You have the Right to Remain Uncracked

Early on, I was often on the verge of going over the limit, flirting with stepping over the boundaries of the law. I was a 60's envelope pusher. One such early foray ended when mom told me, “for the last time,” I couldn't build an outhouse in our backyard, no matter how badly I wanted one. That really stunk.

However, it didn’t end this rebellious behavior.

One evening, a buddy and I decided to walk around the BIG BLOCK. Being at the extremely mature age of eight or nine we relished this chance to flex our independence.

Unfortunately, there are two sides to an incident such as this. We were being independent, all right, but much too early in our parent’s eyes.

I don't remember what happened to my friend once he got home, but the words from the sermon I received that night are still tattooed in bold print on my fanny. Mom was a pioneer in the psychology of negative reinforcement.

Leaving work one recent afternoon, and being a rut-monger, I saw no need to change my route home. One street I travel is frequented regularly by the police. They love to hide in the bushes and then jump out, pointing glaze-encrusted fingers at speeders they’ve just busted.

On this particular day, a pickup passed me like I was a stump. The officer “taking pictures,” was on him like he thought he was hauling a kilo of fresh donuts. He quickly maneuvered the guy back into the lane where I was. With this interdiction blocking my way, I stopped short, waiting for my chance to go around them.

Au contraire.

The squad-car door opened, the officer leaned out and, after licking it really good, he pointed his finger at me and said, "You might as well pull over too. You were speeding." Flabbergasted, I obeyed.

Approaching me first, I asked him how fast he had clocked me.

“Forty-eight."

My jaw dropped and in total disregard of my brain telling it not to say anything stupid, my mouth spouted off, "I don't think so!"

Visions of prison shower-parties quickly passed through my mind. My eyes, among other things, squinched shut. My mouth forged on: "I’ll give you forty-four, but there’s no way I was doing forty-eight!"

"Well,” he asked, a bit flummoxed, “was that truck passing you?"

Gentle Feeders, I now stood at a moral crossroads. I could either lie, or come clean about the whole affair.

"Yeah, he was passing me." An immediate sense of relief swept over me after offering this nugget of truth.

You’d think the officer would have admired my honesty and bid me adieu, maybe with a friendly, Barney-like wave. Instead he had to find something to ticket me for. Seems his brain had a sugar-induced job description review after I’d discounted his charge of speeding.

Because of this ticket-at-all-cost mentality, I found myself in court.

Was justice served? No. I got off with a warning and probation. Can you believe that? Probation? As the saying goes, “You can’t fight City Hall,” and I knew better than to question a judge’s edict.

Now I’m back on the road attempting to be on my best behavior. If I don’t incur a similar offense within the next six months, the charge will be dropped. Luckily, this didn’t cost me a cent.

I offer up this slice of my life so you can learn from my mistakes. Just say, “No,” to crack. Well, crack-ed windshields, that is. That’s what I was ticketed for.

Hester Prynne couldn’t have been more mortified.

Driving with a cracked windshield is a bad reflection on the local police. It says, “We don’t have enough time to bust you for that single offense, but if we can get you on multiple charges, our time away from the donut shops is well worth it.”

Here’s to Truth, Justice and the American Jelly-filled.


© 2006 Michael Wicinski