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illustration by Jason Stout |
I do remember, though, that I’d offered to buy and I was on a budget. So we decided to drive way south, to the Thai Kitchen, because you can eat like royalty for five bucks a pop there.
Heading for home after our feast, I cringed as I drove the carload of us out onto the I-35 frontage road. (I am now — and forever will be — the queen of surface routes. I hate the highway.) I know better than to drive on the highway because the life I save may be yours. So I scanned around for an alternative to that interstate beast and noticed to my left a very small side street, a possible escape. I also noticed, right in front of my face, one of those road signs featuring the international symbol (prominent red slash) for no left turn. But I quickly decided this no left sign must be in reference to the highway. Like those other signs, it must be announcing: look out, there’s the highway, don’t turn left on it. Surely it can’t refer to this little tiny street, right here in front of me, the one I can turn left on and save myself a highway-induced anxiety attack.
And because my friends agreed, I turned.
Before the blinker even clicked off, I found myself being summoned by the one-finger, come-hither gesture of a cop, just waiting there, posed leaning on his car like some surreal Playgirl Playmate, a hint of a cynical grin the last thing visible before I was blinded by the glare of his mirror sunglasses. A-ha. A trap. A-ha. Yet another ticket about to be written to me — the third time in my life (out of four total tickets) where I perpetrated a violation at 10 mph or below.
So much for saving money.
The Ticket
For a flash, I remembered the old clich� — that girls with big breasts, blonde hair, and tears streaming down their faces manage to get off with warnings rather than tickets. I know that’s an anti-feminist stereotype. But when one is sitting there, contemplating how many hundreds of dollars the bargain lunch is ultimately going to cost, one does sometimes resort to thinking such things.
I even had gone so far as to glance around me and come up with a plan. One of my passengers had blonde hair, the other had big breasts. And surely, out of anger if nothing else, I could muster a tear or two. Nah… it happened too fast. He wouldn’t have fallen for it anyway. I think it has to be one woman, with all three things, if in fact that method works at all.
Instead of crying, and because I have a hint of idiocy left in me from the old days, I decided the best thing to do would to be calm, collected, polite, and explanatory. I sat, waiting for him to waddle over to us. I remembered all the rules about keeping your hands in sight. When he did arrive, and when he did ask, I slowly extracted license and insurance — things that I, the over-cautious driver, would never leave home without.
When, at last, he let me speak, I looked at the ticket, thought about the charge, and quietly disputed him. “It says here, officer, that I disregarded that sign. I just want you to know, I did not disregard that sign. In fact, my friends and I sat and had a consciousness-raising discussion about it. In fact, I think if anything, we maybe bordered on obstructing traffic because in choosing not to disregard the sign, we maybe sat too long on the road discussing it…”
Well, okay, that’s not exactly what I said. But I was straightforward and firm in making it clear his ticket was inaccurate. When I’d finished telling Officer Nosympathywhatsoever my story, his grin got ever-so-discernibly more visible. Perhaps he was happy to have caught a whiner. Perhaps he’d heard it all before. To emphasize his mean streak, he said in a monotone, “Have a nice day.” Now come on, who do you know, Officer, who can just proceed to have a nice day, knowing that 2,000 hours of defensive driving or else increased insurance costs are going to be the price to pay — in addition to the ticket — for one lousy turn at five mph?
And that’s when it hit me. I didn’t need defensive driving. Clearly, I was already defensive. Very.
And my defensiveness increased as I pulled away. I mumbled and grumbled to my sympathetic (and captive) audience, not even able to savor the fact that, at least I had made the turn, at least I didn’t have to drive on the highway. Defensively, I looked around me as I drove along. Everywhere I turned, I saw blatant disregard for the law. There were jaywalkers, prostitutes, and even a guy in the van next to me chugging a can of beer. Geez, I thought defensively, where the hell are the cops for all these thugs? Hmph… they must all be out setting their little traps, leaning their seductive leans, gesturing their come-hither gestures to the unsuspecting, suddenly trapped good guys like me.
Once home, I put in a call to one of my trusty lawyers. My lawyers love me. “Sure, Spike,” they are fond of saying, “Just as soon as we finish your suit against the Vatican for convincing your parents to forego birth control the day you were conceived, thus causing you a lifetime of grief in the form of bad boyfriends, we’ll hop right on your complaint against the APD.”
The Tantrum
Turns out, Esquire was in a very generous mood that day. He agreed to revisit the spot with me, to see if I had a case. As kindly as he could, when he saw what I’d done, he said, “You turned here?” I nodded. “Well, um,” he continued, “I hate to tell you, but they could prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that the sign, coupled with these here double yellow lines, indicates you are guilty.”
“You mean, because it was right in front of my face, I shouldn’t have made the mistake?” I asked slyly, the plot thickening in my head, my mind the victim of too many cop shows.
“That’s what I mean.”
“Okay,” I said, pulling out the ace, “Then what about the fact that the cop who gave me the ticket for not observing the sign right in front of me failed to spell my name correctly despite the fact my driver’s license was right in front of his face!!”
Esquire sighed. “How much is the ticket? Are you broke again?”
I nodded. Esquire pulled out his checkbook and made me a little loan. “Just do me a favor. Go plead `no contest’ and move on with your life.”
This dismayed me, but the only other option was to fight it, lose, and pay court costs and more for insurance. I begrudgingly went to the courthouse and paid. But not before assuring the clerk that, though I was pleading no contest, I was truly innocent. “Oh, I know,” she said, sincerely. “You do?” I asked, incredulous. “Yeah, everyone who comes to see me is. And they all tell me about it.”
The Tack
The powers that be must not have been too worried about my driving — I was given three full months to complete the course. Surely, if they really thought we needed it, they would make us take it right away, wouldn’t they? This made me more defensive still. It’s not about teaching us to drive better, I decided. It’s all about the almighty dollar.
Oh, how my defensiveness grew. Suddenly, everywhere I looked, I saw cops rolling through stop signs, failing to signal, tailgating. I about blew a gasket one day when I walked into my local 7-Eleven and spotted a fully uniformed, apparently on-duty officer of the law, playing scratch-off lotto at the counter, and taking his sweet old time doing it. I wanted to make a citizen’s arrest on the spot, wanted to fine him and force him to take a course in responsible gambling.
Instead, I said nothing, and left. Fully 20 minutes later, having picked up a friend, I returned to the 7-Eleven so she could use the ATM. I kid you not — Officer Lucky was still at it. Scratch, scratch, scratch. At last he emerged as I sat watching, and I heard him utter, � la Schwarzenegger, “I’ll be back.”
And he was. He retrieved his oversized coffee mug from the patrol car, swaggered back in, and filled it up. Did he pay for the coffee? Anybody want to bet? I tightened my grip on the wheel defensively — these are my tax dollars at work?
The three-month deadline began to loom before me, closer, closer. I knew I had to break down and take the defensive driving course. The notices from every driving school in the state of Texas had finally slowed to a trickle — these places must just pay someone to sit down and scour the records looking for offenders — and now I had to pick one.
The Test
Because the life I currently lead is virtually all virtual, I was at least consoled to learn that I wouldn’t have to go to one of these places that insisted on bombarding me with unsolicited invitations that promised to make it fun, to feed me, to water my plants while I took the agonizingly long course. No, I wouldn’t have to sit in a classroom with a bunch of other drivers who probably really did deserve their tickets, I could take the 310-minute course in my home, in my underwear. Yes, that’s right, for those of you unaware, there is an interactive video/computer course for defensive driving.
Cautiously, defensively, I drove over to Ballbuster Video and Censor Shop, and dropped 40 clams and tax on the counter. In exchange, they gave me a caveman’s computer, two videotapes, and a sheet of instructions. I went home, plugged in the computer — it sort of looked like a Seventies Barbie portable black and white TV — and settled in for the long haul.
The way it works is, you sit for an hour and watch the videotape. Then, you turn off the tape, log onto the network, and answer four or five questions to prove you are now a terrific driver, or at least you’re getting there. Then you watch another hour, and so on. Only you have to take 10 minutes between segments and, if you choose to do more than three segments in a row, you have to take an extended lunch break. No way around that — they simply won’t let you back onto the network unless the proper time has elapsed.
The very night prior to me starting the course — which I did over two days — I met a woman who was in the middle of it. She assured me it was painfully easy, to just relax, watch, and answer the stupid questions. This left me feeling confident. Over-confident. And as the videotapes will tell you, overconfidence does not a good defensive driver make.
I wandered around the room, cleaning up, making the bed, listening to segment one with one ear, watching when I felt like it. There were a lot of numbers in that segment, so I actually had to sit down and pay attention more than I wanted to, but I did what was necessary. When it finished, I logged onto the computer and the questions appeared.
I had no idea what any of the answers were. And the answers (and questions) varied from one end of the spectrum to the other. One choice to one question was “casket”. Another was, “60,000”. This quiz went all over the board, and alerted me when I missed. And miss I did. Several times.
Now I panicked. Oh my god — would I fail the test? Then what? I called the 800 number and voiced my concerns. The guys at the other end sounded like they were having a party. Don’t worry, they assured me, sending a wink over the wires, you’ll pass. I wondered out loud if I should take notes. The instructor said, sure, if that would help me.
So for segment two I sat and took 20 pages of scrupulous notes. My cavalier attitude was gone, replaced by the competitive student I once was. At the end of the second hour, I sat down, once again confident, and looked at the questions. Now the answers ranged from Hulk Hogan (really) to c) under three years old. That last one got me. The tape had said, clearly, children two and under had to be in a carseat. But the corresponding question wanted to know, who has to be in a carseat — children under which age. My choices were one, two, or three. I knew I had thirty seconds. I scrunched my face. Well, if I said under two, that wouldn’t include two, would it? But if I said under three, that would mean under two and two, wouldn’t it? So I picked three. bzzzzz. Wrong answer.
I put in another call to the instructors. The new one said — take notes? Au contraire. Just watch it. You don’t have time to use your notes anyway. Now I was really panicking. Maybe I should just surrender my license now. How could I face my friends and future grandchildren knowing I failed the easiest quizzes on earth?
The Trial
Segments three, four, and five went fairly well. And then it was time for the final quiz. An overview. Egads. This counted, I think, more than any other portion. I tried as hard as I could. Still, I missed questions. When finally it was over, I knew the only way to find my score was to publicly ask for it over at BallBuster.
So I loaded the Barbie TV/computer in the car. As I did, I realized just how effective the tapes had been. I realized I really should put it in the trunk. After all, people are killed all the time when, during a crash, some loose object flies forward and hits them in the head. I’d seen it happen about 50,000 times to crash test dummies. I just imagined myself being rendered lifeless by a hurtling defensive driving computer terminal as I ran into a phone pole on the way to return it. Oh wouldn’t that make a lovely, ironic headline.
As I drove, my hands were in the 10 o’clock and two o’clock position, and I drove the speed limit the entire way. And you know why? Because that’s how I always drive — even before I watched the stupid, mind-numbing tapes. But now, beyond that, the male announcers’ voices (there was not one single female authoritarian voice in the whole series. Figures…) kept popping in my head. Was there a two-second safety cushion between me and the cars in front, behind, and on both sides of me? Was I scanning everywhere for everything?
I spent so much time concentrating on being my most defensive yet, I nearly got in 10 wrecks on the way over. Not to mention, some prankster must’ve known I was on the way and decided to set up all sorts of obstacles — the entire trip there resembled a very bad driving video, where kids on big wheels materialize out of thin air and head straight for your tires, balls bounce across the street followed by careless 10-year-olds, and no one seems to have working brake lights or turn signals but you.
Sweating profusely, I entered Ballbuster, and stated that I needed to know my score, gearing up for the public humiliation of having a 20-year-old minimum-wager laugh hysterically knowing another yuppie (to them, anyone over 30 and on the other side of the counter gets categorized as such) had failed a test for idiots.
I waited as they phoned headquarters. Uh-huh, said the kid at my end. Then he hung up. “Well,” I asked. “Did I pass?”
He looked at me funny. “Well, yeah. You got a hundred.”
I did not take this news smugly. I tried to show no emotion whatsoever. I knew I had gotten several questions wrong. I thought maybe they had a system where you could miss a couple even. But a hundred? A perfect score? Surely, there was an error somewhere.
I thanked the young man politely. I exited the store and, except for nearly smashing into the support beam of a billboard in the parking lot as I backed out, I drove home very well. And very defensively indeed. “See,” I said, to the loop of the cop in my head, gesturing, gesturing. “I told you I could drive. Now about your spelling….”
This article appears in April 25 • 1997 and April 25 • 1997 (Cover).