“Give Him a Ticket!”

       “Give him a ticket!  Give him a ticket!” 

     It had become a chant, like pep clubs of old used to do, back in the olden times when there were such things as pep clubs, when girls were considered too fragile to participate in sports.  Boy!  Have we learned something about girls in the new days.

       It was another football game, this time in Oberlin.  There was a long string of cars ahead of us, all headed to the football game.  Traffic was slow because of road construction.

     While there was no work going on at six in the evening, there was the result of many days of work.  The eastbound lane was nearly completely repaved, smooth sailing, while the westbound lane had been stripped nearly bare of the old pavement.  There was probably a five or six inch drop off from the eastbound lane to the westbound lane.

     The sirens, the ones who tempted Odysseus, not the fire engines, were warming up in Bill’s ears.  When we topped a hill and could see the long line of traffic poking along ahead of us, maybe forty-five miles an hour, and we could also see a completely empty westbound lane, a rather rough westbound lane some six inches below the eastbound lane, the siren song went fortissimo in Bill’s head.

       He couldn’t help himself.  He must pass as many cars as he could before we started back up the incline from the valley we would soon be in.  We were in a smaller car, a bright yellow one, maybe a Horizon, but certainly a Dodge of some kind. 

     Bill pulled off the eastbound lane onto the westbound lane.  Three of the four of us tensed as the little car sashayed while transitioning uneven lanes.  Then we were rattling along the rough road. 

     Bill sped up and we passed quite a few cars before we started back up hill and he felt the need to get back over into the eastbound lane. Bill suddenly realized that dropping off the uneven lanes was one thing.  Climbing back up to the higher lane in the small car was quite another.    

     He slowed and prepared to head into the left ditch if a westbound truck should appear over the crest of the hill.  The cars we had just passed began passing us.  We were at the mercy of some driver who would slow enough for Bill to safely climb back into the right lane.

      We were nearing the crest of the hill when we saw him, sitting at the top of a hill on a little pathway from the highway to some farmer’s pasture.  The state patrolman had his car pointed south so he could observe traffic  headed both east and west.

     The other drivers saw him too and slowed enough for Bill to safely mount the new pavement and back into the line of cars.  Bill knew not to go far.  He pulled over when we came to the next crossroad, which was not far at all.

      The traffic flowed past us, and sure enough, the patrol car, roof-mounted red lights flashing, pulled out of the line of cars and in behind us.  Bill rolled down his window as the patrolman approached.

     He didn’t get to say a word before someone, Jeanie? Said, “Give him a ticket!”  The backseat passengers chipped in and it soon was a chant.  “Give him a ticket!”

     Having had our say, we quieted down and let the cop have his say.  “Do you know how dangerous that was?” etc. etc.

      “Give him a ticket,” got thrown in whenever there was a pause in the lecture. 

     I said, “His son is driving one of those cars we passed.  If  he gets home and finds out his dad didn’t get a ticket for doing what he did, it will set a very bad example for the boy.”

     Part of the problem was that the cop knew Bill.  The cop had been to a Lions meeting recently.  He spoke about safety, of course, and also about his experience as a highway patrolman.   When his presentation was over, he asked for questions.  There were a few.

     Somebody asked about embarrassing moments while on duty.  This was back in the day when Lions clubs were still all male.  The cop laughed a little, then decided to confide in us.

     He told about the little red sports car doing ninety.  He managed to catch up to it and stop it.  When he approached the car, the roof of which was about waist high to him, a window rolled down and he caught sight of a mini skirt a little more than thigh high in the bucket seat.

     “Where’s the fire, Lady?”  He used the old line.

    “I’m sttin’ on it.  Are you man enough to put it out?” was the reply.

     The cop blushed as he recounted his experience.     

     Don’t tell me that reverse psychology doesn’t work.  The same sort of thing happened one other time with four males in the car headed to a football game.  The driver got involved in an engrossing conversation and absent mindedly got a little heavy-footed on the accelerator.

      When the cop stopped him, his good buddies encouraged the cop to give him a ticket.  The driver got off with a warning and a “Have a good time at the football game,” from the cop.

     Bill did not get a ticket.

     Ambivalence:  Bill didn’t know whether to be angry with a wife and two friends who tried their best to get him fined, or happy that a wife and two friends succeeded in preventing his getting fined. 

     We, the passengers were a bit disappointed that he didn’t get a ticket, but also happy that the cop’s warning and the waning traffic, after the delay of the traffic stop, resulted in much saner driving for the rest of our trip.