Sioux Falls, SD: Where My Dreams Nearly Came True, or, Maybe It’s Good They Didn’t

(Let me apologize to my mother and fellow feminists for this entire post. My head is hanging in shame as I type. But obviously not so much shame that I won’t share this story. I realize there’s medication for this.

On my way to Scamp headquarters in Backus, MN, a South Dakota Highway Patrolman clocked me going 71 in a 65 construction zone.

(No, this is not the reason I apologized to my mother. Wait for it.)

I was baffled when he leaned into my car and asked if I knew I’d been speeding.

“Really? I thought I was going the speed limit.”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am. Step into my car and I’ll show you the readout.”

“Step into my car and I’ll show you the readout”? A cop had never said that to me, and after the initial anxiety – I’m about to get a ticket! Crap! – something else kicked in. I heard the boom chukka pow of my own internal porn soundtrack.

I know.

I thought, Finally. I mean, they make movie after movie about exactly this scenario, so couldn’t it actually happen in real life? Was this my chance to check something off my dirty little bucket list?

I straightened my t-shirt and did my best to casually follow him back to his car. I slid into the front seat.

He asked questions: Where had I been? Where was I headed? What did I do for a living?

Wait, when was he going to ask what I was willing to do to avoid a ticket? (Appropriate response: You purr, “Why, anything, officer.” Duh.) But this was starting to feel a little less XXX and a lot more Law & Order.

He tapped away at the laptop that sat between us, running my info, and said, sounding surprised, “You were born in South Dakota?”

“Yep, I was born in Winner.” A small town a few hours south of where we sat.

This seemed to please him. My fantasy was in reach! Maybe flattery would move things along.

“You have such a dangerous job. I don’t know how you do it.” My voice dripped admiration.

He smiled, just a little. “It’s not so bad. It pays the bills.”

“Well, I think you’re brave.” (I’m not kidding. I actually said this. And yes, I heard my feminist cred splat onto the blacktop like road kill.)

He smiled a little wider. “Really, it’s just my job.”

Satisfied I’d made progress, I looked in wonder at all the stuff in the cab – pins and buttons attached to the cloth ceiling, many mysterious gadgets on the dash – and said, “I’ve never sat in the front seat of a cop car.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve sat in the back?”

“Oh. No,” I lied.

After more typing (him) and dreaming (me), he snapped his laptop shut and said, “I’m just going to give you a warning this time.”

What? This was great for my record, but so, so bad for my fantasy. This fantasy never has the officer giving just a warning.

But Internet, I’m not entirely crazy. I thanked him, twice, and made to get out of the car. He smiled and said, “Be safe.”

“You, too.” I got in my car and he watched me pull away. I drove exactly the speed limit, taking my one kind of happy ending with me.