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Mo turned the rear-view mirror to look at her reflection, then bent it so hard it broke off in her hand. Great! She tossed it into the back seat with the rest of her life. What was left of it. Well, there hadn't been much to see in that mirror, anyway. Just a short, not-so-skinny woman, with blue eyes, a few freckles, and dishwater blonde hair. Those little lines around her eyes- that was character! And her blonde hair... yeah, about that.
Mo was sure nature intended some folks to have flat hair, just like some folks had wavy hair. She tried layers once. Unless she puttied or waxed them into bird wings, they collapsed like a cheap, overused paper plate. So maybe the bangs and chin length bob were optimistically young looking for a 30 plus (plus) year old failure. Nature wasn't really working in her favor when it came to options, so she took what she could. It's not like she had to impress anyone, right? And she sure as hell had nothing to lose!
Not after that embarrassing incident on the Oklahoma interstate. In a case of mistaken identity, her whole life had been strewn across the side of the expressway when her car was reported as a drug runner's. The mortifying episode- her blubbering, while the highway patrol tore her car apart, the drug dog with the cold nose, putting it in places it shouldn't be allowed, passing drivers pointing, laughing, taking pictures, the stern police officers just doing their job, the next two hours trying to figure out where the stripped out car panels belonged because the officers had to leave for an emergency.
Mo's heart raced, her blood pressure rose, her face turned red, her knuckles turned white, her respiration increased, her foot pressed the gas pedal to the floor. Hell in a handbasket- again? Even without a rear-view mirror, she knew that siren was meant for her, so she pulled off the side of the road and waited. At least it wasn't the interstate. Just a less traveled highway, thankfully close to her destination.
A knock on the window. "License and registration."
Mo blew air up the front of her bangs as she reached to her glove box and struggled to find the registration paper. Thanks to those interstate jackasses nothing was where it belonged. The officer was getting restless when she finally found it and shoved it out the window, hitting him... uh, oh. Well, maybe they had standard issue cups, like athletes. Mo didn't ask but instead dove into her purse.
"Moses?" the officer asked when he saw the registration slip.
"I'm looking for my license," Mo snapped. She tipped her bag out onto the seat next to her. Then she flipped. Those jackasses hadn't returned her license!
She poked her head out of the window, and he jumped back a pace. "I have a minor issue with my license," she told him.
"You don't have a license?" he asked.
Mo sighed. In another life, she'd stop to admire the fine specimen sternly standing by in his crisp state patrol uniform, his dark brown hair cut close to his head, with tanned skin, and brown eyes... that weren't looking happy.
"I have a license, just not with me," she said. Mo, just give it up. Maybe a night in the local jail wouldn't be such a bad thing. Unlike trying to explain your way out of this.
"I see, Moses. So where is your license?" he asked, and she caught a flash of nice white teeth, the jerk. Why couldn't they be yellow, nicotine stained, and rotted, or missing? "Ma'am?"
"My license is currently in the possession of the Oklahoma Highway Patrol, believe it or not." She saw the look on his face, and her blood pressure nearly blew the top off her head. "Why don't y'all give them a call and ask them why they didn't return it? I've a mind to sue their asses after the indignity of the whole case of mistaken identity!" Please, lord, tell me I didn't just say y'all! That word has not passed these lips in over ten years- why now?
His brows rose. "They didn't buy that your name is Moses, either?"
"They were too busy looking for drugs!" she yelled. His look turned to suspicion. Uh, oh! Best to keep your mouth shut, Mo. We don't want a repeat episode of that indignity!
"Officer, do you have a means of communication?" she asked politely, but maybe a little too tartly. He didn't bother to reply, so she continued, "Maybe you could try contacting the Oklahoma Highway Patrol to inquire into the whereabouts of a California license in the name of Moses May Murphy?" Her voice rose. "Because I sure as hell had it when they pulled me over and strip searched my car. And now I don't have it," she shouted. "Sherlock, I'll give you one guess as to which state my license is in."
He didn't think her sarcasm was funny, and he found her anger threatening. "Ma'am, step out of the car with your hands where I can see them."
"I can't," she said tersely through her clenched teeth. Out came his gun. Mo's eyes got huge. "I'm not disobeying, I'm stuck!" she exclaimed.
"Seatbelt?" he asked. She shook her head. Maybe he wouldn't notice she hadn't been wearing it at all. "Hands on the wheel."
Mo put her hands on the steering wheel, and he put his head through the window to check the situation. Mm! He smells nice. If my hands weren't on the steering wheel, I'd feel his hair!
He backed out with a chuckle. "Vinyl seats... Let me give you some advice if you plan on staying in these parts. Get some cloth seat covers. Light colored if you can. In the meantime, turn up your AC and aim it up your skirt. That will help in just a minute or two." He turned red when he realized what he'd said.
Mo rubbed her already sweaty brow. Couldn't he see her skirt was long enough to reach the edge of the seat? Obviously not. She closed her eyes. "That won't help in just a minute or two." How was what should have been an easy road trip, now an unending, twisted drive through hell and back, with a stop at every scenic turnout of pain, flames, and torture?
His eyes finally twinkled with humor. Mo didn't think it was funny when he asked, "Do I need to call for the jaws of life?"
"Sure, why not? Then this whole unbelievable road trip through the pits of hell can be forever preserved on the front page of the local newspaper. Because I know they have nothing better to put on the front page than a picture of my fat ass being pulled out of my sawn apart car... for no reason!" She paused for a breath, then asked in a mild voice, "Do you have any baby powder on you?" It was like she had asked for a mint. His eyes narrowed, and she sighed. "Powder of any sort?" She was still going for the light, happy tone of voice, because she really wanted to grab that pistol of his and start shooting anything that would blast into satisfying pieces. His head for starters.
He gave her a suspicious look and cautiously answered, "Gun powder."