In My Spongy Heels

 

Wednesday morning I’d just pulled into a not-big-enough parking space at the end of a row of spaces, scraping a wheel against the curb—the car to my left was parked almost over the line—when I noticed, yonder by Reservoir St., pulsating police lights.

I made my decision.

Trying not to ding the other car, I wriggled out of mine. I started up the alley toward the scene—the pulled-in police vehicle and the small blue one just ahead of it, at a stop. There must’ve been two cops, because one had gotten out from the police vehicle’s passenger side. He watched as I approached in my sweater and ankle leggings and spongy, weird heels, carrying only my keys and my phone. As I got closer, I peered.

Huh.

The blue car’s window was rolled down. In the fresh warm sun, blond tousled, the driver grinned at me. Maybe a JMU student. “They got me for expired registration,” he said.

“I’m just checking for profiling,” I said.

“I know,” he said.

He added, “I’m not tall, dark, and handsome.” Such a lovely, wide smile he had.

I think we have good cops in Harrisonburg. I’ve heard this. Those were good cops. Later, as I cruised up the Reservoir St. incline toward University Blvd., the Speed Limit 25 sign was flashing. I slowed way, way down.