The following is a true story.

The other day I went out to a local bar to celebrate a friend's birthday, had much more to drink than I ever drink, and was assigned the risky task of driving my friend home. My friend is even darker than I am, wears dreads, and lives in the same quiet suburb on the outskirts of [a major American city] that I live in. I've been a bad boy... my car is completely illegal. Insurance? Lapsed. Out of state license and registration? Suspended. Inspection? Expired. I do have an in-state license, but it's not legally tied to the car. I'm drunker than drunk; I can smell myself. I'm slurring my words.

So I drive ever so carefully past Smokey, parked by the side of the road. I remember my training from University, when I used to do much worse stuff than alcohol. Act normal. Control your breathing. Steady the wheel. Don't spazz on the gas, clutch or brake. Act normal. Smokey turns on the rollers. I stare license suspension, a weekend in jail, and unimaginably harsh lifes.tyle damage in the face; not to mention, the last time my friend got pulled over for DUI, the pigs tasered him while he sat in the driver seat. I pull over, hold my breath, kiss my freedom good-bye, and roll down the window.

"The reason why I pulled you over is, one of your brake lights is out. Do you have proof of financial responsibility?" Man, this guy cuts right to the chase. I fiddle in my pockets. Nope, no insurance there. My wallet? All it contains are my suspended out-of-state license, my lapsed insurance ID card, and my suspended out-of-state registration. "I don't think I have it on me." Smokey doesn't miss a beat. "You need to carry proof of financial responsibility at all times, sir. Show me your license." I'm lucky. I'm lucky. I've never been lucky before, but I'm lucky now. I do have a valid in-state license, which I finally got very recently after living here for the last eight months. "How long have you lived in this state, sir?" I lie. "Two weeks." My license doesn't contradict this, but that's only because I waited most of a year to get it. "Okay. I'll be right back." I expect him to run my info through Cerebro, and to return to my car with his taser drawn.

The man returns to my window in about two minutes, which must be a world record. "Okay sir. You need to carry proof of financial responsibility at all times. Get that taillight fixed, and your inspection has expired, so make sure to take care of that as soon as possible. Have a good night, sir." He walks toward his cruiser, which while we were waiting, was joined by a second cruiser. I'm urinating freely. Why didn't he give me a sobriety test? Why didn't he run the breathalyzer? Is this one of those deals where my friend and I show up in a morgue with slugs in our backs, for "resisting arrest?" I pull out carefully, and reconsider my atheism--briefly. I drive my buddy home. I return to my apartment. I exhale.

Why did Smokey not smell me? If he smelled me, why didn't he pull me out of my car? Didn't he hear me slurring? I live in a quiet neighborhood, I was driving at 3am on a Thursday night, clearly intoxicated, my friend and I are black as black can be, and my car was completely illegal. If Smokey had done what he could have done, my life would be more or less ruined; I'd have no defense at all. But he sent me on my way and I told him to have a good night; don't laugh, it just seemed to be the right thing to do. The moral of the story? If you don't want to be the victim of racial profiling or bias, do the most illegal thing you can do in any given situation. It makes you invisible to the law. Or, I have used up all my luck for the next twelve months at least.

Epilogue: Today I sold the car on Craigslist for $100 more than the price I paid for it. I've warned the buyer, an international Computer Science student going for his Master's, that it needs a hell of a lot of work. He test drove it, put the down payment on it and signed the receipt to complete payment on Friday, which is when we'll do the handoff in the parking lot of the local Greyhound bus station. From there it's a 13-hour trip to my other buddy, who's selling me his well-maintained Nissan Maxima for a super-low price. I have insured my friend's car, and will register it sometime this week. I am looking forward to driving a car that's not a wreck, that doesn't make me feel ashamed whenever I crawl through the passenger's side, because I don't have to, because all its doors open; I'm looking forward to a car with a functioning air conditioner, and a radio that works. I'm looking forward to feeling good when I drive, instead of feeling like a broke-ass loser who drives only at the mercy of any cop that wants to take a good look at what I'm driving. And I will never, ever drive drunk again.

Or ...?