A Boring Scene

Extra points for whoever can tell me which author I was theoretically imitating...

The road from St. Catherine’s church back to Stanley was bordered by short, scrawny, stunted trees and little else. Due to the fact that both Stanley and the St. Catherine’s congregation were entirely made up of elderly people, a commute on a Sunday afternoon was not only scenically boring, but also very long. There was one point where you could see a fantastic landscape if you happened to drive by at sunset. But usually, it isn’t sunset.
“Calm down, honey,” said the woman in the passenger’s seat of the car. Her voice was soft and feminine; very soothing, like lotion on a sunburn, unless the sunburn is really bad.
“Just shut up and let me drive. I hate it when you try and tell me—Hey! Come on, the speed limit isn’t 25!” He struck the steering wheel with an aged but still strong hand. “I can’t stand driving this road every week when it takes twice as long as it should!”
“Why don’t you just try to enjoy the drive?”
“Enjoy that?” and he gestured at the landscape—some brownish grass and an eternal flatness. “People go on and on about how they love driving and they take road trips just to see the scenery. And they write poems about the flowers and the sky and the sunshine. Well all I can say is that they’ve never been to Stanley.” And he jammed his foot onto the gas pedal.
“Oh be careful! This isn’t a passing lane!”
“Don’t care. I’m not going to stand this another second!” He swerved the car out across the double yellow lines and accelerated past four other vehicles. A smile came to his face for the first time as he rolled down the windows. “Now this is what I’m talking about!” Faster and faster as he exulted in the speed that he’d never grown out of loving.
His wife resigned herself to their excessive speed and, eyes closed, her lips moved in a silent prayer. She didn’t see the black state police car coming towards them until she heard the siren. Then she saw the flashing lights and the policeman bearing down on them.
“You have to pull over.”
“Fine.” He jerked the car over to the shoulder and stopped abruptly. The cop stopped behind them and approached the car.
“Do you know how fast you were going?”
“What do you think?”
“You were making about 85. That’s 35 miles per hour over the posted limit. I’m going to need to see your license and registration.”
“Fine. Nancy, pull the stuff out of the glove box.”
“Frank Merdon?” checked the policeman as he examined the license.
“Yeah, that’s my name.”
“Birthday is—well look at that, it’s today. Happy Birthday to you,” and the policeman smiled as he said it.
“What do you care?” Frank snapped back. He stuck out his chin and crossed his arms.
“I’ll just be a minute,” said the policeman pleasantly as he walked back toward his car. Frank humphed and sunk further into his seat glowering.
Nancy looked over at her husband. She remembered the days when he wasn’t like this. In fact, he had once wanted to be a policeman. His record was perfect, he was athletic and strong and passionate about law enforcement. So, so long ago. She remembered when they were first together—they were so young!—and Frank used to wake up in the middle of the night laughing and he would tell her about his dreams for the future, a future he never had. She wished that for one moment he would remember what it was like to feel that way. To feel a respect for men and a profession like that. The kind of respect that she felt now for the policeman who was so calmly dealing with her husband’s rudeness and who was still making an attempt at friendliness instead of returning anger for anger. A soft sigh escaped her lips. Who could bring back youth when it was gone? What is more crushing to an alive and vigorous man than a long life as a one-eyed garage-door salesman?