Juice

Juice

It was arduous even in 1973, that long drive to Connecticut after several physically exhausting days in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I had just merged onto the 495 beltway around Boston, heading west towards Worcester. I was driving a friend's Chevy station wagon and she was leaning against the door fast asleep.

The traffic was light and all cars moved swiftly; I was content to drive in the slow lane with the speedometer pegged at seventy, while cars in the middle lane went by me at eighty or so. Out in the third lane, the high-speed passing lane, an occasional car went shooting by on its high velocity mission.

A Massachusetts State Trooper appeared out in the third lane. He was making his way past the cars in the middle lane when a large black limo with tinted windows and New York plates drove right up on the trooper's bumper. I saw the high beams of the limo flash on the back of the police car. Nothing happened. The high beams flashed again. This time, the trooper pulled over into the middle lane and the black limo accelerated and disappeared down the highway. It was beautiful.

I never knew who was in that car but they certainly had a lot of juice.