"I just might stop to check you out."

10:30ish on a Friday night. I’m in New Jersey, at a gas station that sits on a major two way street leading to Route 9. I pull out onto the side-street and wait at the red light. Turn on my crappy fifteen year old radio, pre-set to a college radio station for whenever I forget to recharge the ‘Pod. Not expecting much, but then again, when do I ever expect anything from the radio? Am pleasantly surprised.

Okay, maybe that was an understatement.

Wooo—hoooooooo! I fucking love Gordon Gano! Woo-hoooooooo! And on the radio, too! Damn, this just made my night!

Now don’t go making any snide remarks like “I can see how exciting of a night you were having, if that made your night.” Dudes, it was still early, and don’t tell me hearing one of your favorite songs start at exactly the second you put on the radio doesn’t make you an ecstatic little camper for at least fifteen minutes, if not the whole darn night.

Where was I? Right, I turn on the radio and just then “Blister in the Sun” starts. I can always recognize this song in one note, any note, anywhere in the song. And did I mention I love Gordon Gano? Not in the way I love Ewan McGregor, you understand, (but Ewan’s not a songwriter), and definitely not in the way I love Sting, who by the way is the one man who’s old enough to reasonably be my father that I would just absolutely…

Oooooooooohhhhhh. Stiiiiiiiing. Trudie Styler is one lucky bitch.

So I turn the volume up as far as it can go and start dancing. Yes, in the car. Sitting down.

Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t done it.

It’s doable, I tell ya.

So there I am, waiting at the red light, singing my heart out, groovin’ and boppin’ with the steering wheel, when who pulls out of the service station behind me, but--of course--one of New Jersey’s Finest. The street is big enough for two lanes, so I’m off to the right, ready to turn, and he pulls out in front of me on my left and inches out toward the intersection. I keep on keepin’ on with my bad self.

And he stops.

Shit, I’m thinking, just go through the light and leave, please.

But I see that he’s adjusting his rearview and looking intently, and there are no other cars around, so he’s got to be looking at me. And I’m like, fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

I stop dancing. And turn down the radio, all non-chalant-like.

Then I remember that I’m in New Jersey. And in New Jersey, you can make a right turn on red. Which you cannot do in New York City. And just as I remember this, he puts the car in reverse and comes to join me.

Great, well now would be a really inappropriate time to suddenly remember about the right turn rule and just turn.

I prepare myself for the speech. You know, "You really need to learn the traffic laws of the state you are driving in, little lady...”

But he doesn’t get out of the car. He rolls down the window.

Huh?

I roll down my window.

And you know what’s coming next.

“So why’d’ya stop dancing?”

Are you fucking kidding me? Am I about to get hit on by a cop who’s even too lazy to get out of his vehicle?

I don't have much of an answer besides “Because you’re a cop, you schmuck,” and he seems young and rather friendly, so I just smile. And he goes on.

“What are you listening to?”

We’re not too far from a rather tacky club that no one I respect would ever be caught dead in, so I’m thinking this guy does this every weekend. Great beat to have, where all the club chickenhe—I mean, chickies, have to drive by. I wonder, what is the probability that this guy has ever heard this song before in his entire life?

And I’m having none of this. I mean, for real: “Why’d’ya stop dancing?”!

So instead of pretending like I’m listening to some pop princess crap, I just go for the truth and mentally prepare myself to explain the who, what, where, et cetera, et cetera.

“Uh…’Blister in the Sun'.”

A look of recognition. Wait, could this be?

“Seriously, is that on the radio?”

He seems…happy. I am utterly confused.

“Uh, yeah.”

“No one ever plays Violent Femmes on the radio. What station is that?”

Damn, I hate it when I'm wrong.

I tell him. He puts it on. And he starts bopping. Kinda. Not as well as I would have liked, but not terrible. (Sorry, I’m a bit of a dancing elitist.)

Now we’ve both got our windows open, he's boppin', I'm boppin', I’m thinking, so do I apologize for assuming that because he’s a cop in New Jersey he’s got shitty taste in music, or do I just keep bopping? And, what exactly is the etiquette for getting out of this situation?

Think about it. You would never just drive away if a cop was talking to you, but this isn’t exactly a typical getting-pulled-over scenario. So (disregarding the impressiveness of knowing no one ever plays Violent Femmes on the radio, and knowing at least some of the lyrics to “Blister in the Sun”, and attempting to dance, and not doing too terrible a job)...does his lame pick-up line make him just a regular guy that I now have to gently reject because, well, fill in reason here..?

Yes, I think. Definitely. Regular guy.

No matter what your taste in music, you give up all copper authority once you roll down your window and shout out the equivalent of “Hey baby, what’s your sign?”

The light is green.

“Have a good night, officer.”

Smile, wave, turn.

Drive carefully so as not to give anyone a good excuse to pull me over.