Last year was The Year My Son, Travis, Made Funky Designs in The Little Circles on His Basic Skills Tests.

Since I have something to say about the event that caused this year’s title, I guess I will have to publicly admit that this year will be marked as The Year of the Ticket.

To assist the insurance companies – and yeah, yeah, keep us all safer – we have an entire group of people (the Iowa Highway Patrol) whose exclusive duty seems to be to save us all from the perniciousness of excessive highway speed.

And since even the most righteous and law-abiding of us are still merely human and capable of error, the odds are good that most of us are at risk of being stopped by a patrolman – oops, sorry – patrolperson, sometime in our lives.

Aw, the heck with that politically correct you-know-what. How many highway patrolwomen have you seen? Gender equality is sparse on the highways of Iowa law enforcement. So it is most likely to be a patrolman.

Now since this is a respected official, not to mention a deliberately intimidating official, I think most of us try to be polite. It’s not a fun experience, not pleasant, not on your schedule; there are a lot of things it’s not.

But we’re the ones getting pulled over so what is he so cranky about? I think it’s also worth noting that this officer gets paid to do this. When was the last time anybody got paid to get a ticket?

I know the money collected in this way goes to specific areas of our system for purposes we would otherwise have to cover with tax money. But I want more bang for my buck, don’t you? After all, think about what we will endure to get to pay this money.

Even before you ‘volunteer’ to have your name run through ALL of the FBI’s bomber and anti-terrorists files, he takes control.

He puts his bumper six inches behind yours and, with red lights flashing, follows you until you pull over and stop. I am really not sure why he uses the tailgating technique.

Perhaps he does this so you can’t get away unexpectedly – you know, defy the laws of physics and stop doing between sixty and seventy-something in a fifty-five – instantaneously – then suddenly speed past him in reverse.

Or perhaps the tailgating is used so you aren’t confused about whether or not he means you.

I really have to wonder if that has ever worked for anyone. Don’t we all think that he can’t possibly mean us; that he just wants us to get out of the way? Don’t we also think that he’s going to send us Up the River, to the Bighouse, to SingSing?

And we manage to think both of these thoughts at exactly the same moment, which sounds pretty confusing to me, so I don’t think that concept works too well.

Getting back to control, though… He then blinds you with a spotlight (also used on Saturdays by local airports to bring planes in), so he can see your every move while he gets out of his car.

As he approaches the car he uses yet another searchlight to determine if there are any items in the car he needs to know about immediately for his safety (and to look for cause to strip-search your car).

Items he needs to look for are things like alcoholic containers, open or otherwise, deadly attack animals, contraband drugs and the like, stolen merchandise or stolen babies (although that’s got to be a tough one if the babies don’t still have the store tags on them).

And last, but not least, there are the people who leave AK-47 sub-machine guns lying around in their back seats.

Now if any of this is occurring during daylight hours you will not endure the spotlight technique, but whether day or night, he will have done all he can to establish control of the situation.

Unfortunately, because of the scariness of the world anymore, this is truly how it should and must be. But the point is that he has established control and has determined that:

The children must be mine (probably because they obviously aren’t in any way afraid of me, and continue to yell, bicker, and pull hair). There just might be crack-cocaine in the Tide box, but he can’t be sure (yet).

The can of Coca-Cola on the dash may be spiked with vodka, but the bottle isn’t sticking out from under a seat, and he can’t search the glove-box yet. And last, but again not least, I cannot possibly reach my AK-47 from the front seat.

I realize I am the alleged lawbreaker, but here’s what I want anyway. I want him to put away that urge – desire, need, longing, fear, or whatever – put away that urge to go for the butt of his gun, just for a second, and then bend just a little and simply say:

“Good afternoon (morning, evening, etc.), ma’am.” (Yes, I’d even put up with the “ma’am” for this), and just to be really pushy, how about he says it with a smile!

Where are those good old boys from C.H.I.P.S. (remember Ponch and Jon?) when you need them?

Of course, I only say that ‘cuz I could’ve outrun them in my ’83 Chevy Caprice Griswold-family wagon.

Thought for the day: I’m as pure as the driven slush. – Talullah Bankhead.

---

Audrae Jones is a senior in English from Clear Lake.