In sun-scaling black, nothing a waxing could help, 206,000 miles, but supposedly that’s low on a Nissan, moon-patrol, forever and reliably tearing its wheels into the hot asphalt from Tacoma to King County Courthouse.
A hand-me-down from her husband, who liked all-of-the-latest tech, drove it that first year off the lot, hugged in the curves to the Boeing parking garage when mini-vans were all the rage across the northwest. Plenty of room for his clubs! For many years it was her horse before passing it on again.
By the time her youngest son, in his thirties, self-proclaimed muscular, though it was true, surfer with a new young family living at the beach as they’d all so dreamed after their oldest son/brother was taken in a freakish lumber yard accident. His body forked by a faulty machine, perhaps in this latest chase for AI that will be the way we all go, run over or pinned, if not attached to some tubes, needles and plastics to drive our hearts, our minds, to death or acceptance?
Bad things can happen in older vans, especially ones with some tint and the shadows of many head’s, in this case an aging Twinkie filled with what might not be white. And, so it was on this particular Thanksgiving weekend, the youngest son and in his inherited van, forever full of his menopausal Mom’s blonde, straight hair’s that had been a steady shed the past seven, stuck to the visors, and all of the upholstery. He machine pushing the window just a crack to let the wind pull another bundle out and away when,
Red and blues, they were being pulled over, wife and kids, her attorney brother, his wife and their two, and yes, all were properly harnessed and strapped. The officer, young and overzealous asks for license and registration. Driver, weekend surfer and weekly probation & parole officer asks why he’s been pulled over and is told it’s because the tiny light above the license plate is out.
Wife’s brother, an attorney starts to squawk about racial profiling and no need to pull guns and the rest of us swing our heads to see the second officer, gun drawn and legs in power stance on the passenger side.
Moral is there is no morality, even for those carrying cop-wallet-badges while driving old mini-vans.
