For the many readers out there that have been wondering where Mojito has been these past months, maybe even full year, here’s the skinny. Your boy is now out in Missouri living the good life, champagnes with championships rings and good bbq. You might say, “Just because you moved doesn’t mean you can’t blog.” You might be right, and the truth is I don’t have an excuse. Just a lack luster performance all across the keyboard. I could lie and say that I have writers block for the last year and a half causing this absence, but we all know that it carries no weight. As Micheal Scott once said, “It’s Brittany bitch & I’m back.”
This story all steams back to when my early days as a young Missourian when my boss, at the time, was driving me to a Peterbilt dealership down by the Worlds of Fun Amusement Park, , and we see a State Boy pulling over a 2020 Ford F-150. He turns down the radio and says, “Kid, if you ever get pulled over by one of those guys don’t try and BS a BS’er. They don’t play no shit.” Chills metaphorically ran down my spine as I nodded my head. Flash-forward to the date February 27th, 2020 and my life flashes before my eyes. I’m cruising down the street in my 19′ and look to my right and what do I see? The Missouri State Police vehicle entering the on ramp to highway 29. Instant heart drop. Slow my speeds down to below to average to give off the illusion I would happily allow the state boy to merge on with ease and proceed to pass me in the fast lane. All was going according to plan, until a semi-driver halted speeds forced me to stay ahead of said state boy. So, instead of having smoky the bear in the rocking chair, I was now being hunted. Sure as shit, we don’t make it .3 miles and I get flicked. First time in my tenure out here for me. Pull over, hit the flashers, roll down the window, retrieve my ID, and then open up my work email on my phone to pull up insurance/registration. It’s a company vehicle, never printed out information. Oops, sue me. Better yet, wait til you hear what Officer HUX ordered me to do.. “Son I pulled you over because of expired tag. Need your license and registration.” Trying to rack together my words I says, “Sir I have my registration on my phone here I can pull it up for you.” Hux doesn’t flinch a muscle and responds with a “Well how about you come back to my vehicle then…”
What the frick… I kill the engine while trying to control the involuntary shaking. Manage to get my bearings together enough to putz to his matte black 2019 Ford Explorer. First reaction to hoping in shotgun was the incredible leg room up front. These guys ride in luxury. That quickly shifted as I frantically search my own email for the information needed to deem if I could be trusted or not. I present to him what I think is an up to date insurance card. He perused the document very quickly, hands it back and says this is for a 2010 Audi. I about shit my pants. I gasp in aw at why I never even looked into the details of that email. Just handed it over. Shit fuck what do I do. Back to the drawing board. Back to the ol Outlook inbox. This time I find a proof of insurance card email. Bingooo! We are clear, or so I thought. By this time he has pulled up the information on his handy dandy laptop that shits practically on his lap. Looks at the phone back to the computer. Sir this is for an 18 Edge, your car is a 19. Never felt like more of an idiot in my life besides the one time I gave the okay for my friend to hand a police officer a receipt for an oil change thinking it would do for registration back in Midland, MI.
Here’s the deal. My boss no longer works for the company. I was able to swap my car for his car. Thought nothing of it. Figured everything would be taken care of on the back end back at HQ. I told this to Officer Hux. I also dropped that my grandfather had cruised the streets of Michigan serving as a state police officer for 30 years and was forced out of the unit at the age of 55. Hux finally opened up and broke a smile. I think that was would got him. The camaraderie that badge can carry is far more strong than some lousy license plate tags ever could. He let me off on a warning as long as I was to go straight to the DMV and change my license to a Missouri one. As much as it would make for a happy ended to this blog by saying I went out and followed his orders to a T, I just can lie. I still am and will continue to rock the mitten on that little piece of plastic I keep stored within my fossil bifold. Can take the kid out of the Michigan, but god almighty there is not taking the Michigan out of the kid.
Moral of the story: Tell the truth, find common ground, don’t panic for long, deep breathes, and you’ll be out of there Scott-free. Literally.