One Night on the Highway

“Oh, crap, my folks are gonna kill me!” I thought as me and a bunch of new friends said a last good-bye in the MacDonald’s parking lot. We all agreed that Youth of the Future had done a wonderful job for their Sacramento Teen Leadership Conference. Training sessions, leadership seminars, fun team-building games, great food...all told, an inspiring if exhausting day. But I was late, late, late. Going out for burgers after the conference had not been my best decision ever.

“You get home safely, now—and you text me, y’hear?” called Suzanne as we went our separate ways. Darn right I would!

So I was happy but beat when I trudged down the block to where I was parked. I hoped that nobody was lurking to assault me, and that Bessie, my twelve-year-old Mazda3, would be in a good mood and start. Gold on both counts—yay—a good end to a good day.

I threaded through the traffic towards my home in the Bay area, about an hour and a half away. My parents had been really cool about letting me drive to the conference. But the deal was I had to be home by 11, and a quick trip for a bite wound up taking an hour and a half. I was late, late, late.

I’d only had my license for eight months, but my folks figured I had enough driving experience to handle the trip. An hour down the I-80, though, I was starting to have some doubts. It was late, it was dark, and the excitement of the conference (including time spent with Suzanne, a sweet brunette, whose cell number was carefully tucked into my wallet) had tired me out more than I had thought. I had been pushing the speed limit a little, trying to make some time.

A wide yawn cracked my jaw and when I finally closed my mouth I noticed that I had my left tire on the center line. I carefully guided Bessie back into her lane, then yawned again. A glance at the speedometer showed I was 20 mph below the limit, so I tromped the pedal, only to notice a few minutes later that I was hitting 110. I shook my head vigorously to wake myself up. Well, only half an hour to go.

A sudden flash of red and blue lights behind me caused a startled glance at my speedometer. Oh, no! I had hit 100 again in an 80 zone. Not only was I late, late, late, but I was so busted. My parents were gonna kill me twice if they could.

I slowed down a bit, hoping they’d pass. Instead, the CHP car pulled up behind me. With a heavy sigh, I pulled over beside an off-ramp. I was nervous, a bit scared. I’d never been pulled over before and figured I was in big trouble.

The cop came over and motioned for me to roll down my window. “Licence and registration, please, sir.”

“Here you go.” I included my Certificate of Completion of Driver Education, just in case it helped. Then I thought, “Duh. I wouldn’t have a license without that,” and felt really dumb. I slunk down in the seat.

“Thank you. Have you had anything to drink, or had any cannabis products?” he asked as he examined my papers.

“No, sir. I don’t do that shi- stuff. I spent the day at a youth leadership conference in Sacramento. Workshops, leadership seminars, team-building, like that.” I was babbling. Can you be arrested for babbling to a policeman?

“Sounds like a fun day, Franklin. Wore you out a bit, do you think?” Obviously, he’d got my name from my license.

“Yeah, it was a good day but I’m tired, for sure. Now I’m just headed home to bed.”

“Do you know why we pulled you over?”

“Not really.” Sure, I knew. I was going 20 over the limit. I pictured myself in handcuffs. Going to jail. Paying a whopping fine. Losing my license. Getting a hard time form kids at school. Having Mom and Dad be ashamed of me.

“We’ve been following you for a few minutes. Your speed has varied and you’ve wandered a bit out of your lane. You’re obviously tired. And, Franklin, driving tired is every bit as dangerous as driving while you’re drunk or high.”

“Yes, sir. I can see that.”

“There’s also the fact that you were driving over the speed limit. Do you know how fast you were going?”

“Uh, a little fast, I guess.”

“More than a little. Now, Franklin, we think you’re trying to be a good driver, but you’re not safe on the highway. A half mile or so up this off-ramp, there’s a truck stop. You’re going to pull in there, get a cup of coffee—you got money for coffee?” I nodded. “Drink some coffee, walk around, get yourself waked up. But listen, if you can’t get alert, then call a friend or your parents and get a ride, because otherwise you're a danger to yourself and other drivers. I’d feel real bad if we had to come and scrape you off the highway.” He handed me a card with his name, Officer José Fernandez, and a phone number. “So you call me when you get home. Okay?”

I sat up straighter and accepted my licence and papers. “Yes, sir, you bet!” I couldn’t believe I hadn’t gotten a ticket.

Despite my suddenly being the world’s best driver—being pulled over had waked me up quite a bit!--they followed me to the truck stop, then headed back to the Interstate. I bought a coffee, drank it while I called home to apologize for being late, and felt immensely better all around.

When I got home, Dad glared at me but didn’t say anything, and Mom just hugged me. I phoned Officer Fernandez, and thanked him again. Getting a ticket would not have changed my driving as much as what he actually did. Sometimes, I guess, compassion and good advice has more impact than punishment.

Note ▼

An entry to the May contest at

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