Officer's Report

Rain threatened the horizon, but the pavement still shimmered dry under the afternoon sun. Officer Jenkins called in as he and the Buick LeSabre he followed pulled onto the shoulder of the county road. “Dispatch, 156 will be 10‑38 with an erratic driver on 1142.” As he stepped out of the patrol car, dispatch answered, “10‑4, 156.” Jenkins strolled to the driver’s side and leaned down to the already lowered window. His mirrored sunglasses reflected a nervous face — Mr. Hamilton, a man in his late fifties wearing a fedora and an expression of startled dignity. “License and registration, please,” Jenkins said.

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton replied, fumbling politely then handed the officer his documents. “May I ask why you pulled me over?”

“Have you been drinking… Mr. Hamilton?” Jenkins peered over his glasses at Mr. Hamilton.

Aghast and flummoxed, Mr. Hamilton recoiled as if the very question had leapt across the console to slap him. Color climbed into his cheeks, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel in wounded offense. He drew himself up as far as the seatbelt would allow, eyes wide with a mix of outrage and disbelief, and indignantly retorted, “Certainly not! Why did you pull me over?”

“You haven’t been drinking?” The officer straightened, the vinyl of his duty belt creaking softly as he shifted his weight. For a moment, the only sound was the distant hiss of passing traffic and the low hum of the cruiser’s engine behind him. Behind the glasses, Jenkins rolled his eyes in a quick, private orbit, then lowered his chin just enough to peer at Hamilton over the dark lenses. His tone reset to bored professionalism as he pressed on, “Do you have a cell phone, Mr. Hamilton?”

“Why, yes, I do. But I don’t see where that answers my question.” Mr. Hamilton raised his hands in a questioning manner, palms up in a theatrical display of bafflement, even as his gaze began darting around the cabin. His shoulders twisted first one way, then the other, as if the elusive device might materialize on command from the floorboard, the cup holder, or the passenger seat. All the while, he patted absently at his pockets and the console with increasing distraction, clearly more invested in locating the wayward cellphone than in calming the officer now watching his search with growing impatience.

“Were you texting on that cell phone?” Officer Jenkins asked flatly, each word dropping with the dull weight of a question he’d already asked a dozen times that week. His tone carried only the tired patience of someone methodically working through a checklist. He kept his face impassive, jaw set, giving Mr. Hamilton nothing to read in his expression beyond the expectation of a simple, honest answer.

“No,” Mr. Hamilton answered confidently, the word leaving his mouth with the crisp certainty of someone who believed the matter settled. He drew in a small, steadying breath, smoothing the irritation from his features as though physically tucking it away. Turning a non-confrontational, neutral smile to the man at his door, he softened his voice to something almost cordial and continued, “Officer, why did you pull me over?”

“Step out of the car, Mr. Hamilton,” Officer Jenkins asked as he took one step back from the man’s car.

Gentlemanly code quickly forgotten, Mr. Hamilton grabbed the steering wheel with a white-knuckle grip, tendons standing out along the backs of his hands. The careful civility he’d been clinging to slipped, his posture tightening as if he were bracing for impact. His cheeks flushed a vivid red, anger rising faster than his filter could catch it, and he heatedly spat out, “I will not! Explain why you stopped me.”

Jenkins sighed, the sound long and weary, escaping him in a slow exhale that briefly fogged the edge of his sunglasses. For a moment, he simply looked at Mr. Hamilton, weighing how much explanation this was going to take and how many minutes of his shift it would cost. Finally, he straightened his shoulders, settling back into the calm cadence of duty, and said, “Mr. Hamilton, I stopped you because you were swerving all over the road.”

Hamilton blinked, affronted, as if the accusation had leapt through the open window and struck him square in the chest. His mouth parted in silent protest before he could form words, the sheer injustice of it momentarily stunning him. Then his eyes widened in earnest astonishment, indignation giving way to wounded certainty as he declared, “I was only following directions.”

“Excuse me?” Officer Jenkins said, the single phrase edged with disbelief as it slipped out before he could stop it. He raised one brow above the rim of his sunglasses, the gesture sharp and incredulous, and slightly shook his head as if trying to dislodge the absurdity of what he’d just heard. For a heartbeat, he simply stared at Mr. Hamilton, genuinely baffled that directions had entered the conversation at all.

“The sign. About a mile and a half back.” Mr. Hamilton removed his left hand from the wheel and jabbed his thumb over his shoulder in a vague arc that encompassed most of the highway behind them.

“What sign?” Jenkins asked, pressing his fingertips to his temple in a mix of confusion and mounting impatience, as if he could massage the answer—or at least a little sanity—out of the situation.

“The yellow one with a car and swerving lines behind it. It means to drive ‘swervingly’.” Hamilton grasped the steering wheel with both hands once more and wriggled as if he were settling deeper into the driver’s seat. He sniffed superciliously while he turned his head to look straight forward, away from Jenkins.

Jenkins lifted his sunglasses an inch, blinking as if he needed his own eyes to confirm he’d heard correctly. For a moment, his gaze drifted past Mr. Hamilton to the empty stretch of road, as though the sign itself might step forward to defend its honor. “No,” he said at last, drawing the word out while he waited for his thoughts to slow enough to assemble a professional retort. He cleared his throat, reined in the sarcasm threatening to slip loose, and continued evenly, “It actually means slippery when wet.”

“Oh,” Hamilton said, the single syllable dropping out of his mouth as he tilted his head back to peer up at the cloudless sky, squinting as if he might have somehow missed a storm. His brow then furrowed in visible confusion, the logic not lining up no matter how he turned it over in his mind. “But the road isn’t wet,” he protested, each word careful and sincere, before looking back at Jenkins with an almost pleading earnestness, clearly seeking clarity that the universe—and its signage—had so far declined to provide.

“Exactly, Mr. Hamilton.” Jenkins twisted his lips into a calming smile while his eyes betrayed his suspicious brain in an investigative squint.

Hamilton tilted his head, studying Jenkins as if the officer himself were now the illogical warning in need of decoding. A faint crease formed between his brows, curiosity edging back in over indignation. “Then why place a sign here?” he asked, the question carrying equal parts genuine puzzlement and quiet challenge.

In a calm and measured voice, he said “It’s to inform drivers to proceed with caution in rainy weather.”

“I see.” Hamilton nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth lifting into a faint, almost satisfied smile, as if some private theory had just been confirmed. He shifted his gaze past Jenkins to the distant horizon, weighing the empty blue sky like a prediction waiting to come true. “So, you are saying that it is going to rain?” he asked, his tone a careful blend of innocence and quiet triumph, as though he’d just caught the universe hinting at its next move.

Officer Jenkins rubbed his temples no longer bothering to hide his frustration. “No, I’m saying—”

A fat raindrop splatted on the brim of Hamilton’s fedora. Both men looked up. Within seconds, the sky opened in a sudden, dramatic downpour.

Hamilton’s smile widened triumphantly. “You see, Officer? Directional accuracy is everything!” He barked a jovial laugh and smacked the steering wheel with his right hand.

Jenkins stared through the rain, then let his head in defeat; water dripping from the brim of his cap. “Sir… Mr. Hamilton, please just buckle-up and head straight home before your directions earn you another ticket.”

Hamilton nodded to Jenkins, “Thank you, Officer. Good day.” He rolled up the window and, with great deliberation, swerved theatrically as he merged back onto the highway, windshield wipers squeaking rhythmically against the newly wet glass.

Jenkins watched as Mr. Hamilton swerved his way down the road. He sighed as he walked back to the patrol car. Sinking into the driver’s seat and turning off the flashing lightbar atop the vehicle. Shaking his head, he muttered into his radio, “Dispatch… 156 is 10-24, heading back to station.” Before dispatch could respond he added, “Also, I need to speak with the road commissioner. Or maybe, just have a psyche unit on standby.”