I’m in NYC, awaiting my first day of Thrillerfest. Flight was delayed four hours and my room is non-smoking. The nerve! But my savior, in the form of a twin-tailed siren, is staring at me from across the street.
In my rush to get here, my husband reminds me that my tags are expired. I’ve been distracted. Some things have been sliding.
“Don’t speed,” he says.
“Would I do that?” I pull out of the driveway.
Here comes the flashing lights. Damn. I know those are not for me.
“License and registration,” says the pudgy cop. “You realize you were speeding and your tags are expired?”
Feigned jaw drop. “Oh no! I had no idea.” I proceed to babble some nonsense about being busy and important.
“Zombie Killer?” he asks and thrusts his chin at my rear bumper. (Yeah, I know none of you are surprised by my choice of decals. Zombie Killer looks damn good on my Wrangler, though.)
“Oh, why yes. I write about zombie killers.” I push back my shoulders. “I am, in fact, on my way to NYC to find an agent to sell my novel.”
His eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Oh yeah?”
So I give him the two minute book pitch I’d been practicing.
He smiles. “That sounds neat. I write too,” he says. “Masters in criminology stuff. The publishing industry is hard. I sympathize with you…”
I tune out. I’m too occupied with mental fist pumping. Oh hell yeah, I’m sooo getting out of this ticket.
He trots his happy ass back to his patrol car. A few minutes later, he returns. “Good luck with your book,” he says and hands me my ticket.
My shoulders slump. I guess I’ll be working on that pitch.
(Joe…this post is for you. You made me do it.)