Sax Taxson Gets Pulled Over

NOTE - This section of American Project contains adult language and content and is therefore not suitable for minors.

Episode 16

Just then, in his rear view mirror, Sax Taxson saw a state trooper car, replete with archaic cherry top light, and wailing siren. In his rear view mirror Sax saw a trooper driving with his hat on, which if he remembered correctly from some cop shows he used to watch, was a procedural no no.

Thinking about no no’s and procedures, Sax felt a tinge of admiration for the trooper. Wearing his cowboy hat. Billowing up U.S. 27 in an outdated Crown Victoria. Wailing siren and flashing red light, it all seemed heroic, in some way.

Forgetting about the calico cat, Sax wheeled Chomsky onto the shoulder of 27 and waited. He fiddled with the radio. He brought his hands up to ten o’clock, two o’clock. He reached in the glove box, and fumbled through papers and forms. Sax knew he had proof of insurance. Somewhere.

With his hands at ten and two, and head straight and forward, looking as if he were pretending to drive, Sax merely blinked as the trooper approached the side of Chomsky.

“Can I see your license and proof of insurance?” He said. His cowboy hat cast a sad shadow over Sax’s left elbow.
“Yessir officer,” Sax Taxson said. He handed the trooper his license.
“And proof of insurance?”
“Uh well you see, um,” Sax said. “I just had it.” He said. “It was right here.” He pointed to the glove box.

The trooper immediately placed his right hand on top of his gun.

Sax looked at the trooper, under his sad cowboy brim and smiled like the pumpkin king. His gnarly teeth bristling in a sheepish bouquet.

“You have any idea why I pulled you over?”
“Uh.” Sax thought about his speed.

Was he speeding?
If he was, what was a plausible excuse?
Did the trooper have a run on him?
Did they know about the machine guns in his walk in closet?

“No sir,” Sax said. “I don’t.”
“We received a call that a car fitting this description hit a dog a mile south of here.”

Sax thought about that, and thought about how he and Chomsky had enjoyed hitting the Hungarian Vizsla, and tried to think of an acceptable denial of the entire situation.

Did they have the wrong car?

Not likely. This was a rare ’77 Malibu with after market trunk capabilities.

Could it be that it was a deer? No, not small enough.

Was there even a law against hitting dogs on the road? Sax wasn’t sure. The trooper had pulled him over with some probable cause in mind, the law demanded that. They were just far enough out of the city for strange things to occur between outsiders and indigenous law enforcement officers.

The suddenly, in a flash of insight while gripping the maroon leather wrapped steering wheel of Chomsky; the maroon ’77 Malibu, Sax Taxson realized the answer. The semiotic device: “dog” didn’t really point to any actual object: “dog.”

***

The trooper, in his archaic patrol car, had an up to date computer system – linked to ECHELON, NSA, FBI, INTERPOL, and Homeland Security databases. It was a Macintosh laptop. A power book with one of those simpering apple logos, glowing pretentiously against the ancient dash of the Crown Vic. As the trooper typed in the license number and tag number, the chomped apple beaconed in a sad, hip rhythm, as it transferred data from the trooper’s fingertips to the screen, too a satellite with a touch of an ‘enter key’, and transferred data back with a satisfying white glow.

***

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Photograph by Nythan James.