Claire McNab - Wombat Strategy

I was impatient to get going. I undertook to keep chanting "Keep right! Keep right!" to override my natural tendency to veer left. Ariana wished me luck in a tone that indicated she believed I'd be needing it. I took off slowly, careful not to kangaroo hop down the lane, the engine rumbling with the promise of thrilling acceleration. Glancing in the mirror, I saw Ariana watching. I had a fair idea she had her fingers crossed. It was obvious she admired the Mustang but harbored severe doubts about me driving it.

Turning off Sunset onto Laurel Canyon, I let her rip in a minor way, enjoying the wind in my face-I had the windows down-and the feeling that somehow Dad was watching me and he approved of me driving his car. My concentration didn't lapse. I admonished myself to keep to the right. I didn't crunch the gears or run into anything. The red Mustang obediently climbed to the top of the canyon road, then hastened down the other side into a suburb I remembered from the directory was called Studio City. How exciting to be driving around the movie capital of the world!

It was awfully disconcerting to have the oncoming traffic on the left-hand side of the road, but after a while I congratulated myself that I was getting used to it.

I had some idea where I might get on one of the many freeways criss-crossing Los Angeles. Until I experienced the rush of joining that headlong stream of vehicles, I couldn't with any truth say I'd driven in L.A. It seemed a good omen when, after swooping down into the Valley, I found the 101 freeway on-ramp without difficulty.

In a mo I was whizzing along with the rest of the cars. The traffic was light, which I attributed to the possibility most people in L.A. were sleeping in this Saturday morning. I was thinking we were all moving well, but not particularly fast, until I remembered with a jolt the speedo was showing miles per hour, not kilometers. It didn't take long for me to find I belonged to the tiny minority in L.A. who used indicators. For everyone else it was all swoop and dive and-surprise!-I'm changing lanes.

This was fun. Daringly, I zipped into the fast lane, which would have been the slow lane in Australia. The Mustang was a glistening red bullet, and I was sure there were admiring glances coming my way.

Things were hunky-dory until I decided to exit the freeway and try the challenge of surface streets again. An off-ramp was coming up, so I zoomed down it, full of confidence. I'd aced this driving-in-L.A. routine, I was telling myself as I approached the intersection of the off-ramp and a suburban street. The traffic light was green, so I attempted the tricky double task of making a left turn, plus changing down a gear at the same time.

Yerks! Like any Aussie at home would, I sailed onto the left side of the road. Only stayed there a few meters until, thanks to blaring horns and flashing headlights, I realized what I'd done. I swerved back to the correct side. It was pure luck I didn't hit anyone, and I was congratulating myself a miss was as good as a mile, when I heard the siren.

Fair dinkum, I got the works from the cop in the patrol car- lights flashing, siren screaming, and then a woop-woop sound, plus his magnified voice booming "Pull over, driver."

I obeyed, all the while cursing myself for being a bit of a lair. I felt my face burn with embarrassment. Ariana had been right, and although I was fairly sure she wouldn't say "I told you so," I was damn sure she'd be thinking it.

As if she were beside me, I heard her last bit of advice before I'd taken off: "If you're pulled over, Kylie, keep your hands in plain view. The cops in this town tend to shoot first and ask questions later."

I'd laughed then. I wasn't laughing now. Still, I might just talk my way out of this sticky situation. Glancing in the mirror, I saw the cop get out of his car. He approached slowly, deliberately, paused to check out the plate at the rear, then came to the driver's window.

"G'day," I said, with a subdued smile. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

The cop was wearing the sort of dark glasses that reflect everything back at you, so I couldn't see his eyes. He hitched his belt, which was hung with multiple items, including, I saw with a prickle of alarm, a very deadly-looking gun.

He said, "License."

I fished around for my wallet, found my Aussie driving license, and handed it to him. He examined it closely, his expression perfectly blank. The odds I'd wriggle out of this one didn't look good. Still, it was worth a try.

"Crook photo." I indicated the license he was holding in this meaty fingers. "Makes me look like I'm dead on a slab, don't you think?"

"Residents of California are required to have a California license."

Before I could stop myself, I protested, "Fair crack of the whip, officer. Like, I've only been in the States two days!"

No change of expression. Could he possibly be a robot? The cop turned his head slowly to check out the location of my wrongdoing, then just as slowly swiveled it back my way again. That settled it: He was a robot. He said in a monotone, "You exited the freeway and turned onto the left side of the road."

Well, that was stating the obvious. I hastened to explain. "Blame jet lag. Flew in from Australia the day before yesterday. In Oz we drive on the other side, so I'm afraid I got a bit confused. No harm done, fortunately."

He ignored the hopeful don't-book-me-officer look I sent him. Plainly a man-or robot-of few words, he said, "Proof of ownership? Insurance?"

I dimly recalled Ariana mentioning insurance stuff was in the glove box. "You won't shoot me, will you, if I open the glove box?"

No response. Taking that for a pledge not to use deadly force, I rummaged around and discovered a flat wallet containing official-looking papers. I handed it to him, saying, "Actually, it's not my car-"

"Please step out of the vehicle."

Appalled, I stared at him. "You're not going to frisk me, are you?"

I'd seen enough TV cop dramas to visualize this mortifying process. Worse, since I'd been pulled over, the occupants of passing cars had been slowing down to have a look. They'd really have something to see if I got patted down while spread-eagled in an undignified position.

The cop barked, "Exit the vehicle."

I made one last try. "You're not going to book me, are you?"

He put his hand on his gun. That was enough for me. I got out of the car.

"So then what happened?" asked Lonnie through a mouthful of ham sandwich. He, Harriet, and I were in the kitchen, which I was coming to recognize as the beating heart of the office.

I was feeling a bit rattled, having driven so carefully on the way back to Kendall & Creeling that I'd been tooted by several impatient drivers, and one had even yelled unkind comments about my relatives as he passed me. Even more depressing, I'd gotten lost several times and had to ask for directions.

I gave a squeeze to Julia Roberts, who I'd enticed to sit on my lap to comfort me after my ordeal. "So I get out of the car, and the cop asks me if I've had anything to drink, and I say, no, not unless he counts two cups of tea and a glass of orange juice."

"Good one," said Harriet.

"Unfortunately the bloke didn't have much of a sense of humor."

"Did he frisk you?" Lonnie's tone showed his strong hope I'd be answering in the affirmative.

"No. He just booked me."

"Moving violation," said Harriet.

"Traffic school," said Lonnie.

"What's traffic school?"

Lonnie and Harriet exchanged glances.

Harriet said, "It's hell."

"It's worse than hell," Lonnie said. "They take an entire day to bore you to death."

"Then I won't do it."

They both looked shocked. "You have to," said Harriet, "otherwise the violation's on your record."

"Is that so bad?"