I have an immaculate driving record. I've never had a speeding ticket, an accident, or even a warning. The only blemish on such a virginal slate is a parking ticket I got in Santa Cruz, and that was my MOM'S fault (they sure were serious when they said "expired meters are subject to ticketing." Damn.) However, I have been pulled over three times. I thought it was time for an account of how a person can get pulled over thrice, yet boast not even a warning.
The first time the multi-colored cherries enraptured my rear window was when I was 16. I was driving a '92 Maroon Chevrolet Lumina. This vehicle encompassed the essence of "fine craftsmanship." The grill was gone (courtesy of the time my mom played chicken with a pheasant who chose to roost on the road.) The windshield had an obtrusive, jagged crack across its middle. One taillight was uncovered, showing only a bare lightbulb in place of the red tint. The blinkers worked, but only when I "blinked" them manually. The passenger side mirror was undoubtably causing someone somewhere seven years of bad luck. I also vividly recall a brief time in which the rearview mirror detached entirely and swung drunkenly back and forth with the motion of the car, secured to the ceiling by the cord that powered its dim lights. I could go on, but I believe I have painted an adequate picture of the sophistication of my vehicle.
I was driving home and had nearly reached my destination. I lived 15 minutes away. Away from what? Anything. No matter where you were in the area, it seemed like it was a perpetual 15 minute drive to get home. Therefore, when I began being tailed by a police officer, I was on an unlit country road, surrounded by fields, woods, and probably bears, ghosts, velociraptors... you name it. I would have preferred one of these aforementioned terrors to a policeman!
As it turns out, the remoteness of the locale had come to the attention of drug users in the area. They were allegedly using an abandoned telephone box as a drop box to exchange drugs for money; a scheme with its pros and cons, but innovative nonetheless. The cops got wind of this and were pulling over vehicles that seemed to be slowing down near this abandoned telephone box. The offending box happened to be just beyond an intersection where I had to make a turn, thus my delinquent deceleration. The policeman was very nice, and after looking at the address on my license he immediately knew I was just a kid going home to my mommy and daddy. I was sent on my way, needlessly terrified, with an order to "think about covering up that taillight." He also told me that I WOULD get pulled over again for the same reason, he was sorry in advance, and to not be scared.
That was how I got pulled over a second time in two nights, in the same spot. The second time was less eventful, having foreseen its occurrence. In fact, I later boasted to my friends that "I was pulled over twice because the cops thought I was a drug dealer!!" As I became older and wiser, I began to understand that drug dealers don't generally drive '92 Luminas with all of the cosmetic features that mine boasted. It was more likely that the cops pulled me over because, based on my car, they thought that I was the drug addict, rather than the supplier. However, most other 16 year olds were similarly disillusioned, and so my story got me some serious street cred.
The third time I got pulled over was when I was 18 and a freshman in college. For some reason, one of my friends had a car for the weekend!! OMG FREEDOMMMMM!!!! Granted, it was a white van belonging to the girl's mother, but it still had seats and a steering wheel! We decided the only thing to do was to use it to procure an abundant supply of alcohol.* Lacking transportation (or valid IDs), our attempts to obtain liquor were usually thwarted, but not tonight! A 21 year old boy was rounded up in no time. I had an advanced math class with him, and he thought that I was Quite Something. Falling for my nerdtastic (and totally insincere) advances, he agreed to ride with us in the van down to the liquor store and be of Assistance. Success!
However, Friday evening rolled around and as I had been the only one studying (responsibility, thy name is Betsy), I was also the only remaining sober one. It fell upon me navigate the monstrous white van, the boy, and half a dozen friends (girls can't do anything alone...) a mile down the brutal hill to the liquor store. Halfway down the hill, horror of horrors! Whirring sirens and lights offended my senses!!
Now, we weren't really doing anything wrong at this point. But we had the intention of doing something wrong, causing me to lose all of my composure. As a policeman approached the car, my friends erupted into hilarity. I heartily embrace schadenfreude; I hope the word is engraved on my tomb. However, I suppose karma declared it was about time that misfortune turned itself upon me. The cop shined his flashlight into my face through the window. I'm certain the whites of my eyes blinded him, so great was my hysterical terror. No doubt he thought I must have been doing something REALLY BAD to be so shaken up.
He motioned for me to roll down the window, a task that I been attempting for the past 30 seconds. The white van was unfamiliar to me, however, and I couldn't do anything other than repeatedly lock and unlock the doors! I was desperate to prove to him that I wanted to follow his orders and that I was a good, upstanding citizen. The knowledge that in 20 minutes I was planning on NOT being such a law-abiding young woman only made my desperation more pronounced. In an effort to follow his orders, I flung the door open.
Now, this policeman had just pulled over a white van with tinted windows. It was full of giggling hoodlums, and piloted by a girl who appeared to be in the final stages of a mental breakdown. The driver had apparently refused to roll down the window when so ordered, even locking the door instead! This was a certain sign of instability and recklessness. So when the driver's door abruptly flew open, I can't blame the poor, small-town police officer for jumping back and reaching for his firearm!
I moaned something like this: "ohjeezisosorrynotmycaranddarkoutandcantfiggerhowtorollwindows!" The cop, bless him, reevaluated the situation and saw what was going on. He asked where we were going ("The Grocery Store!") and politely informed me that my headlights were not on. The godforsaken white van had fog lights... something my grandiose Lumina certainly hadn't featured. I had successfully powered on the fog lights, but neglected to turn on the headlights. We discussed this through the open door, and he told us to turn on the lights and go about our business. He turned away, but before I could close the door, he abruptly returned.
"Oh, one more thing," he said. He stuck his hand into the car, and firmly pressed the button to roll down the window. It was large and colored and in plain sight. He obviously found the fact that it had eluded me to be very funny. "There you go," he said, unable to resist having the last word. "Have a nice night."
And that's the end of my tale of lawlessness, unless I want to get into Accounts of What Betsy Did While Living in Eastern Europe. However, I think perhaps there would be too many asterisks and addenda, so I will leave that to imagination.
*Mom, this is a COMPLETE fabrication. I promise I was actually embroidering a chastity belt and in bed by 10:00.
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