The Ticket

Karen Lovasz rests her cheek on her knuckles and her elbow on the open window of the Subaru Outback. She is not wearing her sunglasses. They are still lying on her desk in the library because the Greek had called and she had had to leave in a hurry. She squints into the bright, flat landscape. She is driving in the car pool lane. Large bales of hay and small highway churches with baby steeples slip by horizontally. The dark earth dips beyond the highway and stretches barren till the horizon where the clouds hang.

The Greek is asleep. His open mouth forms a shallow oval. He has a large forehead. He looks a few years younger than her son. His email on Wednesday had said he was a runner on his way to Dallas for a race along the Trinity. He had known she was driving to Dallas for the weekend and asked whether he could get a ride. He studies soil mechanics at the University in Austin. She remembers him from the science library. His name is Aristos Zafiropoulos. She repeats it slowly now in her head. Eight syllables, if she has the pronunciation right.

She had picked him up at Ninth and Lamar and had meant to ask him how he knew of her trip to Dallas. But he fell asleep after fiddling for ten minute with the radio. It still plays his last channel. She is looking at him. He wears track pants and has an athlete's body. Austin is good to athletes, at least the kind who like hills, water, and trees. His sleeping form is cramped in the passenger’s seat. His knees are against the dashboard and he will wake up sore. She thinks of his race.

“Aristos,” she cautiously says, trying to get his name right even if he will not hear it. But he is a light sleeper. The knees come off the dashboard and he massages them. He looks out his window and says nothing.

“We are near Waco. We should be in Dallas by eleven.”

A siren sounds.

She says with exasperation, “Why do they allow sirens and phone rings on radio ads? It doesn’t make any sense. Someone could die.”

Aristos turns and says, ”It is a real siren.” He has the thick accent of the Mediterranean.

“Damn!”

There is a police motorcycle behind. Its lights are revolving. Karen is flustered for a moment and looks around the car, not knowing what she is looking for, or what she may find. She slows down and stops.

He walks over with a measured gait, adjusting to walking after hours of sitting on his heavy motorcycle. He is at her window. He wears a small round helmet and has raised its visor. He wears sunglasses inside. There is a belt around his waist that exaggerates his girth when he walks, but now bending into the car the belt camouflages the bulge of his own belly. There is a gun in the holster. It is sinister and quiet and the Greek is fascinated by its proximity. He could touch it if he reached out, if he wanted.

“You were doing eighty-five, ma’am. License and registration please.” The plastic badge over his right breast says ‘Otis, Jr’. He walks back to his motorcycle, a regal highway beast that is reclining rakishly on its asphalt. He returns in a few minutes with the ticket, and holds it at the open window.

“One hundred and sixty-eight dollars. Five dollars for every mile that you were over.”

The Greek has not understood - “That doesn’t make any sense.”

It is said in his thick Mediterranean tone. He also flattens his face into a grimace, raises his shoulders and dismissively gestures with his visible and upraised palms.

Officer Otis, Jr. bends further and looks at the Greek.

“Por favor, senor?” He questions blankly. The Greek is silent.

“Habla Español?” After another silent pause Officer Otis, Jr. asks, “Are you a US citizen?”

“I am Greek.”

“May I see your documents and your passport, sir?"

“I am not carrying them. I study at UT Austin.” He hands over his University card.

Karen’s head is now turned toward the policeman. “I work there. I am a US citizen. I know he studies there.”

“Ma’am, please.”

He hands Aristos back his card, looks at Karen, and then slowly pulls out a notepad from his belt.
“Well, ma’am. I will have to ticket you for riding alone in the car pool lane.”

“I don’t understand.” She has not understood.

He repeats himself.

“But what is this?” jerking her head toward the Greek.

“He has no documents, ma’am.”

“But he has himself, doesn’t he?”

Officer Otis, Jr. looks at her through his dark glasses. There is a stern expression on his lips. Karen breaks into the giggles of a fifty-three year old woman. Her shoulders shake and she holds the wheel with both hands, and hunches over it. She glances slyly at Aristos for a second and says, “Yes, alright. I want this ticket. Can you please write it slowly and in capitals? I will want to frame it.”

Another ticket passes through the window. As he leaves, Officer Otis, Jr. tells the Greek, “I know you are not an illegal alien, but next time remember that you and your passport are one. They never part.”

Outside Dallas, when the highway is sixteen lanes wide, the Greek says, “Maybe I should pay for not being able to prove I was in this car.”

“It’s alright. I’ve been in Texas for three years. I often think of moving back to Boston. I could be an assistant librarian there too. It does have many more schools.” Her accent is of Boston. Each of her vowels stretch and become two distinct sounds. The first is elongated and connects to the shorter second after a climactic search for the perfect version of the city’s tone.
She looks at him with excitement in her eyes, “But then something like this happens, and I think ‘How can I leave?’ I love it here.”