Lightfoot

The rosary blessed by John Paul still swayed gently back and forth when the Driver shut off the beat-up old Buick. The Driver’s mother, a devout part-time Catholic, had given it to her oldest son as a Christmas gift in 1990, and now I couldn’t stop staring at it from inside the car, remembering the story the Driver told endlessly about how his mother performed a minor miracle in getting the Pope’s attention. I can still recall the Driver’s modest arrogance, a touch of vanity maybe, at owning such a spiritually valuable prize. Yet in an instant, the rosary’s hold on me evaporates, the night’s initial euphoria (a girl’s parents are out of town) quickly gives way to confusion as the reflection in the rearview mirror explodes into blue and red lights. The lights also reflect softly on the crucifix, and although I didn’t know it then, the end of the month is an especially busy time for law enforcement in Texas. These lights belong to the Harris County Sheriff ’s Department and they have quotas to fill. The Driver notices the unwanted attention and can only muster a simple quick response: “Fuck! … everyone be cool … ”

All the emotions tied to those memories come over me and for a split-second I hesitate; I momentarily stop typing so I can close my eyes and refocus as the thought of the lights distracts me again, like it did so long ago. From far away I vaguely make out that initial click … and then a second sound … followed by many more … compulsively … click, click, click, click … and the hairs on the back of my neck begin to tingle …

In the backseat of the old Buick, I instinctively begin The Lord’s Prayer, which I learned during football season, while the Constable’s flashlight continues to click schizophrenically. I stop mid-sentence as I hear the unmistakable Southern twang, and although I can’t quite make out what is said, in the dark of night the drawl is unexpectedly frightening. I imagine that the sequence of questions, although I’ve heard them only on TV, will seem unfortunately all too recognizable. The Constable will pronounce them slowly, as a means of prolonging the situation: “Where you going, boys?” …“Can I check the trunk?” … “Anything you need to tell me before I look?” The questions will conclude with a condescending: “Y’all sure?”

Driven by the department’s economic incentives, the Constable’s clicking flashlight stops at the back of the rusty Buick—no doubt he is looking at the expired license plate tags. The focus of the light back into the car, and then disappearing and returning, can only suggest that he is sizing up all the baseball caps. I sit there and I can’t get over the sheer disbelief of being pulled over at the exact moment that we arrived, as if he’d been there waiting for us. I go back to the prayer, only because I don’t want to leave it unfinished–it seems rude to me for some reason. Silently I enjoy the commotion, but only because I’m innocent. Now that I’m writing this, I’m embarrassed to confess that the thought of handcuffs digging into my wrists seemed fascinating—but only because I’m innocent. From the darkness, we hear a voice for the first time: “Inside the vehicle … hands where I can see them …” I was expecting the Constable to start with the other questions, but this command isn’t too surprising.

I can hear the footsteps again; the Constable approaches the Driver’s window just as I finish the prayer. The window is partially open because the air-conditioning in the discolored Buick doesn’t work very well. The flickering of the flashlight has stopped, for now, and the Constable’s words are just as I remember them from TV. He breezes through the questions leisurely, arriving at each question precisely when he wants to, all the while moving the flashlight back and forth from the Driver’s face to the registration forms and the passengers. Each...