Traffic Stop

by P. JO ANNE BURGH

Squad Car @ The Bridge by GunnerVV | Flickr

Okay, Officer, you know, ordinarily I’d be happy to give you my license and registration, because I’m a very law-abiding citizen, born right here in the U.S. of A, no questions about that—not that I have any issues with people coming into the country from other places because, you know, my grandparents all came over from Ireland, and my parents were born here, and so was I, which means there isn’t any question about me being legal and legit and all—oh, right, the license and registration, well, you see, this is kind of awkward because I don’t exactly have my purse with me right now, and this isn’t exactly my car—I mean, it’s not stolen or anything like that, it belongs to my boyfriend Jim, so I can drive it whenever and it’s totally okay with him, except maybe not so much  right  now  because he’s  with  that slut—oh, shit, I’m sorry,

I didn’t mean to use that word, I don’t usually use bad language —​​that’s not how I was raised—but seriously, if you knew her, you’d know exactly what I was talking about because she’s married and she’s trying to steal my boyfriend, and if that’s not a slut, I don’t know what is, plus she dumped Jim three years ago when she met Adam—that’s her husband, that big fancy banker dude she met when she was trying to get a car loan and she didn’t qualify because she was a barista and they don’t make squat, except next thing we all knew, she had the loan and the car and Adam all wrapped up in a big red bow, so she probably gave him a little “interest” on the side if you know what I mean, because that’s the kind of person she is—not that I’m judging, because I’m not a judgmental person at all, live and let live is how I roll, and normally I’d just say “good riddance” to her and move on, but I guess Banker Dude must have done something to piss her off, like cut her allowance or tell her to lose the baby weight or something, because last night, Jim and I were at my place watching TV when he got a text and did the phone-flip thing so I wouldn’t see it—you know, he just really casually turned it over and left it sitting on the coffee table like it was no big deal—except he’s not a cheater so he sucks at covering his tracks, which is why he forgot to take his phone with him when he went out to the kitchen for another beer—which, I mean, rookie mistake, because as soon as he was out of the room, I looked at his phone and saw the text from Ashley—yeah, I know, Ashley and Adam, and their kid is Alexis, like they’re the A Family or something—anyway, she texted him a heart and said she missed him, and I knew there had to be something already going on because if there wasn’t, Jim would have said something like “can you believe this shit?” except he didn’t—like I said, he just did the phone flip—so real fast I texted back that I—meaning him—missed her, too, and when could we—meaning him and her—get together, and she came back right away with how about they hook up at her place again tomorrow, and when I saw “again” I almost went out to the kitchen to—well, it doesn’t matter, because I didn’t do anything, even though let’s face it, I could have bashed his stupid lying cheating head in with a chair and if there was a jury of all women, not only wouldn’t I be convicted, but they’d probably give me a medal, but the important thing, Officer, is that I didn’t do anything, I just—oh, right, the license and registration—I’m getting to that, because like I said, I don’t exactly have my purse with me, because what happened was that the next day—I mean, today—Jim texted me and said he was going to watch the game with the guys so he wouldn’t be coming over, except I knew he wasn’t going to be watching any game, he was going to be banging Ashley, so I Googled her address and took an Uber over there, which is how you know I wasn’t planning to do anything wrong because let’s face it, if I’d been planning to do something bad or illegal, I wouldn’t have taken an Uber because there’d be a record, plus everybody knows that the first thing you cops do is check people’s Google histories to see if they’ve Googled things like “how to commit murder” or crap like that, so the fact that I did all this—and I’m telling you about it—proves I had only the best of intentions, although maybe “best” is stretching it just a teensy bit because I did want to make them a little nervous since they were cheating on me, and that’s why I hid in her bedroom—and not for nothing, but you’d think a big fancy banker dude would have a security system, but he didn’t, so all I had to do was break a window around the back, in between the hydrangea bushes—and frankly, they should fire their gardener, those dumb bushes are half-dead—and I snuck up the stairs to their bedroom which, you should see it, nothing but stupid boring white—white walls, white duvet, white rug, white ceiling—and so cold, it was like being in a freezer full of vanilla ice cream, but I suppose it’s what you’d expect because Jim said that when they were together, she was a neat freak and pretty frigid—I guess I shouldn’t say that, but you’re a cop, it’s not like you’ve never run into people like her—and maybe it was kind of petty to wipe my shoes on her white rug, but seriously, she deserved it, and besides she can afford to get it cleaned, so it’s no big deal, except that just then, I heard her and Jim downstairs laughing, and I knew they were coming and I still didn’t really have that much of plan—I mean, it’s not like I’d thought beyond catching them in the act, and since I got there first, there wasn’t any act to catch them in, so I just flopped down on the bed and rubbed the rest of the dirt off my shoes on the duvet, and they came into the bedroom and I wiggled my fingers at them and said “Hiya!” and I thought she was going to have a stroke right then and there, except to tell you the truth, I don’t know if it was because of me or the dirt on her duvet, but Jim just stood there like a big dumb lug which, okay, is kind of how he is a lot of the time anyway, but Ashley started screeching like I was the one who was doing something wrong which I totally wasn’t because I wasn’t the one cheating on my husband with my ex-boyfriend who had a girlfriend, so I started screaming back, and I guess maybe I used some words I wouldn’t normally use because, like I said, I’m not that kind of person, but the next thing I knew, that dumb slut had pulled this teensy little gun out of her dresser and was telling me to stay where I was or she’d shoot me even though you’d have to be a total idiot to believe she could have hit the broad side of barn, as my grandpa used to say, because she was waving the gun around while she was screaming and if she’d pulled the trigger, she’d just as likely have shot out one of her windows, but I still figured I’d better get out of the line of fire, like you cops say, so I rolled off the bed and crouched down real low, and when she came around the end after me, I yanked her ankle and knocked her down, and she screamed again and Jim said something I didn’t hear because I just ran out of there which, okay, maybe a nicer person would have stayed around to make sure she hadn’t hit her head on the dresser and wasn’t getting blood all over her white rug, but don’t forget, that crazy-ass boyfriend stealer still had a gun, so I ran out of there and down the stairs, except then I remembered I couldn’t call anybody for a ride home because my phone was in my purse which was still upstairs, and going back up to get it didn’t seem like a terrific idea, so it looked like I was just going to have to run for it and these shoes aren’t great for running—you can’t see from where you are, but they’re really cute, they’re Joan and Davids—anyway, I saw Jim’s jacket thrown over a chair in the kitchen, and he always leaves his car keys in his pocket which, lucky for me, he did this time, so I ran out and got in his car which, since I had his keys, means I didn’t steal it, but in any case, that’s why I was kind of driving a tiny bit faster than the speed limit, because you know, Officer, catching your boyfriend cheating is the kind of thing that gets a person sort of worked up, and I know you’re supposed to be all “license and registration, please,” but what I really need to do, if you don’t mind, is go home and soak in the tub and maybe have a drink or two so I’ll be ready to talk to Jim when he comes over to apologize which he totally will because, come on, who would you rather be with—a frigid cheating slut or a nice, normal person like me?

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P. Jo Anne Burgh is a writer, musician, and lawyer. She practices all of the above just outside of Hartford, Connecticut. Several of her short stories have been published in print and/or online (and, in one case, as a standalone short audiobook). A couple of her stories have won contests, including Typehouse Literary Magazine's 2019 2nd Biennial Short Fiction Contest and the 2016 Al Blanchard Award for Best Short Crime Fiction. In 2018, her first novel and first novella (both as yet unpublished) placed as finalists in the Faulkner-Wisdom Creative Writing Competition. She lives with five cats and a Roomba. ​