I have had many awkward encounters with law enforcement since I started driving a truck. A couple of my favorites happened while I was teamed with Willie. We ended up repeatedly running through Laredo, Texas for a while. Laredo is a huge area for international trade with Mexico which means Mexican truck drivers. I engaged in small talk with one, and he told me they called Laredo “Little Mexico.”

Well as much as I liked that, I thought to myself that’s probably one of those things it’s ok for him to say, but not me. I decided I would avoid calling it that.

Well, we picked up a load from Laredo and headed to California. As we crossed the California line I pulled into the open weigh station, as required. I crossed the scales and got the dreaded announcement over the loud speaker to park and bring in my papers. I parked in the designated area, and began preparing. I grabbed our binder of important documents and checked to make sure everything was there. IFTA? check. Insurance? Check. Registration? Check. License and medical card? Check. Bill of lading? Check. I started to take my glasses off and stopped myself… nope I am required to wear those. I logged myself “on duty.” I was ready.

I jumped out of my truck and strolled to the office. I had studied for this, I was ready… I was too cool for school. Well, I went in the door, and an officer waved me over to his section of a long and wide horseshoe-shaped counter with four or five other officers doing important keep-truckers-in-line stuff.

He did not ask me for any of the things that I brought in, instead he asked, “where are you coming from?”

Well, I drew an absolute blank and turned a shade of white, I’m sure, because it was a hot empty second of me staring at him with no answer. I mean, seriously? I don’t know where I picked this load up at?!?!? He was clearly of a Hispanic descent, and that’s what made the following so much worse.

I recalled my conversation with the Mexican trucker and how he called it “Little Mexico” and started to say that but my heart climbed up through my throat and grabbed my tongue in a last ditch attempt to change it to Laredo. It was almost in time. The entire office stopped what they were doing and looked at me. I quickly realized in my panic I blurted out, louder than I meant to, “Littaredo!”

The officer in front of me asked, “Where the hell is littaredo?”

I tried to swallow hard enough to push my heart back into place and squeaked, “Laredo?”

Well, a couple of them laughed and went back to what they were doing, but my guy was not amused. He issued me what’s called a “fix-it ticket” for a tiny scratch on my airline. How the hell they saw that, I will never know.