A cop pulled us over on the way to dinner. The policeman slowly approached the driver-side window where Brett and I looked out with unbridled curiosity. Brett wasn’t speeding. The lights were on. What's the problem?
“Maybe they really do pull people over for being too sexy,” I joked. Brett was not amused. He rolled down his window.
“Evening.”
“Evening Officer,” Brett replied. The cop looked fresh out of high school.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?” Officer Babyface asked.
“No Sir,” Brett said. I could tell he hesitated on the “Sir.” Who is the elder here? How does this work?
“You made this turn here without using your turn signal,” he stated pleasantly. Even he seemed to find this offense not so offensive. “May I have your license and registration, please?”
Brett rooted around in his pants for his wallet, fished out his drivers license and handed it to the officer.
“I think my registration is in my glove box,” Brett said both to me and the officer. I pulled the handle to lower the glove box door and out flooded magazine clippings of attractive men of all ages.
“What?” I hissed. I shuffled through the glossy images. A man posed by a horse. Another strutted the streets of New York. A third rested casually across leather luggage.
“The registration,” Brett reminded me, pushing the pages to the floor and reaching into the glove box.
“What’s all that?” I asked quietly.
“From my haircut. I’ll tell you later.” Brett frantically searched the compartment for the folder with his registration. He couldn't find it. He darted back to his wallet. It wasn't there. “Check the center console,” he told me. We frantically tore apart the car. The officer wandered back to his computer, choosing to run Brett's license while we looked for the registration card.
“Your haircut?”
“Yes!” Brett sneered, “I took those pictures in to give the girl an idea of what I wanted.” Laughter burned in my throat.
“Because it kind of seems,” I paused, looking for the best words, “... a little gay,” and I let a giggle escape through my nose.
“I know how it looks!” We had no luck finding the registration and we didn’t know how to proceed. The officer reappeared by the window.
“I’m sorry Officer,” Brett said, “You’ve caught me with my pants down.”
“Don’t say that!” I whisper screamed.
“I can’t find my registration.” We all shared a brief silence and then Officer Babyface elected to just give us a warning and sent us on our way. Brett and I cringed and giggled all the way home.
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