Caught red-handed? Hell’s bells and buckets of blood

Despite what my driver’s ed instructor may have thought, I think I’m a pretty good driver.

Ever vigilant of those around me. Not inclined to speed (at least anymore). And just one accident to my name.

In fact, I can probably count on two hands the number of times I’ve even been stopped by police over the years. And that’s in some 50 years of driving, including such traffic-harried places as Chicago, Washington, D.C., and Orange County, Calif.

So with that background, I set off for North Vernon for a holly, jolly Christmas with daughter and grandkids.

Somewhere south of Indianapolis, I reached for something under the front seat, realizing when I did that I caught the edge of the Band-aid I’d worn on the back of my left hand for a week or more and yanked it off. What I didn’t realize immediately was that yanking the bandage off also reopened the wound on the back of my hand. It had taken a while to scab over, you see, what with mass quantities of blood thinners coursing through my veins.

By the time I realized what had happened, blood was running down my fingers, dripping onto the carpet and running down the door panel. Yep, I was bleeding like the proverbial stuck pig.

The old bandage was now useless, so I grabbed any and all napkins and tissues from the console, hoping to stop the bleeding before I wheeled into North Vernon for my holiday visit.

Chalking it up to “You can’t make these things up,” Part 739, I chuckled to myself at the predicament I’d again put myself in.

Surveying the Jeep interior, I thought, “I sure hope I don’t get pulled over, it looks like a crime scene in here.”

Before I could ponder what luminol and a black light might reveal in the Jeep’s interior, I passed a Bartholomew County deputy sitting in the median of U.S. 31. Thankfully, I knew I wasn’t speeding when I passed him because the guy behind me had just zipped past me.

And I didn’t even realize the deputy had pulled out until I saw his car swing in behind me. Moments later his flashing lights came on and he was pulling me over. Yikes! Like a shark, he must have smelled blood in the water.

Quickly I ran through a list of what this might be. Wasn’t speeding. Used turn signal to change lanes. Registration is current. I was at a loss.

Looking back I saw he was getting out of his car, and I started to inch down the driver’s side window, not wanting to reveal the bloody mess below it. Not that I’d done anything wrong, I just didn’t want to explain the pint of blood that was now pooling up on the driver’s side arm rest.

But he faked me out and went to the passenger’s side. Of course, safety first along the highway, what was I thinking?

“You know why I stopped you?” asked the deputy, cordial yet conversational, putting me at ease -- at least as much ease as I could muster, feeling like Col. Mustard in the Jeep Commander with an ax.

Saying I didn’t have a clue, the deputy advised that I had no brake lights, something I was unaware of, especially since I’d just recently had my car in for an oil change. Sometimes the brakelights would work, sometimes one would come on, sometimes neither would, he casually reported. (Turns out it was a fuse I found out Friday morning when Don’s Garage fixed it for $10).

In almost ho-hum fashion, the deputy asked for my driver’s license, which unfortunately was in my wallet, zipped tightly into the left pocket of my sweatpants. As I struggled to unzip the pocket and keep the bleeding at bay, the deputy kindly offered, “Is the car registered to you? I can get the info off the plate.”

Yes, yes, get the info off the plate, please.

When he came back and politely offered me a written warning, even sharply folding it for me, I knew I had avoided America’s Most Wanted.

He handed me the paper and calmly went back to his squad car.

I looked at the paper he’d given me -- but only long enough to notice the bloody fingerprint I’d left behind.

I quickly stashed that paper between the seats, put the Jeep in gear, activated my turn signal and eased back onto U.S. 31 ... one eye on the road and one eye on the rear-view mirror.

What a bloody mess ...