Questions with a Silent Q

I inhaled the last drag from my Marlboro cigarette as I was driving down 38th Street and the stoplight at Portland Avenue turned yellow. It was decision time. Do I hit the gas or hit the brakes?

My legs go numb, a consequence of my indecision, and I coast as the light turns red.

"Is there a problem officer?" I ask a short time later, the car stopped along the side of the street, the officer at my door, his car with its glorious bright red lights flashing in my rear view mirror.

"Would you mind stepping out of the car please?" He asks and though I shouldn't, I decide to play the questions game with the gentleman.

"This car?" I ask and wait for his question.

"Step out of the car, NOW!" He yells. So I do step. As I open the door and step out, I say: "Command. Fifteen, Love."

"May I see your driver's license please?" He asks and I take it that he's starting the second round, as it was his serve.

"Is that the red card with my name on it?" I respond.

"Have you been drinking, Mister?" He retorts.

"Drinking what?" I ask.

"Let me see your license NOW!" he yells, reverting to his old attitude. I reach into my pocket, pull out the red card and hand it to him, beginning to bore of the game, even though I'm winning. "Command," I say, "Thirty, love."

"What the hell are you talking about?" He asks

"Don't you know?" I respond.

"Where are you from?" He asks.

"Non-sequential," I counter, "Forty, love. Game point."

"What game?" He serves.

"What game do you think?"

"Repetition," he says. "Fifteen, Forty."

"What time is it?" I serve.

"Where?" he counters.

I'm caught off guard, fumble, "Shit."

"Statement," he says excitedly, "Thirty, Forty."

"How old are you?" He serves.

"Isn't it on my license?" I respond.

"Where's your license?" He returns.

"Don't you have it?"

"Why should I have it?

"Because I gave it to you a moment ago," I slip.

"Statement. Forty, forty. Game point."

"Aren't you going to give me a ticket?" I ask, hoping he'd falter when brought back to reality, and the task at hand.

"For what?" he asks.

"For going thru the red light," I say.

"I win," he says with a gleam in his eye, smiles broadly, turns on his heel, and gallivants back to his car, gets in, and drives away.

I sit leaning on the hood of my car for a few moments, exhausted, and bewildered by the experience. Finally, I get in, pull out another cigarette, punch the lighter down, and continue on my way.