans adventures and I didn’t want to get pulled over for both speeding and open-container.
A few beers and few laughs past when B1 pulled another refreshment from under the seat. As soon as a beer tab in the backseat PSST!, blue lights screamed. I was being pulled over.
Shit.
B1 sunk slowly into the backseat and shotgunned his beer, while J in the passenger seat capped his bottle and slid it slowly behind his seat before the officer arrived at my window. The officer either did not notice the reek of smoking enhancements and beer breath that permeated my car or was bent on getting a quick kill because he simply took my license and registration and came back with a speeding ticket within 10 minutes. LaPlace, Louisiana, was the first time I had ever been pulled over on the interstate after being pulled over at least 25 other times.
I won’t fill you in on the rest of the adventure other than to say that New Orleans is a beautiful and truculent whore who at times is trying to hustle you out of money, sense, and morality. As I laid my head down at 5:30 A.M. after dropping J, B1 and B2 off, I thought that I really need to start pacing myself, both literally and metaphorically.
I tell you this story because it’s timing is both appropriate and annoying as it occurred just days after publishing my latest column, Outside the margins, in the journal Tiny Lights about the need to slow down and maintain a slower pace. I never really liked irony, another aggressive and often sloppy whore because even at my accelerated pace, I can’t seem to outrun her.
