I previously posted a few times about the Fiat Spider 2000 that my sister-in-law gave to me. And I posted about how I made some improvements to the car and how it was a cop magnet. Fellow soldiers always commented that they could hear me coming long before they could see me because the sound system kicked out some serious jams. They raved, “That little bucket of bolts is powered by ‘Jam Master Jay and Run DMC.’ Pump up the jams and that little midget zips on by.” I couldn’t deny it. When my little brother came out for a visit, I decided to take him to the Olympia brewery in Tumwater, Washington. We were going to cruise on down there in the Fiat. Tumwater is just south of Olympia, Washington, and it is more or less a suburb of Olympia. I say more or less, because everything kind of runs together and you can’t tell where one city stops and another begins. Anyway, we had gone onto the main post of Fort Lewis for a few minutes to stop at the PX and the gas station. Then, we exited onto Interstate 5 southbound at the Dupont gate. As soon as I cruised onto the freeway on-ramp, I started running through the gears of the Fiat and I let the engine wind all the way up between gears to get maximum boost out of the turbo-charger. In a matter of a few seconds we were zipping along at 75 miles an hour. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Coming up hot and fast on my left side was an almost-new, red 1984 Datsun 300zx turbo-charged beast. When the Datsun got up alongside of me, it became quite apparent what he wanted, because he immediately backed off of the throttle and slowed down to match my speed. Then he did something even more interesting. He rolled down the passenger window and motioned for me to roll down my driver’s side window. I granted him his wish. I yelled over, “Yeah? What in the hell do you want?” He shouted back, “That Spaghetti burner has a blower in it doesn’t it?” “Well, something has to dry the noodles before they get thrown onto the fire, dumbass. Is that rice burner the 6-pack with a blower?” For all of you wondering what a 6-pack is. That is a six-cylinder engine. And a blower is a turbo-charger. I asked because I was pretty sure his next question would be, ‘Want to run it?’ And if he had the 6-pack with a blower, his top end would be about one hundred and fifty to one hundred and fifty-five miles an hour compared to my top end of about one hundred ten to one hundred fifteen miles per hour. He would easily walk all over me. Yes, the Fiat had some serious get up and go, but not that much top speed. Against that new Datsun 300zx, my Fiat’s get-up-and-go would look like it had gotten up and left. Exit stage right even. No curtain calls for us. All we would see would be tailpipes and tail-lights while we choked on exhaust fumes. Yeah. No thank you. But instead of answering my question he just yelled back, “So, do you want to run it?” And before I had a chance to respond, he downshifted, squealed his tires and shot forward in a cloud of smoke. The race was on. What could I do? I jumped on it as well and tried to keep up. Up ahead, I saw him cross over two lanes of traffic to the right to bail off of the freeway. Right about the same time, I noticed cherry bubbles in my rearview mirror. Son-of-a-bitch. Not again. This was another fine mess Lucy had gotten us into. Who was Lucy? Well, I had to have somebody to blame that shit on, and Lucy seemed as good a scapegoat as any. Especially since Lucy was a figment of my imagination. Maybe the cop would buy it as well. I wasn’t putting much money on that bet, though. I immediately slowed down by downshifting. I didn’t want Joe Copper to see my brake lights cuz then he’d know I had been speeding. Brake lights equal an admission of guilt. I wasn’t about to admit anything. When the highway patrolman caught up to me, I pulled over. He took his sweet ass time getting out of his cruiser and walking up to my car. When he finally arrived at my door in what seemed like an hour later, he looked at me and said, “You were going a little fast there, weren’t you son?” I looked at Joe D. Copper, and replied, “Was that a question, sir?” You’re probably wondering what the ‘D’ in Joe Copper’s name stood for? You are? Yeah. I figured. It stood for Donut. Massive quantities of donuts. That was obviously why it took him so damn long to crawl out of his cruiser and walk the ten or fifteen long-ass steps to my car door. He retorted, “No goddammit. I wasn’t asking a question.” “Oh. Okay. Well, it’s been really nice talking with you officer.” “Just where in the hell do you think you’re going?” “Well, you said you weren’t asking any questions, so I sort of thought we were done here.” “Done here? Done here? Are you insane? We haven’t even started yet. Why don’t you begin by explaining to me why you were driving forty miles over the speed limit?” “Forty miles over the speed limit, sir? I think you ate too many donuts during your last break and now you’re having sugar hallucinations. Didn’t you see the red Datsun 300zx that dusted me and blew off of the freeway at the next exit up there?” “Datsun 300zx?” “Yeah. That bastard even slowed down long enough to taunt me and tell me what a piece of shit spaghetti burner I’m driving. Do you want his license plate number?” “No. I got no proof your story will check out.” “Why? Too busy eating donuts and drinking coffee when your radar started singing? Did you spill some on your uniform? Or is that piss cuz you couldn’t hold it?” “Why you smartass son-of-a-bitch.” “Please leave my relatives out of this. You know. If you write me a ticket, I’m going to take that ticket straight to court and tell them about the red 300zx and your little pee stain.” “Goddammit. It’s not a piss stain. I spilled a little coffee, okay.” Gotcha. “Whatever you say, sir.” “Get out of here and obey the posted speeds.” “Yes sir.” And we were gone in a jiffy, having narrowly averted another exercise in futility.
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