Number 15 - Made to be Broken

The following story may or not be based on actual incidents that may or may not have occurred to people that may or may or may not exist.  It could also be a figment of my imagination, a story someone related to me a long time ago or something I dreamed after chasing two dozen oysters with as many bottles of beer that would fit in the silver bucket full of ice the waitress slammed on the table at Big Daddy’s a couple of nights ago.

Just know this: Fiction is sometimes stranger than the truth.

Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s talk law and order.  On second thought, law and disorder is probably a better way of putting it.

First, a brief history lesson about Johnny Law and I is needed.  I’ve been issued seven speeding tickets in my life: The first was in 1973.  I drove off campus (I was a senior in high school at the time) for lunch and on my way back I was pulled over for driving 10 miles over the speed limit (35 MPH in a 25 MPH residential area).  My fine was $25, quite a bit to pay for a Huskee Junior and a vanilla shake at the time.  My last speeding ticket was in 1985.  I was on my way to get a haircut when Power Station’s Some Like it Hot, my favorite song at the time came on the radio.  I drove around the block just so I could listen to the entire song.  Big mistake: Once the sounds of the bass came blaring through the speakers my right foot uncontrollably got heavier and heavier, resulting in flashing blue lights and a $75 fine for speeding.  In between there were five others, but the sum total of all of my fines is still less than the $750 ‘super speeder’ ticket a buddy of mine received for doing 30 miles over the speed limit on the I-285 perimeter around Atlanta.  (If you’ve never driven on I-285, you should know that driving 30 miles over the speed limit barely keeps up with the regular flow of traffic.  Except during rush hour, when you’re lucky to be able to drive as fast as 30 miles per hour under the speed limit.)   

My other encounters with the Men in Blue:

I was involved in an accident—totally my fault as I ran a red light and smashed into another vehicle—and was issued a citation for ‘Failure to Yield.’  A more suitable citation would have been for ‘Flying too Low’ or possibly ‘DWNBDS’ (Driving With No Business Doing So; I trust you can do the math): Believe me: It coulda/woulda/probably shoulda have been a WHOLE lot worse than simply ‘failure to yield.’

I was also issued a citation for ‘Failure to Move Over.’  I won’t go into detail—it’s been well documented in another book and I don’t need to go into any more detail about the incompetency of the judicial system of the sh*thole of a town where it occurred (but if you’re interested pick up a copy of Distance Memories).  Let me just say I doubt I’ll ever be sworn in as Mayor of Tyrone, Georgia anytime soon.  

Then there was that nasty incident in Albany, Georgia several years ago (also documented in Distance Memories—tell the truth: NOW you want a copy, don’t you?) where I was the recipient of a failed citizen’s arrest.  Long story short: Fast marathon + hot day + running shorts drenched in perspiration + not-quite-quick-enough change into dry clothes +public parking lot + local redneck looking for trouble = allegations of indecent exposure.

Now back to the original story.

Sum total: I’ve been issued nine citations in my lifetime up until now.  All were unintentional in the vein that I wasn’t trying to get a ticket although I will admit to speeding on all seven occasions and (wink wink) failing to yield; I will NOT admit to failing to move over (sorry, but you’ll have to read about it in Distance Memories).

This made me wonder if I had it in me to intentionally get a citation.  If I were to knowingly break a law, regulation or rule.  After all, aren’t rules made to be broken?  What’s the worst that could happen?  A fine?   Incarceration?  A criminal record?  Didn’t I have anything better to do with my time?  So many questions; it was time to look for some answers.

Before you get all nervous and excited there are two things you need to know:

(1) I am the most law-abiding person you might ever meet.  I use my turn signal to turn into my driveway; I live on a cul de sac.  If I’m driving I won’t take a sip of your incredibly delicious and delightful I-can-almost-taste-it-in-my-mouth home brewed wheat beer if I’m driving—even if your house is a couple of football fields away from mine and we just so happen to live in the same subdivision.  So yeah: I follow the rules.  

(2) You need to know which ‘laws’ I wanted to test.  There happen to be two obscure laws in Georgia (actually, there are a whole lot more than that.  Many more, actually. but I narrowed it down to these two) that I would bet my last dollar a policeman wouldn’t recognize if it walked up to him, dropped its pants and pooped on his shoes:

·      No one may carry an ice cream cone in their back pocket if it is Sunday.

·      It is illegal to say ‘Oh Boy’ in Jonesboro.

You can probably imagine in which town I decided to throw all caution to the wind, right?  Besides, out of curiosity I wanted to find out if the police were even aware of these two laws.  If I was a betting man…

So I headed off to Jonesboro one Saturday morning wearing the loosest pair of pants I could find, knowing I would be putting an ice cream cone in the back pocket at some point.  I found a place that sold ice cream cones and sat in the parking lot before realizing the chances of finding a policeman were pretty slim since I hadn’t seen one in over 30 minutes and there wasn’t a doughnut shop anywhere in sight.  I drove to another shopping mall and hit pay dirt: Ice cream cones for sale and a 24-hour doughnut shop right around the corner…with two police cruisers parked right outside.  I bought myself an ice cream cone, took a few bites and waited patiently until I saw the two policemen get up from their table inside the doughnut shop and head to the cash register.  I carefully slid the cone and its remaining vanilla ice cream inside into my back pocket and headed towards the vicinity of their vehicles in nervous anticipation of getting their attention.

It worked.  They both gave me a double take as I walked in front of them.  The one with the doughnut powder on his chin elbowed the other (holding a bag of doughnut holes under his arm) and said to me: ‘Hey, do you know you have an ice cream cone in your back pocket?’

To which I replied (wait for it…): ‘What are you going to do; arrest me?’

(It doesn’t get much better than this, people!)

Then this from doughnut hole holder: ‘Are you being a smart ass, boy?’

He had no idea how close I was to having just cause for a citizen’s arrest of my own. 

But I didn’t want to push my luck.  After all, they were letting me slide on that ice cream cone caper I was pulling off—whether they knew it or not.  

Believe it…or not.