Michelle Kaplan

Welcome to McCourt…Please Drive Around

If things in this world were not impersonal and automated enough, just make your way to McCourt. It’s a long story, isn’t it always when it comes to cars, tickets and court. Ok so I may not be the poster of safe drivers. But when you’ve been schooled in Boston where we take our sports pretty serious, there’s baseball with our beloved Red Sox. We love our New England Patriots football team and we’re still hoping for the return of the Celtics Basketball dynasty. Of course driving is the next favorite sport, and hey, let’s face it, everybody can play.

So, getting tickets, lots of them, are par for the course.

I’m not the most organized person. I get tickets and life gets in the way. I forget to pay them and then the consequences of my actions, the dreaded letter from the DMV that says, you blew it; your license may have been suspended. With emphasis on the word, MAY. For some reason, they just don’t want to come right out and say it. When you get said “letter” visions of horror dance in your head: the clerk’s office, the department of motor vehicles and court. You see precious moments of your life slipping away in unending lines with people who have really heard it all and have no problem telling you that right when you’re in mid sentence. But I must digress, first is the actual getting said ticket and, as I recall, it wasn’t pretty. When the officer, who I estimated to be age 15, but really I know logically, could not be, came to the window I rolled it down.
“Ma’am (is he kidding me, who is he talking to, oh I guess it must be me – Ma’am) you have a tail light out.”
“Thank you officer, I say rolling the window back up.
Now, he’s banging on my window again. After giving him my license, registration, proof of insurance and my first born child he finds a way to write up a ticket, probably his freaking first. He sees a major discrepancy here. My address on my license does not match the one on my registration.
The man is freaking Colombo — I’ve been bagged.
He writes me a ticket and tells me I have ten days to “correct the problem.”
This is a problem? Apparently at 15, he doesn’t know what a “problem” is. He must not have children, that’s for sure. A problem for him – not for me.
The ticket ended up somewhere in the abyss of my jeep and was soon forgotten.
The other was a speeding ticket and for the life of me I can’t remember it at all.
I went on with my life, kinda hoping they would go on with theirs and that the two would never meet up again. But Johnny Law always catches up with you, and this boys and girls is the lesson I learn, the one I implore you to adhere to, just pay the ticket. You have no idea the treats they have in store for you…things that will test your sanity…things that will make you want to scream.

If you ever wondered why people go postal, this could be reason numero uno. If they only made it easier to do the right thing, but it seems whichever way you turn there are rules, just getting in the way of life. Let’s face it, we are a society who doesn’t really stop and smell the flowers, and so what. In my heart I know I’m a city girl. I know this because for me the great outdoors is the distance between the house and the car. The constant battle for time is fought every day and I find myself losing, miserably. So some things slip and yes, this was one of them.

Several months later, I realize I can’t find my license at all and, of course, just like my Charlie Brown luck, I get pulled over on the way to the Bevinator’s (my mother Beverly) 60th birthday…and I thought that turning 40 was going to be bad. As soon as those flashing blue lights were glowing in the rear view I knew I was doomed. This was no 15-year-old officer, more like a seasoned veteran and I wasn’t gonna get away with anything.

In these situations I’ve learned it’s best to fess up and keep my mouth shut.
The approach.
I see him coming and put both hands on the wheel so he understands that I’m not some desperate housewife wielding ammo.
Before he has a chance to say anything I fire. “You are gonna kill me, I’m headed to my mother’s 60th birthday, I switched my bag and I have no license or any form of ID, I don’t even have a credit card.”
Add to this that I can’t find my proof of insurance or car registration and I’ve now given him a reason to lock me up.
He goes back to his cruiser.
As he does, I find the registration and insurance and I’m waving it like a white flag out the window.
He takes it and disappears, for a long time.
Meanwhile, a friend calls to inquire what I’m doing.
“Oh, I’m getting arrested, I’ll have to call you back.”
He says to be sure I should request conjugal visits up front. I assure him that I will.
The officer makes a second approach and says to me, “I need you to be real honest here.”
So I fess up again.
“Well, I think my license is in trouble.”
“YOU THINK?” he says
“Well the letter said it MAY have been suspended, but I never actually called to find out if it was.”
He comes back with a little piece of pink paper, with a court date. He’s very nice; he could have thrown me in the clink. He says that he’s warning me not to drive, but he’s going to drive away and when he does, he has NO clue what I’m going to do, if you get what I mean. Wink– wink…ok.
Now, he says, “I’m going to have to print you.”
I laugh. ”Ok, ha, ha, thanks,” I say rolling up the window.
Now he bangs on the window, he’s got out a little card and a little ink thingy, and well, he prints me.
Oh My God, I’ve been booked roadside…how oddly convenient, I think, almost like a McDonald’s drive through. I have a month to go before court, which just happens to be the day after my 40th birthday – this is hell.
I won’t bore you with the details of getting that precious license and if you have one, don’t lose it. The lines, the bureaucracy, and the driving school course I took only to have put the wrong citation number on it. Instead of just changing it, I had to leave yet another line, and go home, contact the driving school and have another certificate with the correct citation number sent.
Or…
The nice lady at the clerk’s office, who upon finding out that I had no license waited for me to offer up my credit card to pay that final ticket, then tells me that I couldn’t use the credit card without ID.
NICE.
I practically threw my passport in the NICE lady’s face.
To court – McCourt I go.
They’ve really pared down here. Tables set up with only what I assume are the Mcjudges. My Mcjudge finally calls me. I’m asked to show my brand new license that I proudly display because getting one is a major freaking accomplishment. I think I should frame it…and hang it next to my journalism degree.
McJudge gives me the chance to explain myself. Completely spent, all I have left after this ordeal is
this…
“Hey,” I say, “look at the date on that license.”
“Oh, yesterday was your birthday.” he says.
“Yes,” I say, “my 40th birthday, don’t you think that’s punishment enough.”
“Yup,” he says and drops all the McCharges.
Thank you, keep the change.

Welcome to McCourt…Please Drive Around