license and registration please.

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last seen: signaling

5 january 1996 11:07 p.m.

I got pulled over by a cop tonight. And I couldn't be happier. I don't know why, but the police were crawling everywhere. If there was a single stretch of road in town without a blue light on it, I didn't see it. I was on my guard. My lights were on, my belt was fastened, and I held steady at 34 miles-per-hour. I even stopped at one light when it turned yellow. Nevertheless, the inevitable occurred. It's a special feeling. The one you get when you look in your rear-view mirror and see the signature headlights of the cushy Chevys only cops drive in this town. And there's the chilling rush you feel when you realize, yes, those are a row of lights up on the roof. They were off. But I was definitely potential prey. I took a careful right onto South King. So did the cruiser. I slowly made my way to the middle lane. So did the cruiser. My eyes were glued to the mirror. It's a wonder I managed to stay inside the dashed lines. The cop was hovering behind me, and behind him, a dozen pairs of headlights, piloted by a dozen other drivers carefully trying not to pass and no doubt thanking god they weren't me. Suddenly I couldn't remember if both my tail-lights worked. I couldn't remember when my safety check expired. I couldn't remember if any of my bumper stickers would offend the sensibilities of your average law enforcement officer. Though it's said to be impossible on this particular street, I swear I caught every red light. And each time I stopped, so did the cruiser. Just far enough back so there was no question I was supposed to be petrified. Finally, after an eternity and a half, I watched as my longtime tail suddenly darted down a side street. I sighed in relief. I released my stranglehold on my steering wheel, which all but developed permanent imprints of my fingers. I marveled at my good fortune. I realized I needed to make a right down Kalakaua. With perhaps a mild excess of glee, I rolled around the corner toward home. Weeeeoooob! That sound. The curious half-cycle of a siren I hear twice a night from my apartment, echoing from assorted nowheres. There it was, louder than ever, and right behind me. Now some time back, Honolulu cop cars switched from the old-fashioned spinning lights to these high-tech, insanely-bright, seizure-inducing strobe lights. As I slowed to a crawl, looking for a place to pull over, I decided I liked them even less. I had a headache within seconds. It had to be one of the longest blocks in the universe. As I coasted along, hunting for the nearest driveway, I got a few more nagging siren chirps so as to maximize my humiliation among passers-by. Finally I turned a corner and stopped, and was almost surprised to see I was near Holiday Mart, where I got one of my first jobs and vowed never to shop again. It looks a lot different illuminated in Gotcha Blue. I took off my seatbelt and started rummaging around for the obligatory papers. "May I see your license?" I handed it over, finding it impossible to muster an even remotely normal looking smile. "Where are we going tonight, Katherine?" I used to say nothing in this world irritated me more than hearing my full name. I was wrong. If there's anything I hate more than those last two syllables, it's hearing a cop use them. "Waikiki," I said, trying to find my voice. "I live there." "You live there," he said. Awkward pause. "The reason I stopped you is because you turned right back there from the second lane," he said. "You have to be in the far right lane to make that turn." "Oh," I said. What else do I say? "And also, you're not wearing your safety belt." "Sorry, no," I stammered. "I was wearing it. I just took it off now." "You just took it off," he said. I nodded, convinced I was the most pathetic driver he's seen in years. Another pause. A really long pause. "Try not to be so careless in your driving," he said, handing my license back. My own grinning face was the last thing I wanted to see at that moment. "Okay," I said. And then, in the stupid tradition followed by every driver in America, I added a heartfelt, "Thank you." Still, I was elated. And not just because I didn't get a ticket. I deeply believe in car karma, and considering my soul's automotive slate, getting off with a warning is nothing short of a miracle. I speed. I tailgate. I carry grudges for miles, and I'm famous for my illegal U-turns. I've borrowed heavily from the Bank of Luck, and given my survival to date, my debt is too immense to comprehend. Yet of all the things I could've been caught for, it's a sloppy right turn. The year's looking better every day. But I'll be getting a fresh omamori for my car, just in case. Word of the Day: "police" maka`i (maa- kah`ee) A`ole kikiki ka`u no ka mea moloa ka maka`i. "I have no ticket because the police officer was lazy." (No ticket have-I because lazy the police.) Last night, Derek and I dined at Genki Sushi, a neat little sushi bar along Kapahulu. The commercials have been around for months ("Genki Sushi is happy sushi!"), and I was apparently the only person on earth who hadn't eaten there. What makes this place the talk of the town is its conveyor belt, an element of sushi technology that I imagine is old hat in Japan, but it's pretty sexy stuff 'round here. Here's the setup: Customers sit on stools along a big, round counter. Plate after plate of finely crafted sushi is paraded in front of them on the conveyor belt, moving at a comfortable tack of about fifteen morsels-per-minute. In the middle of this seafood-lined ring stands the sushi master, who manufactures a wide assortment of wrapped-rice treats non-stop. At any given moment, I figure at least fifty pieces of sushi are doing laps around the room. All you do is sit there and watch them go by, until you spot one that looks both tasty and affordable. Provided someone further up the belt doesn't nab it first, you grab its plate and munch away. I figured early on that there was a sporting element to the whole thing. If you looked too eager to pick a particular dish, or even worse, said something about it, your chances of getting it before someone else are pretty slim. When the hunt is on, everyone puts on their best poker face. Everything was delicious. The wasabi cleared my sinuses. And I realized everyone was using chopsticks after eating only two sushi with my hands. The genius of it all lies in how you're billed for this locomotive buffet. Different grades of sushi are placed on four differently colored plates. The yellow plates with the cartoon head are $1.20. The blue flower pattern means really big bucks. And when you've had your fill of raw fish and other delicacies, a sushi monitor comes by and counts the plates you've stacked in front of you. Derek and I each collected five yellow plates, an orange one and a blue one. We paid in full, even though by the end of the evening I devised a number of ways to undermine the plate-based system.