The rule is frequently enforced by individuals with a keen sense of speed and a tired tolerance for the excuses people make to avoid a ticket in the sun-bleached Arizona desert, where the interstate’s asphalt shimmers like a mirage in the unrelenting heat. An Arizona Highway Patrol officer saw a flash of black leather and chrome speeding over the horizon one such afternoon. The boom of the Harley-Davidson engine reverberated against the canyon walls as the lone rider pushed his vehicle well beyond the posted limits. The shriek of the siren sliced through the desert breeze as the police pulled him over. An elderly, weathered biker lowered his kickstand and removed his helmet as the dust cleared, exposing a face covered in sun and years of road trip tales.
Surprisingly, the cop was feeling upbeat. He walked slowly up to the biker, his clipboard ready but his face at ease. The officer said, “I need your name for the record, sir.” The motorcyclist gave him a cool, almost philosophical look and said, “Fred.” The officer hesitated, awaiting the remaining details. “Fred what?” he inquired when nothing happened. “Just Fred,” the elderly man replied.
Perceiving a possible “nut case” or possibly simply a quirky person on the road, the officer chose to comply. If the old man wasn’t purposely being difficult, he was inclined to write a warning instead of a fine. The officer leaned against the patrol cruiser and said, “Now look, Fred.” Everybody has a last name. Losing it is not an option. What specifically causes a man to lose his last name?
With a sigh, the elderly motorcyclist’s gaze grew distant. You’d better stay with me, Officer, because it’s a long story. I wasn’t “Just Fred” all the time. Fred Johnson is my birth name. I was a brilliant child who put a lot of effort into my studies and eventually discovered that medicine was my vocation. I worked hard in undergrad, made it through medical school, persevered through my internship, and completed my residency. That framed degree was finally hanging on the wall. Fred Johnson, MD, was who I was.
The officer, impressed by the abrupt change from motorcyclist to scholar, nodded. “I got bored after ten years of the stethoscope and the hospital rounds,” Fred went on. I returned to school to pursue my true passion of becoming a dentist because I needed a fresh challenge. I received the second degree after passing the boards. All of a sudden, I was Fred Johnson, MD, DDS. Life seemed fine, but for a man like me, boredom can be dangerous. As luck would have it, my dental assistant gave me a case of VD as a farewell present after we started playing around.
The officer raised his eyebrows, but Fred remained still. Word gets out quickly in the business world. After learning about the VD, the American Dental Association determined that the dentist was unfit to hold the position. They took away my credentials. I was Fred Johnson, MD, with VD. The American Medical Association then learned that my license had been revoked by the ADA due to the VD. In line with it, they also revoked my medical license. I was then just regular Fred Johnson with VD.
Fred hesitated, a look of terrible, deep irony on his face. Then the final strike struck, Officer. My “Johnson” was eventually taken away by the VD. I am simply Fred, as you can see.
After a brief while of standing in the desert solitude, the cop doubled over. Unable to even consider writing a ticket for a man who had lost so much of who he was due to such a particular series of sad events, he walked back to his patrol car in tears, his laughter resonating across the salt flats.
However, depending on the municipality and the disposition of the local police, humor, like the law, can take many various shapes. A few hundred miles away, in a small, peaceful town, a completely different situation was taking place while the Arizona Highway Patrolman was laughing in the desert. The strict enforcement of Main Street’s speed limits was more important to the law in this town than philosophical bikers.
A driver who had been speeding through the town center was stopped by a local police officer who was more well-known for his authoritarian tendencies than his sense of humor. The young man in a tuxedo who drove appeared to be in a panic. “But officer, please, I can explain—” the man gasped as the officer got closer to the glass.
“Save it!” the officer said, clutching his belt. “I’ve heard every possible explanation. In a twenty-five, you were doing forty-five. Until the Chief returns from his afternoon errands, I’ll let you cool off in a cell. Then perhaps you will learn to respect the local laws.
“But officer, I just wanted to say—” the man said once more, his voice growing more urgent.
“And I told you to be quiet! You will go to jail! The man was marched to the station by the officer, who then booked and imprisoned him. He disregarded the man’s entreaties, believing that the speeder would benefit from a few hours in jail.
A few hours later, the cop was curious, or maybe a little guilty. To see how his prisoner was doing, he strolled back to the holding area. The man appeared completely defeated as he sat on the edge of the mattress, his head in his hands and his tuxedo rumpled. The officer leaned against the bars in an attempt to extend a tiny olive branch. “Look, child, try not to be so depressed. You’re in luck today. The Chief is at his daughter’s wedding right now. When he returns here to complete your release, he will be in a great mood. He may even give you a slap on the wrist.
The man’s expression was one of pure, unadulterated misery as he looked up from his hands. He muttered, “Don’t count on it,” as the blackness in the cell grew nearly oppressive.
The cop laughed. “Why not? A wedding is an occasion to celebrate! The happiest man in town will be him.
“I’m the groom,” the man said, staring the officer in the eye.
The ensuing stillness was even more oppressive than Arizona’s arid heat. The officer came to the realization that, despite following the letter of the law, he had unintentionally caused a catastrophe that would never be remedied by a warning or punishment. The intersection of the law and the unexpected, whether it is a biker losing his “Johnson” or a groom losing his wedding day, frequently results in the kind of stories that linger long after the sirens have faded—reminders that life is rarely a straight line, much like the road, and that the people we encounter along the way frequently carry much more than just their driver’s license.