Two Tickets To Not Paradise, Exactly…

As the Beatles once said… “Baby, you can drive my car.”

It wasn’t until I was almost 18 that I got my driver’s license. To those of you who were unaware, you can thank my parents’ uncommon approach to a split generation pair of only children for this particular blessing.

I remember looking for cars as soon I was notified that this was even a possibility. Like so many that came before, I wanted a sports car.

Let’s be honest. None of us are looking at the classiest of all minivans. (Although… my friend Tom did have a van large enough to have a window with actual working blinds, ladies.)

The car that I had set my sights on was a 1982 Corvette Stingray.

Red, black, white. Color was not an issue. As long as I could be seen cutting through traffic with that sweet, sweet molded fiberglass body. The amazing part of this was how little money this was going to set my parents back.

These beauts only cost about six-grand. A steal in any decade. But especially those where ads on the TV would have gigantic numbers tumbling from the sky declaring that the newest model of this and that was still under 10K MSRP. Whatever those letters meant…

So… My parents did what any other caring family member would do.

They called a family member in Walterboro, South Carolina, and spent about a thousand dollars on a 1988 Subaru station wagon. Truly, the envy of every high school student this side of the Ashley.

I did not love this car.

But it had wheels. And seats. And ran. And a lot of other basic things.

Let me restate. I did not love this car… immediately.

I slapped on a dark grey bat decal on the tailgate and so it became: THE BATMOBILE.

CUT TO:

College – a couple years later. While I would eventually end up at the College of Charleston (Go, Cougars!), I spent the first half of the first year of the new millennium at Newberry College.

It probably was a wonderful school with wonderful teachers and a wonderful campus… But it wasn’t home. I decided that I was going to drive home. Every. Weekend.

And, I did for many of those months.

It took a little over two hours from point A to Point B. But…

I found that speed limits were just a suggestion. Only 65 miles an hour? I can’t drive 65. 85… 90… maybe 95? That’s more like it.

I was making the sojourn back to Charleston after my 9 AM Friday psychology course and from my rear window… Red. Blue. Red. Blue. So on and so forth. I was only a few minutes out of Newberry and there was a cop tailing me.

This was the first time I had ever gotten pulled.

Sure, I had heard stories from my pretty blonde girlfriends that the police were so nice. Just be polite. Hands on the wheel. Have all the information they ask for. You’ll be rewarded with a simple warning. How could this logic ever not work?

Did I mention this was my first time getting pulled?

“License and registration.”

“Um… Okay.”

While I’m getting said documentation, “Do you know how fast you were going?”

“Um… No. Sorry, sir. OFFICER! Officer, sir. No…”

He takes the information. “Stay in the vehicle.”

My mind is reeling. Keep it cool, man. This is your first time. Like everyone says. You’ll just get a warning.

“Here you are.” I had won a ticket for $150 bucks and a coupla points.

“Thank you?”

“Slow down, you hear?”

And it was over. Or so I thought.

I still had to break the news to my parents.

There were words had. Declarations made. All of that’s a blur, honestly. What isn’t was leaving Charleston just 48 hours later. I was pulled again. Again, for speeding. Again, a ticket. No warning.

I was becoming a seasoned pro at this. Who needs ten thousand hours, amirite?

The second violation was dropped, thankfully. Knowing people in your hometown might be rare but also can help you get out of having to own your stupidity from time to time.

FLASH FORWARD:

A few weeks later, I’m with my dad at the Newberry Court House. I stood in front of a judge and pled guilty to the charges. The judge and officer were kind enough to shave a little bit off the top of the fine and points. But I was still in for a good chunk of change.

Running into the officer while paying the fine, he advised my father that he didn’t love pulling me over. And he might not have… had I not passed his clearly marked vehicle going 15 miles over the speed limit.

The moral of this story? If you’re going to break the law – check the plates or at least the side of the car. You might be doing something naughty in front of someone who has the power to arrest you.

Or just don’t break the law in the first place. That’s probably a better takeaway.

I have been pulled about twenty times over the last twenty-plus years… But there really is nothing like your first. I’ve slowed down in my slightly advanced years. Yet, I still feel the need for speed from time to time and must remind myself to pull off the accelerator, lest we repeat the sins of our youth.

And from time to time, I flick on the radio and hear those Fab Four.

“Baby, you can drive my car. And maybe? [Just maybe,] I’ll love you.”

~ Brandon L. Joyner