The
20-minute Love Affair
Decades
have come and gone since the days when policemen sent me off with a simple
warning. Frankly, I thought warnings
were all they ever wrote in my slim and toned youthful era of mini-skirts, halter
tops, and cut-off jean shorts.
Marriage
and babies changed all that, but not as irrevocably as divorce and single
parenthood. On the night in question, I
was just another harried, middle-aged lady with a 31-inch waistline who
suffered from occasional hot flashes—not to mention an unsightly neck hidden by
scarves. The concept of opposite-sex
attraction had become so foreign that I felt like an A-sexual life form dropped
into an alien universe. With my mortally
wounded female ego, obsessive financial stress, and a libido buried alive under
15 tons of epic disappointment in life, resurrection was unlikely. Not the faintest memories or even imaginings
of romantic feelings had survived—until that fateful evening when Warren showed
up out of the blue in a flash of bright light.
It
was past all of our bedtimes that
Sunday night when my daughters and I were making the long trek from a downtown Phoenix
venue to our small town of Fountain Hills. We were exhausted. The route home
had been plagued by hair-pulling frustration, from missed freeways to an
endless sea of construction nightmares. By the time we reached the long, empty, inviting stretch of the aptly
named Beeline Highway, speed limit signs had lost all meaning. Without some brake slamming, I might have driven
right by our intersection. That's when I
noticed the flash of a white vehicle to my right.
Following
a string of four-letter words that predominately begin with S or F, I hollered
to my teenage daughters: "Was that
a policeman beside me?” The girls squinted
to scrutinize the darkness and quickly countered, “No, but there is one behind you now.” Visions of hundred-dollar bills swirling down a toilet bowl.
Flashing
red and blue lights split the night as our two cars made the left turn together. Over I pulled in waves of adrenaline, immediately
scrambling for paperwork between the glove compartment and my billfold. To play it safe and avoid passing traffic, the
officer knocked gently on my daughter’s window and said something about me meeting
him on the passenger’s side of his car.
He
wasn't talking about inside the
patrol car, as I discovered when I walked around him and nearly brushed him
aside trying to crawl into his front seat.
"No,
no, no, you don't have to get in. We can
just stand out here."
Although
I caught a glimpse of a stifled grin, my own crimson embarrassment set off the
nervous impulse of a mouth run amuck at warp speed.
With
my speeding offense on the extreme side, I thought it better to avoid
mentioning the unreasonably low limit on the Beeline or that I had no idea how
fast I was going. He obviously
knew. Still, his voice was gentle when
he halted my endless fumbling through copies of insurance verification
with, "This one is current. We have
everything now."
As
he continued to review my credentials—write and copy, write and copy—my
babbling veered wildly into encounters with other state patrol officers. Excellent move. Let's convince the man with the clipboard and
shiny badge that you are multi-state offender with a chronic speeding problem. My monolog required no response from him and
had the frenzy of a Robin Williams stand-up routine.
"The
officers in Ohio all wore really cool hats that made them look like they
belonged to the Canadian Mounted Police. Remember that old movie with Nelson Eddy—and who was that with him?—Jeannette
McDonald! He sang 'The Canadian Love
Song' to her."
Before
I could say "It goes like this" and begin belting out a soulful
rendition of the opening line, “I’m in love with you-ooo-ooo-oooo-oooo,” the Divine
intervened. The voice within that is
usually so small was, on this occasion, quite adamant: "Don't sing. Do not
sing."
Even
more startling than the sensation of having my mouth duct-taped by Spirit was
the realization of the heartfelt emotion that would have carried that tune into
the stillness. Like some 16-year-old
surrendering to the tender passion of a first love, my heart would have meant
every word. If I live to be 105, I will never really understand or be able to describe the power that was moving
through that space of flashlight-illumined darkness between us. How could standing so close to a perfect
stranger evoke such a warm, safe, sweet breath of swirling energy? How could that sweet breeze blow gently
through the window of my mind, capturing the most tender, innocent part of my
heart and carrying it away?
Somewhere
in that brief, timeless moment of silence, the officer turned away, leaned over
into the front seat of his car and brought out his own hat.
"You
mean one like this?"
Which
sent me into a fresh gush of wonder, “You do have one of those really cool hats!"
"Actually,
I think that every state highway patrol officer in the nation has one. I just don't wear mine at night."
And
from there, our conversation flowed. We
talked about pressures on teenagers and how crazy the world has become. Whether
Fountain Hills should continue "renting" county marshals for law
enforcement or support their own police department. After all, he informed me, it was the largest
community in the state without its own protection force.
I
remember wanting to stay there forever, just talking—watching his expressions
change and feeling that miraculous energy. Maybe some sweet angel was hovering between us
but it seemed that he was the angel.
A messenger sent to deliver ancient memories of a deeply loving romantic friendship. Memories that needed desperately to be
stirred before they withered beyond the reach of any one lifetime.
He
smiled and nodded toward the car where my two daughters sat patiently waiting.
"Looks
like you have a few other places for your money than speeding tickets. If I let you go this time, can you drive the limit on the Beeline from now on?"
Oh
absolutely I could promise that. A promise
I never broke. And with a wish for our
safe trip home, he handed me the paperwork and accepted my thanks for the
tender mercy. The moment I opened my car
door, both girls chimed in with, "What was going on out there? You two were totally flirting with each
other."
Still floating on air and feeling every bit the giddy schoolgirl, I couldn't help but smile. "You think so? I mean, both
of us?"
"Are
you kidding, mom? We could see it and
feel it way back here!"
Warren
Smith was the name on my warning ticket. The handsome and disarming armed Highway Angel who came along and
resuscitated my battered heart with an infusion of pure hope. How mysteriously, how easily he restored my
crushed faith in safe, sweet, eternal love. Warren gave me a promise, too. Faint but indelible words that he wrote on
the wall of my heart: Love can be as it
was in your most innocent dreams, and it can be yours. Don't give up.
Copyright © Margaret
Michaels 2008 All rights reserved
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