A state of disobedience

Las Cruces, New Mexico

The Marine Corps Reserve truck driver—he was a California boy named Mendez—looked out at the sea of humanity blocking the highway before him. "Whew; I didn't think New Mexico had this many people in it."

"What you carrying, son?" asked the state trooper balancing on the truck's running board while hanging from its rearview mirror.

"I'm not sure I should say, sir." The driver looked down at the trooper's chest and read a name tag, "Peters."

The trooper—Peters—smiled grandly. "Well, you can say or we can just arrest you now; whatever's your preference."

The driver gave off a loud sigh. "Ammunition, mostly."

"Ah, I see. Well . . . come with me. Let's see if your truck is properly marked." The trooper stepped down.

The driver emitted another sigh as he opened his door to follow.

"It's always amazed me how often you guys hauling ammo fail to put up the signs required by federal law," commented the trooper as he ripped a "Danger-Peligro" sign from the side of the truck, folding it and tucking it in his shirt.

"But . . . but . . ."

"And another thing; you know how often you mix up incompatible loads of ammunition? Why, it's a national disgrace," he added while tearing off another bit of paper, this one stating in precise terms what kind of ammunition the truck was carrying.

The trooper looked the driver squarely in the eye and ordered, "Son, you are just gonna have to unload this here truck and let me inspect it."

"But, sir . . . it's over twenty tons of ammunition. I can't, I just can't; not in less than a week."

If possible the trooper's friendly smile grew broader and grander still. "I know."

* * *