Shut Up and Drive

Don't misunderstand. I love having Betty in the car with me. She's like a little safety net. A belt with suspenders. A Sherpa. She won't have a laugh with me like Joy did when we turned off the highway in AZ and somehow wound up in downtown Tijuana, but she's not bad company in an emergency.


She just has a few bad habits.


I tend to forget that even with all the advances in technology that we take for granted (who doesn't remember driving with their frustrated parents and listening to Dad, who refused to stop to ask for directions, snark at Mom,who was frantically folding and unfolding a huge accordion pleated map of the Canadian provinces trying to find some obscure highway that would lead us away from the Arctic and toward The Falls?) that they are not living, thinking, logical things. They do one thing. And that is to say they do exactly what we tell them to do. If I told Betty to direct me to the third ring of Saturn, she would.

What she won't do is tell me when a new road has been built and there is no longer any need to go near the old road. Or through the tunnel. Or over the bridge.

And what she won't know is when a road is closed. Or a tree is down. Or a bridge has washed out. And so there I'll be, listening to Betty insist that I proceed as directed, sitting at a complete stop with my blinkers on, looking at construction vehicles and a large collection of artfully placed orange pylons, trying to think of how to convince Betty to get moving on that recalculating she's so famous for.

And what she won't do, like a living breathing backseat driver would, is tell me to slow down.

Which is why, weeks later, when the kids and I have long tucked the memories of our trip together into the far recesses of our minds, I am shocked to get a little note from the DC Police.

Evidently, their little electronic sidekick, Radar, picked up on the fact that I was going 46 mph in a 35 mph zone on New York Avenue. (Hello, have you ever driven New York Avenue? Let's just call it what it is and rename it "Cornerstone-Of-Ghetto-Living-And-A-Neighborhood-To-Be-Avoided-And/Or-To-Break-The-Land-Speed-Record-Getting-To-The-Other-Side-Of-At-All-Costs.")

And speaking of costs, since I was going an incredulous ELEVEN miles over the speed limit, in a neighborhood where drivers typically case the place at more reasonable, law-abiding speeds conducive to successful drive-by shootings with high body counts, my fine is inflated to $125. A cab ride from my house to DC would have been more economical.

And my choices are:

1- Admit that I was in flagrant violation of the law and pay the fine at once - quickly, before it doubles while I am hemming and hawing and grousing about it in my blog.

2- Deny any wrongdoing and attend a hearing in my own defense. Which would mean a return trip to DC to appear in court, presumably in the same precinct as the scene of the crime, to sit along side the drive-by shooters all day while justice is served. And note, the violation that was mailed to me has pictures, actual photos, of my car in the act of committing the crime. I am surprised at the quality. I'd expect a little blurriness in photographing anything moving at such neck-breaking speeds.

3- Admit that I was speeding and compose a letter asking for clemency, and if it pleases the court, a reduction in my fine.

I'll take door number 3, Carol Merrill.

I take to my laptop, accustomed to being used for creative pursuits, and compose a sappy single mother lost in an unfamiliar neighborhood panic attack story, ask for forgiveness, and request a break on the outrageous fee. Print, fold, send.

I am sure it will be reduced. I am sure it will be reduced by not much more than the cost of the stamp I just affixed to the pre-addressed envelope.

I am also sure the trip and the memories of my children's joyful faces is worth the cost. Multiplied a thousand times over.