For this story, we're rewinding the tape a little. Back to before I got pregnant with my son. Back when I was just living with John, in the full bloom of young, dumb, and in love (or so I thought).
My second cousin was flying in from Oregon to visit. For anyone who doesn't know, a second cousin means your parents are cousins. Just a little genealogy snack for you—I love this stuff. Truly. I can rattle off third cousins, second cousins once removed, and which side they're on like I'm building a family tree in my head for fun. Autism perk: I can chart out my second cousins twice removed like it's a game of Sims Family Tree. It's one of those things I hyperfixate on. Just smile and nod.
Anyways— focus.
So John had my car for some reason, and I took his tiny, miserable two-door clown car to pick up my cousin from the airport. It's only about a ten-minute drive from base… unless there's construction. Spoiler: there was. Fifteen minutes, tops.
I barely get three blocks off base when the red and blue lights flash behind me. Pulled over. Officer walks up, asks for license and registration. No big deal.
"Your headlight's out," he says.
Now, I knew that headlight. That headlight was temperamental. All you had to do was smack it once and it came back to life. I climbed out, smacked it like a malfunctioning vending machine... Nothing.
Okay, fine. I tell him I'll get it fixed after I pick up my cousin from the airport.
He nods, tells me to drive safe… and still gives me a ticket.
Annoying, but whatever. I drive off.
Not even two blocks later, more flashing lights.
Are you kidding me?
I roll down my window, kind of laughing, thinking it's the same cop looping back around.
Spoiler: not the same cop.
This one walks up like she's got a badge and a personal grudge. Total no-nonsense energy.
"Is something funny?" she snaps.
I blink. "No, ma'am. I just got pulled over two blocks back, so I thought maybe you were the same officer."
She raises an eyebrow like I just slapped her dog. "Excuse me? Are you giving me lip?"
Uh. What?
"No ma'am," I say quickly, holding up the ticket. "I understand the headlight's out, I already got a ticket, I'm just headed to the airport. I'll fix it right after."
She informs me, with the warmth of a DMV line, that if I say one more thing, she'll cite me for harassing an officer.
Harassing?! I was trying to crack a joke. I really did think it was the same cop! But sure, okay. I shut up.
She runs my info, gives me a lecture about "attitude," and lets me go with a warning to behave myself.
Cool cool cool.
I get back on the road. I'm still ten minutes out. I merge onto the main highway.
Pulled over again.
I don't even flinch this time. I just hold up the damn ticket like I'm waving a white flag.
The cop doesn't even come up to the window. Just sees me, laughs, gives a thumbs up, and drives off.
Thank you, sir. Finally, someone with a sense of humor.
I'm literally pulling into the airport exit, like turning in, when it happens again.
Pulled over. Again.
I wave the ticket like it's a backstage pass. The officer runs my info, confirms the circus I've been through, and lets me go.
By the time I get to the terminal, I'm 15 minutes late.
I find my cousin, out of breath and looking like I just ran a marathon. He gives me a look.
"I got pulled over four times on the way here," I say, dead serious.
He bursts out laughing. "That has to be a record."
Probably.
So there we are, me and my cousin, still dying over the absurdity of getting pulled over four times, when we get pulled over again.
That's number five.
We're on the highway, and my cousin is trying not to absolutely lose it in the passenger seat. He's biting his lip, turning purple, doing that silent laugh where you know they're suffering. I wave the ticket like a white flag and explain, for the fifth time, that yes, I know the headlight's out, yes, I already got a ticket, and yes, I'm literally on my way to buy a replacement bulb.
The officer takes one look at my frazzled face, my wheezing cousin, and lets us go. "Have a good day," he says, which feels wildly optimistic.
We finally make it to Walmart, and just as I'm pulling into the parking lot, lights. Again.
That's number six.
I pull over in the Walmart parking lot. I tell the officer this is the sixth time I've been pulled over, I know the headlight is out, and I'm literally walking into the store to buy the damn thing.
My cousin? Full-on cackling now. He's practically horizontal in the passenger seat, tears streaming down his face. Freaking traitor.
"This is like some kind of divine traffic intervention. Did you run over a priest?" My cousin was gasping.
The officer actually chuckles, until I say, deadpan, "No seriously. You're number six."
The laugh dies on his face. He just kind of… blinks and waves me along.
So I go inside, buy the bulb, hold it like it's the holy grail, and return to the car with the determination of a woman on the verge.
Only problem?
Neither of us knows how to change the headlight.
This is not one of those simple "pop the hood and plug it in" deals. No. This is John's cursed two-door death trap, and it requires a minor surgical procedure to access anything.
So now I'm holding the headlight and the ticket like a prop comic as we drive the final mile back to my house.
And guess what happens five blocks from Walmart?
Yep.
Pulled over. Again.
That's number seven.
By now my cousin can't breathe. He's wheezing so hard I'm genuinely concerned he might pass out. I roll down the window, wave the ticket, show the officer the brand-new headlight in my lap like a sad trophy, and explain we're going home. Just five minutes down the road, and it'll be fixed when we get there.
He lets me go, probably out of pity.
We turn onto my street. I can see my house. I'm pulling into the driveway when—
FLASHING LIGHTS.
Number eight.
At this point, I just lay my forehead on the steering wheel. Like, are you kidding me? Is this some kind of headlight-themed episode of Punk'd?
The officer pulls in behind me as I park, gets out, and just as he's walking up, John comes out of the house.
Perfect.
So now I've got an audience: John, my second cousin, and this poor cop who probably just wanted a chill day.
Naturally, I launch into a dramatic retelling of my Eight Cop Odyssey. I mime the headlight slap, I recount the ticket shuffle, I reenact the moment I waved a bulb like a war flag. John listens, the cop listens, and my cousin is still laughing like he's been possessed by the spirit of stand-up comedy.
By the end, even the officer is cracking up. He literally stays and chats with us for 30 minutes while John, finally, blessedly, installs the new headlight.
It's a hilarious story now. One of those "remember that time...?" gems I pull out for guaranteed laughs.
But here's the part that still pisses me off:
That was John's car. I was working 70+ hours a week at the rehab facility. I barely had time to sleep, let alone fix his janky vehicle. And to be honest, I felt like it was his responsibility. So I asked him to take care of the fix-it ticket. He said he would.
I checked in again, "Did you take care of it?"
"Yes," he snapped. "I said I did. Why don't you trust me?"
I let it go.
Fast forward to my 21st birthday. I go to renew my license like a normal, responsible adult… only to find out it had been suspended for over a year.
Because of that ticket.
Because he never fixed it.
Because he lied.
Eight cops. One busted headlight. Zero accountability. But sure, I'm the one with the attitude problem.