Detour

The pungent smell of sweat, stinky socks and stale snacks lingered in the car cumulating in greater proportions every day. Sometimes I thought it had seeped into the carpet, but the rest of the faux-vinyl seats should have been immune. Yet the smell never ebbed. Combined with the irritating sounds of arguing children and parents, the signs of the family road trip never yielded for a second. But one stunning sound can instantly clear the decks of all strife and strike fear straight into the soul of everyone within earshot… a police siren.

On my family’s month-long journey navigating the USA in 1975, this abrupt alarm interrupted the most recent leg of our trek, from Oklahoma to Texas. With the "Welcome to Texas" sign barely in our rearview mirror, we heard the blaring siren.

“See, I told you were going too fast. It’s no wonder we haven't been pulled over already,” my mom snapped.

“Just relax, I’m only going 60. It’s probably one of those speed traps they use to get tourists.” My dad argued, pulling over to the side of the road.

“Well, it worked. They trapped us,” she jabbed.

“Look, I’ll just go and talk to this good 'ol boy and settle this man to man.” He said confidently and cranked down the car window.

Moseying up to the car in his bow-legged John Wayne gait, the police officer was a tall imposing figure, dressed in the typical tan uniform I’ve seen in many television shows, with the rare addition of a white 10 gallon cowboy hat.

“Well, I reckon by your Illinois plates you’re not familiar with this neck of the woods,” he said, with a strong, but slow, southern drawl.

My dad instantly donned his big fake smile.

“That’s right officer, we’re from Chicago coming to visit your wonderful state. I was only going 60. Isn’t that the speed limit?”

The officer let out a loud belly laugh that reverberated all around the car.

“60 miles per hour you say? This is Texas, sir, and we care deeply about the animals and children all around us, so we don’t hurry around recklessly. The speed limit here is 45.”

With that information, the sound of my mother’s annoyed sigh and folded arms let even the backseat passengers know there was trouble ahead - 15 miles an hour worth of trouble.

My dad ignored her, continuing his fake smile and suddenly gaining a false, almost undetectable but present southern accent.

A salesman by trade, my dad could coax anyone to do things they didn’t want to do. He had a master gift for persuasion that convinced you to do something and made you think it was your idea in the end.

My mother always said he could sell ice to the Eskimos and they’d thank him for the concept.

“Officer, you have my sincerest apologies. As you rightly observed, my wife and I are just taking the kids on a family trip to your incredible state. We’re on our way to visit the home of your fine Texan Sam Houston and then to the Alamo to show them the hallowed ground where Texas saved the entire United States of America. We only have a short time to see such a big state before we need to drive home. I’d hate to have the kids miss anything. As a proud Texan ambassador, is there anyway you could see your way clear to forgive me my little mistake and let us go this time with a stern warning I will not soon forget,” he said with his most sincere puppy dog face.

The officer was silent for a long time, placing his fist under his chin in deep thought.

One of my father’s other superpowers was the ability to produce money out of thin air, like a magician, when needed at an awkward moment.

Even though my eyes were glued on the interaction, I didn’t see the $20 bill materialize in my father’s hand within full view of the officer.

Suddenly the officer’s face changed from pensive deliberation to a wry smile.

“Well, then. You seem like a nice American family. I think we can take care of this right quick for you.” He said and gently took the $20 bill.

My dad glanced over at my mother with a Cheshire smile and looked again at the officer putting his hands on the steering wheel.

“Thank you so much officer. We really appreciate this.”

“Sure enough,” the officer said throwing a casual two-finger salute to us. “You just follow me over to the courthouse now and I’ll get you a hearing with the judge PDQ and your beautiful family can be on your way.”

As the officer toddled back to his car, I saw my father’s face melt from disappointment with my mother's fiery stare burning a hole in his forehead.

“Since you couldn’t talk your way out of this ticket, we’re probably going to miss our tour reservation at Sam Houston’s home.”

My father gripped the steering wheel and looked straight ahead, determined. “Don’t worry we won’t miss anything.”

Following the officer from deserted tumbleweeds into a Main Street lined with a general store, diner, barbershop and gas station, the small town reminded me of Mayberry.

We parked the car in front of a towering white courthouse with a clock in a triangle peak under the roof and my mother grabbed her camera and gathered us in front of the courthouse door.

“OK, everybody smile and say jail. We’ll definitely want to preserve this memory for posterity,” she said and clicked the camera.

My dad glared at her and solemnly walked into the courthouse.

Once inside the officer led us into the courtroom and we sat down while he spoke quietly to the judge. Within minutes, he turned around and walked passed us, smiling and saluting again, as he left the room.

The judge motioned toward my dad and he stood up and walked to the tall intimidated wooden bench.

“Sir, I understand from Officer Whitley that you folks are in an awful hurry.” The judge said looking directly at my dad.

Once again, my dad pasted a plastic smile on his face. “It’s so nice of your honor to see us so quickly. We're from the Windy City here to visit your fine state but unfortunately, I was unaware of the difference in the speed limit as soon as we passed your state line."

The judge smiled back at my dad, seemingly acknowledging the silent gentleman's agreement between the two.

"How can I look at the faces of those three cherubs and not let you go? Judgment for $50 fine. Pay the clerk and you’ll be on your way." He smacked his gavel down in an authoritative blow.

Again, my father's smile disappeared as he walked over to the clerk in disappointment, reached into his pocket and handed her the money.

When he came back, I saw the defeat in his eyes. It was a rare occasion when he couldn’t talk his way out of anything, but he met his match in this Texas town and it’s jurisprudence.

As a grabbed my sister’s hand and led us out at the courthouse, his Cheshire smile seemed to transfer from his face onto my mother's.

"Wave goodbye to the courthouse kids. You can tell all your friends that you saw a real live Texas courthouse on your trip instead of Sam Houston's house. And it only cost $70. Worth the price of admission."