Infraction

The police flagged down our driver,

who ran a red light on the flyover

one cloudy December afternoon.

"Didn't you see the STOP sign?"

one of them yelled, as soon as

the driver rolled down the window.

"Are you rowing a boat or driving

a car?" The driver begged, "Forgive

me, Brother. It was a blunder." Irate,

the portly cop jerked his head in my

direction in the back seat, "The boy

could have been killed, or you could

have hit someone." The ungainly

driver slapped the palms of his

hands together, breaking into a flurry

of entreaties, "Last time, Brother. It

won't happen again. I will lose my

job if my sir learns of it. Please!

I have a family to feed." But his words

met with a stern glance as the cop

cried out for his license. "Come

with us for a talk, bumpkin," he

trailed his partner back to their station.

When he returned minutes later, I asked

as the driver fired up the engine, if he

would be charged for his infraction.

"I've bought them a light meal," he said,

looking straight at the road ahead, "You

know, a little baksheesh for tea-biscuits."

The writer is an English professor and educator at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley, USA.