In small towns like Sandy City, Tennessee, the police force tends to be a bit more informal about the way they handle wrong doing. 

Officer Brady Andrews, one of two patrolmen in Sandy City, was working the midnight shift one night, sitting in his patrol car. His vehicle was partially hidden behind the bushes that ran along the extended driveway of the water heater factory. The factory employed almost every Sandy City resident that wasn’t a farmer. He was tired that night, having worked the entire day before, repairing electric appliances in his uncle’s garage. Uncle Herbert had a nice little business, because most of the townsfolk tended to be frugal.  

 Herbert was always busy. People brought him lamps, irons, can openers, coffeemakers; just about anything that had a plug, except TVs and computers. He wouldn’t touch those things. He started teaching Brady how to fix appliances when the boy was just six years old. By the time the lad was sixteen, he was a wiz. Uncle Herbert was fond of saying, “That boy Brady’s as handy as a shirt pocket.”

Uncle Herbert’s own shirt pocket was stuffed with small screwdrivers, screws, nuts and washers. About once a week, Herbert would ask his nephew to work full time for him. But Brady loved being a police officer. He had dreams of being chief one day, but that was more or less a daydream for now. He hated working the night shift, though. He was fond of saying, “You know, I tend to run on solar,” which meant he performed better when the sun was shining.

 He spent a good part of that night just wishing someone would ride by. It wasn’t easy staying awake with nothing but a dim two-lane road to look at. At around 2:30 that morning he got his wish. He heard the car before he saw it, which meant whoever it was, was moving well beyond the speed limit. He turned the key and heard his own engine roar to attention.

 A white Ford Mustang came flying past him at 94 miles per hour. He took off after it, flipping on his blue flashers as he pulled out of the driveway. He also felt his stomach turn as he floored his specially equipped Dodge Challenger. 

 He knew who was driving that Mustang. It was Maddie Marlowe, the one person in the world he most wanted to see. He just didn’t want to see her that night under those conditions. Everybody in town knew he had a thing for her. Hell, every guy in town, even the ones too old for her, had a thing for her.

 He’d taken her out once, all the way to Chattanooga to see a movie. He was so excited when she said yes, that he’d actually messed up on Miss Cecille’s prized Tiffany lamp. The night they went to Chattanooga his insides didn’t stop shaking until the movie was almost over. One week later he found the courage to ask her out again. She couldn’t go, she said, because she’d come down with a case of mononucleosis. They had kissed goodnight on their date, (which started him shaking again) but he didn’t wind up getting mono.

 He chased Maddie until they reached the center of town. She finally pulled over in front of the barber shop. For some reason, the barber pole was still spinning. Mr. Carlisle probably forgot to turn it off. Brady would have to take care of that too, after he dealt with Maddie.  

 He walked up to her door and said, “Maddie, why were you driving so fast? Do you know you were going almost a hundred?”

 “Yep. Actually, I kind of did do that, but I think it was before I passed you.” She was chewing gum and looking straight ahead. The street light directly above showed her delicate, near-perfect features. Everyone said Maddie, just 25 years old, could’ve been a fashion model. She could’ve escaped Sandy City and made a name for herself. 

 Brady, who was the same age, wished he could have been anywhere else at that moment. He was still crazy about her. But he was a sworn officer of the law. He would have to do his duty. 

 “Step out of the car, please, Maddie.”

 “Do I have to Brady? I’m not feeling well.”

 He opened the door for her and offered his hand. She turned and gingerly extended her long legs, letting him pull her feet onto the pavement. She’d had too much to drink. “Have you been drinking Maddie?”  He looked around, hoping now that no vehicles would pass.

 “I had a few drinks. I was at The Woodshed with friends.”

 Brady gripped her hand tightly; afraid she might fall. He gently leaned her against the car.

 “I think you had too many drinks. I’m afraid you’ve been driving drunk.”

 “No Brady. I am not drunk. I was overserved, is all.”  

 He looked around again, pulled out his phone and called Mr. Marlowe. “That you Brady?”

 “Yes sir, Mr. Marlowe.”

 “Was Maddie overserved again?”

 “She was. Can you come get her?”

 “On my way.”

 Miraculously, Maddie’s Mustang was parked properly between the lines. Brady put Maddie in the passenger’s seat of his cruiser and got in next to her. 

 He wondered if he should ask her out again. He could feel his insides start to shake.