Baby, You Can Drive My Car

Seriously, I’d rather anyone be behind the wheel than me. Not only do I hate the activity of driving with a planet consuming passion, it’s also not to be found in my skill set closet, (understatement alert!). Mind you, I don’t blow monstrous Mount Fuji sized chunks but it’s a near thing.

Given my driving challenged nature, you’d think I’d have been pulled over for moving violations far more than a piffling 4 times in the 37 years since I first got my license.

Let me preface this next bit -- I’ve always been scared near poopless of the police. I suspect it’s due to never actually having known any cops on a personal level combined with watching the news throughout the ‘60s. The men in blue, the visible ones, weren’t exactly shining examples of peace, love and understanding. OK and they carry weapons. To my mind there’s a fine membrane between carrying and using.

The first time I was pulled over, I was headed to Hoosick Falls, NY. One weekend a month I made the trip up to visit with my Aunt Mary Ann and help her care for her father, my Grandfather. It was a hard visit -- hard to see Grandpa so frail, so desperately ancient and difficult to see Mary Ann so worried, frightened and exhausted. I wanted to be cheerful and a take charge Wonder Woman for them both.

It was early on a Friday morning westward bound on the Mass Turnpike -- out in the Berkshires. I saw the flashing blue lights and fear, all of a sudden, replaced every drop of blood in my veins. Yeah, there was some irrational shit going on in my head but I was stressed and anxious about the weekend even before having my VERY FIRST COP STOP EVAH!

I rolled down the window, he said hello and I exploded in sobs. No, honest. The poor guy ends up talking with me for a while about my worries about Grandpa and Mary Ann, my deep sadness and then made recommendations (“just sit here for a bit and do some deep breathing before you get back on the road”).

And I got a warning. Really nice, warm guy!

The second time, more than fifteen years later, was just up the road from where I live now. A very gruff officer scolded me, seemed not to believe that I didn’t see his flashing lights but again, just a warning, no ticket. No tears that time either -- Yea me!

The third time was the first time while deaf. You know, when the hearing first tanked, a lot of folks asked me if it was legal for deafies to drive. While I couldn’t see why not I did Google it and found a very helpful, interesting and even funny (on this anyway) men in blue discussion.

I’d blown through a light on Comm. Ave in the Back Bay (hey it looked yellow, recently yellow anyway, to me). Instead of doing what you’re supposed to do, remaining in your seat and rolling down the window, I panicked -- leapt out of the car, ran towards the very large policeman, with my hands to my face saying “oh no, oh no, I totally blew that light. I’m sorry! Oh and I’m deaf so please, when you talk, speak slowly and you might need to write stuff down. ”  Poor guy. He calms me down, asks for my license and registration -- which sets me on another panic because, in my messy Volvo wagon, I could NOT find my current registration. “But I SO paid that bill, sir -- I have a cancelled check at home and everything!”  Yeah, again he calms me down, checks his car computer (TOO cool -- like TV!), assures me that yes it’s paid but I should find it, etc.

And I got a warning. Very, patient calm guy.

The last time, speeding on Sea Street here in Quincy, the very, sweet, nice young man (when did they all get so damned young?) was NOT subjected to panic attacks or torrents of sobbing. Nope, I just went through the “Hi I’m deaf, speak slowly please. Here, I’ve got a pen and paper if you want to write something down for me. Please don’t mind that I talk with my hands and I’ll shut up anytime now. Honest!”

He laughed, we chatted a bit and, yup, another warning. Really sweet kid. I wanted to fix him up with one of my young single friends.

Now, by no means am I saying, implying, advertising or lobbying for a ticket -- no, no, nein, NYET!  I do feel as though I’m, not cheating so much as, getting out of a bad situation (one of my own making) with a smile and stunningly, spectacular doofusosity. You know, sort of like the slapstick, Lucille Ball version of my gorgeous friend Joan getting all her drinks comped at the Ritz.

I don’t seem to recall ever feeling even a smidgen of guilt. Now that I think of it. I believe there’s a lesson in there for me.