|Start with Travis, my next-door neighbor. The extent of whose compassionate support was indicated when I realized that the brand new Larin Carry-More-Stuff-Back-Bumper-Platform I'd paid $125 for at Sam's couldn't work on the Toyota because the reference on the box to "Fits 1-7/8" and 2" hitch balls" (the one on the 'Yo is 1-7/8") meant that the mounting required BOTH, not "either". And Travis commiserated with me by throwing his arm around me in a big (side) mano-a-mano hug and roaring "Wall sheet far, hoss! You ain't got 'nuff BALLS t' make THAT work! Har! Har! Har!".
I mention that so you can better decide for yourself whether the following happened to a friend of Travis' as he alleges; or it actually happened to him--which I want to believe with every cell in my body. It IS possible: I just bought a hammer that is more intelligent than he is; he can drop a 100-pound somethingsomething on his foot; cuss a blue streak for having done so; and laugh about it as if it was not something that had happened in reality, but on a Saturday morning cartoon show. So you decide:
"A guy" is driving through one of the (multitude of) "Road Under Construction" areas, with its seemingly mandatory 35 m.p.h. speed limit, when he happened to see a tiny flash out of the corner of his right eye, and before passing it he THOUGHT he saw a rather-well-hidden State Police camera unit.
Though occasionally loaned to local police departments, these are normally found halfway down a 5-mile-straight-stretch of interstate with no intersecting roads, not enough ambient evening lights for aircraft speed-checking radar; and nothing along the side of the road big enough to conceal a hot-dog cart, let alone a Highway Patrol cruiser. In fact, there's NOTHING in sight except what looks like a black plastic bag of trash on the shoulder.
And the driver of the Testosteronemobile has been wanting to find out if what he has under that hood is impressive enough to balance out 6 m.p.g. fuel consumption; and to learn once and for all whether it’s just urban legend that when he floorboards it the acceleration will be so intense that snot will come out his ears.
Even HE is amazed at what speed he was going when he passed the "bag of trash"-disguised camera. Which he learns the next day when a police officer comes to his house with an arrest warrant and handcuffs (S.O.P. for miscreants who break the speed limit by 100 m.p.h. or more; lesser felons get citations in the mail).
But I digress: The male lead in our drama has seen a tiny flash; thought he saw a camera nabbing him; but when he looked down he saw that he'd only been going 32 m.p.h.
"Musta been something else", he thinks, but--his curiosity pricked by "well, WHAT else?" questions, he makes a right turn, right turn, right turn: He's going back through, paying more attention this time. His speed control set on 30 and his foot not even TOUCHING the gas pedal he sees the camera housing this time, is upon it, and is just about to give a mental sign of relief when there's a distinct flash this time--because "this guy" is looking right at it--and all doubt is removed: He was just cited, while he was sedately driving 30 in a 35!
His blood not yet boiling (but wafts of steam are beginning to whirl), he whips it around three sides of a square, sets the speed control at 25--the lowest it will go--and makes another pass. This time with the middle digit of the right hand NOT on the steering wheel! It mattereth not: A flash ensues.
He knew he was going to have to Take Care of This Incompetence and Stupidity, but it was going to have to be later that day--he had to get on to work and couldn't do it right then. But he decided to conclude with One More. This time at 5 m.p.h., with a line of horn-honking cars bumper-to-bumper behind him and him with face extended and fingers of right hand under his chin, doing his best Chico Marx imitation. Just as the flash goes off.
Once at work it turns out to be one of those days and so many things happen that he either forgets the morning's events or decides to wait and see what The City does with all those pieces of paper it can use as toilet paper in the jail.
And sure enough: All five official-looking envelopes from the Police Department arrive on the same day. With a look of incipient total triumph on his face--he will bygod OWN that Police Department before he's finished!--he sees, after opening each one and placing it face-up on the table in the manner of an “In yo’ face, muthah!” poker hand, what makes his "onions" no longer feel the size of cantaloupes; he looks instead (through eyes that have begun to water) at the kind of “Five Of A Kind” poker hand that loosens the intestines to the point that one fears sitting if standing, or standing if sitting.
For it takes only an ohnosecond for him to remember that the citations are cumulative; after so many you lose your license. As he stands there numbly the irrefutable fact makes him wish he was closer to the bathroom: He’s looking at five remarkably clear photographs of him; one accompanying each citation for Driving Without Wearing Seatbelt.
Now: Discounting the effect that my storytelling has on the recitation of events, the question is: Was Travis "this guy..."? If I knew that he was--I mean if I KNEW to an absolute, to-a-moral-certainty that he was "this guy" I know just (down to the effing inflection) what I would have said: (Clearing my throat so the broadside from my vocal cannon would not be thrown off course by phlegm): HAR! HAR! HAR!