The thing about eye contact is that just when you remember not to do it, it’s too late. And no matter how fast you avert your eyes, the damage is done. In my case, the damage was a speeding ticket. 54 miles an hour in a 40 mile per hour zone.

I saw the cop on the right side of the highway, straddling his Harley-Davidson, facing oncoming traffic. Even though we were both wearing sunglasses, his shifty aviators, mine whatever “Jackie O” pair I grabbed on the way out of the house, there it was. Eyeball to eyeball, from 50 yards away, three lanes deep. I pretended I didn’t see him but he wheeled out, u-turned and, with lights flashing and siren whooping, bullied me over.

The first thing that crossed mind was how to wiggle out of it. It wasn’t my car, how did I know it was going that fast? It didn’t feel that fast. Was I going fast? What the heck is the speed limit here? Wait a minute. I wasn’t really going that fast. Wasn’t everyone else going the same speed as I was? Or faster? Wait a minute here.

He ordered me to pull into the next side street. I hadn’t been pulled over in 20 years so I prepared a script in my head. 25 years ago I told the cop a joke about a guy who doesn’t stop for a stop sign in California. He thought it was funny, noticed a Bonnie Raitt poster in the back seat of my car and asked if that was me. “Yes, indeedy, officer,” I said, mustering up every ounce of femme fatale tone I could. He laughed and let me go.

But that was 25 years ago. The tone I could still muster, maybe not so much the fatale. It didn’t matter anyway because by the time this cop sashayed up to my window, he had the ticket half-written. I watched his approach, walking that motorcycle bowlegged walk. He was shorter than I expected. “I have the same boots!,” I almost blurted out just as I realized he wasn’t going to be as much fun as the New York cop a quarter of a century ago.

Maybe I should cry, I thought. That would mean I’d have to lower my sunglasses and actually look him in the eye. And if I cried then my eyes would get red and then he may think I’d been drinking. But it’s 10 in the morning, who drinks at 10 in the morning? Hey, Pollyanna, I say to myself, wake up, there are lots of people who drink in the morning. I don’t cry, I don’t say anything; I’m too tired to even try. But I don’t like him, he’s smug and acts as if he’s selling me a movie ticket. He seems annoyed at the work. Well, he should be. Aren’t there real criminals out there? Isn’t this sissy cop work?  Isn’t this about collecting money? When we’re done he actually thanks me for my cooperation, tells me how to negotiate the ticket down and says, “ have a nice day.”

Wait a minute. I don’t speed. Ask anyone. I get chastised for driving too slow. “What’s the hurry?,” I ask people who step on imaginary gas pedals on my passenger side floor in frustration. “Watch, we’ll get to that red light the same time that guy does.” “Watch, that guy’ll get pulled over any minute.” I don’t pay attention to speed limits. I’m not even sure what arterial speed means. I really should pay more attention.

But wait. I’m the conscientious driver. It’s all those other people who never signal, tailgate and slide through stop signs. I yield to bike riders and walkers. I watch for “pedestrian crossings” and wait my turn on entrance ramps. I even pull over and pick up lost dogs.

What about all those (other) people breaking all the rules? Where’s a cop when you need one?

The other day I was in the library. I was sitting in one of their wicker rocking chairs looking out over the park. I was rocking, quietly reading my book. I had slipped off my summer sandals. I felt a tap on my shoulder. “You have to wear to shoes in the library,” said the man librarian, pointing at my feet. Feet that were clean, manicured and neatly planted side by side under the rocker. “Huh?” I said, startled. “Your shoes, you need to wear your shoes in the library.” I looked around at the empty sitting area to see if perhaps my bare feet had offended someone. My immediate indignant reaction was obvious to him, although unspoken. He softened his approach. “It’s a safety issue,” he said. “A book may fall on your feet and the library would be libel.”

“HUH?”

I can be sitting quietly in the library, a million miles from the world and the law will still find me. I can even do it bare footed.