Road Trip Lessons

I am in Reno. My children’s cousin Devin (their mother’s great-nephew) is graduating from high school this week. My ex-wife flew in on Tuesday for an extended celebration, and yesterday, the children and I drove up from Los Angeles.

Highway 395 runs from the Mojave Desert through the Eastern Sierras, down into the Carson Valley and up to Reno before turning back into the far north of California. It’s my favorite highway in the world, because it carries me to a mountain landscape that somehow feels as if it has always been a truer home than the breathtaking coasts on which I was born and raised. I hadn’t driven this far up the 395 since I was married to my second wife, who loved flyfishing in the Sierras. (She was good at it. I wasn’t.) That was thirty years ago, and back then, my lower back didn’t ache after driving 450 miles.

The kids and I stop midway — in Bishop — for BBQ. I ask the woman at the counter what she recommends, and she directs me to the pulled pork and beans. The children make their selections, and we add three orders of sweet tea.

“You escaped L.A.? You folks okay down there?” She’s making conversation as she rings me up. My ball cap reads South LA Café, repping a business owned by the parents of my daughter’s teammate. My t-shirt declares my allegiance to L.A. Galaxy. The assumption made here is hardly unreasonable.

“Gosh, we’re just fine. The TV makes it look much worse than it is.”

The woman nods. “Still, I bet you’re glad to get out and see a bit of God’s country.” She isn’t trying to be mean. Her tone suggests that she regards – not entirely wrongly – remote Inyo County as a blessed place. Hers is a region that is surely a refuge to the less fortunate.

A gentleman must walk a narrow line. On the one hand, slights to one’s people or one’s city must be countered. On the other, one must be congenial and warm and make that rebuke cheerful. The best I can offer, with the kids watching, is “Well, miss, we sure love our home. But y’all have something very special up here.” We exchange grins, and she is polite enough to almost completely disguise her pity. I leave a 25% tip.

The BBQ is exquisite. There’s a high school rodeo team in the restaurant – vests and fringes, eyeliner and Wranglers. Heloise whispers to her brother at me. “I’m suddenly reminded I’m not fully white.” I pat her hand. David praises the mac and cheese as the best he’s ever had.

Two hours later, we pass Topaz Lake and hit Nevada, descending into the Carson Valley. I don’t read the signs carefully enough; the speed limit drops from 65 to 55 the moment you cross the border. We’re three miles into the Silver State when a Douglas County sheriff’s deputy lights me up.

“Darlings, we’re getting pulled over,” I announce, keeping my voice calm. I am not, in fact, calm. I go instantly to calculating expense. This could easily be a $500 ticket, maybe more. I’m living off credit cards, counting every penny, struggling to land consistent work. This will be devastating. I also understand the assignment, which is to use the experience as a teaching lesson for Heloise and David. I pull onto the shoulder as carefully as I can, wanting to first make sure that the deputy will be able to visit with me without putting himself in danger. I tell David to look in the glove compartment for the registration; I’m driving his mother’s SUV.

I tell Heloise, who is in the back seat, to put her hands on her brother’s headrest. I slip my license out, put my own hands on the wheel, roll down the window. I’ve left enough room for Deputy Stallings – his name is stenciled on his tactical vest – to come safely to the driver’s side. He asks where we’re headed, and I tell him about Devin’s impending graduation.

“You were doing 68 in a 55, sir. That’s too fast.”

“That’s my fault, sir,” I reply. It is acceptable, in my version of the Kantian categorical imperative, to lie to law enforcement about immigrants in the attic. If we must lie, it is only ever to protect others. In all other instances, the only moral option is to first admit, then to apologize – and then accept the consequences.

I hand Deputy Stallings my license and registration, and he asks to see my proof of insurance. I panic for a second. California permits drivers to keep that evidence on their phones. Does Nevada? I ask if I can retrieve my iPhone from the center console. Once permitted, I open up my USAA app and display the proof. Was the deputy in the service? Will he note that I have the insurance traditionally available only to military folks and their families? Will that help my case? (I only have USAA because my third-ex-wife’s-father had been an Air Force colonel.)

My fourth-ex-wife’s car has California plates with a USC Trojan Alumni frame. I’m dripped out in L.A. kit. More to the point, I was speeding. It doesn’t matter how polite and cordial and white I am. I don’t think my confession and my USAA membership is getting me out of a crushingly expensive ticket.

“I’ll just be a moment, sir.” Deputy Stallings takes my license and registration back to his truck.

I ask the kids how they’re holding up, reminding them to remain still. “Our job right now is to make this as easy for him as we can,” I say. “Traffic stops are more dangerous for him than for us.” (It goes without saying that many folks believe that class and color affect that calculation.) A gentleman may be close to tears with worry about another debt incurred, but his most important job in this situation is to soothe everyone. As for me, my self-soothing involves trying to figure out the most graceful and elegant way to accept this ticket.

It will be such a good lesson for the bunnies. The best lessons are often very expensive

Heloise carries the burden of my worries. First-born daughters can read their parents easily, and she knows far too well how much I stress about money. “How much do you think it will cost,” she asks, and I reply that whatever it is, I will find a way to pay it.

“What’s he doing?” David asks, and I explain the deputy is checking my license and registration against various databases.

It seems interminable, but then, in my driver’s mirror, I see Deputy Stallings clamber back out of his truck, my license and registration in one hand – and nothing else. No ticket book. A flicker of hope. “Just a warning this time, Hugo,” he says, handing me my documents. “Keep it at 55 and enjoy your visit.”

“Thank you so much, Deputy. I appreciate you. Please stay safe out here.”

I drive away slowly, fighting tears of relief. The kids are delighted.

“Papa, I was praying really hard,” Heloise announces; “I think that’s what did it.”

“I found the registration right away.” David reminds us that he too played a vital role in bringing about this lucky break.

I consider saying something obligatory about white privilege. Instead, I congratulate the children on having behaved so well. We review the lessons learned: where we keep our hands, what documents we show, what guilt we confess, what deference we display. The first-born adds the obvious: “Maybe the most important lesson is to read the signs.”

My relief is so palpable that I announce a special treat. How about a brief lecture on the history of county sheriffs, of why we call these folks “deputies” and not “officers,” and the role of the “shire reeve” in medieval England? I’ll have it wrapped up by the Washoe County line!

Inexplicably, my teenagers decline my immensely generous offer. No matter.

I consider the matter quietly in my head, and I give thanks for many, many things.