Busted in Fort Worth

There I was cruising back to my hotel after lunch at Whataburger in Fort Worth. (What a pathetic set of words!) Suddenly, I see him, parked on the left shoulder. I hit the brakes to try and slow down a bit, but he's got me. I see the flashing red and blue lights come on in my rear-view mirror and say it out loud.

"Shit. You got me."

I pull over, and he takes a couple of minutes to run my plates, or so I assume. I'm aware of not knowing what to do with my hands. When he finally comes to my window, he looks very much the part -- flat-top crew cut, mirrored sunglasses and the whole nine.

But when he speaks, I'm thrown off by the unmistakable Irish brogue. Like most people in his position, he's all business. I appreciate, however, that he's not superior about it, as some cops can be. I have the sense he's even a little sympathetic, as if he himself has been in the position of getting caught speeding at some point in his life.

I'm polite, and patiently wait for him to finish writing out my ticket. Then I'm off the shoulder, back on to I-30 East, my eyes going from the road to my speedometer and back again.