Disorderly Conduct

To begin with, it is not a conversation about the culpability of the victim. It is not about what she is wearing or what she is doing, or what she might have done before. It is a conversation about making good choices and always knowing where you are and what you are doing.

Last weekend the house next to ours was occupied by a herd of men in their twenties, in town for a golf weekend. Friday night they rolled home around 2:00 a.m., all driving, and all clearly drunk beyond any reasonable measure of fun. They poured out of their cars and into the street, our driveway, our yard, their yard and whatever other space they could loudly occupy in our quiet little town. From my window I peeked cautiously at the madness happening outside. Getting out of a car, parked at the end of our drive, were three young girls, all giggling and screaming and enjoying their wild night, and all, from my view, well potted. They were whisked into the growing party by several of the men.

Back to bed, back to trying to fall asleep, back to staring at the ceiling, and now worrying. The celebration went on until 5:00 a.m. when a crowd gathered at the end of the driveway, a fight over who knows what, that thankfully ended before anyone was hurt, and was perhaps the impetus for them to finally be quiet. When I got up, two hours later, the girls' car was gone.

So many things could have gone wrong but thankfully it seems, as far as we know, none of them did. The lesson, for me, is to teach my girls about making good choices. Putting yourself, your drinking self, in a house full of drunk men, is not a good choice, no more so than walking down an alley at night in Chicago. It's not about blame but about keeping yourself in a safe place, trusting your instincts, and keeping your instincts sober enough to have a voice.

The problem of drunk driving is not lost on me, its just not my focus here. That they were all drinking and driving clearly only escalates the situation.

Licensed to Wait in Line

My great aunt Margaret didn't learn to drive until she was in her fifties, after her husband died.  It took her several attempts to pass the test. Her first stab at the driving portion was stopped abruptly when the examiner told her to pull over immediately, "pull over or else I'll be forced to give you a ticket". It took three tries, several coaches, numerous dents to the fender, but eventually she passed and was awarded by the state of Missouri a license to drive a car. The good people of Missouri are still recovering.

I bested Margaret by one shot when I took the initial driving test, having only to suffer through that most harrowing of exams twice. At 46 I have not been asked to drive for a grade since, thank God. But this year, thanks it seems to a speeding ticket received down state several years ago, the state of Illinois thought it best to have me pass the written test just one more time. I didn't read the letter, taking for granted that this was to be an easy, pay the fee and go, process. After a 30 minute wait at the express renewal facility I was handed a study guide and sent to the full service processing office four blocks away. I went home.

This morning I appeared, well rested and having read the Illinois Rules of the Road, not at all confident that I could pass the test. I waited in one line, then another. I was called to the counter and sent to wait in another line, and then one more. In these four line experiences I heard my all time favorite question asked three times by three different people: "are you in line?".

To be clear, this is not a gem reserved only for license inspection offices. I've been asked this countless times in airports and grocery stores, and about once per week at the neighborhood Starbucks. Generally I nod and say, "why yes, yes I am waiting in this line behind this other person who is also waiting in line". What I really want to say is "No. No, I decided this very morning to go out into the world and find a group of people queuing up and just stand there with them with no purpose or intention, other than being close to another human being". Because for some reason, my person standing there is not clue enough, the real crime being mine when I leave any appropriate amount of space between me and the person waiting in front of me. That certainly creates confusion as to my intent, space being so ambiguous in this context.

And so, here in this place where we are all lined up, hoping to pass the test and be sent into the world with the full confidence of the state of Illinois in our ability to operate a car or truck or motorcycle, I think one should be intelligent enough to simply navigate the system. My concern is this: if you can't decide for yourself who is and who isn't waiting in line, can you really be trusted to know the difference between a red light and a green light?

With a picture that accurately reflects the 8 year time span since I last was licensed to drive, I was handed a shiny new drivers license. After six different lines, in which I showed my ability to queue up correctly, I passed the test. Aunt Margaret would be so proud.

Hertz Please

When offered an option, I much prefer driving a rental car. Having nothing to do with novelty, the lure, quite simply, the complete unfamiliarity, and the assumption that I have no idea what I am doing, a consideration not given to me when driving my husband in the car we have owned for five years.

"Allyson, turn on the back wiper, you can't possibly see anything behind you".

Pulling on something to my left, the bright headlights go on, which I don't notice as I am furiously looking in the rear view to see if I have found the right switch to activate the rear wiper.

"You have turned on the bright lights, which you need to now turn off as you are blinding those driving towards us".

Knowingly I look away from the rain soaked road and directly at my passenger seat husband, "I know that dear but I thought it best to be able to see in front of me. And now that I can see that yes, there is a road there, I think it's safe to turn these off". Reaching to the left I turn off not only the brights but the headlights as well, leaving us in complete darkness. In a hasty attempt to bring back the light I turn up the volume on the radio as Jack stretches over to me to turn on the head lights. In a confident show of driver control I let fly with wiper fluid.

The simple idea that I might know why the car is beeping is removed in a rental car. Not one to read the manual we get in and go, after the the requisite two hour installation of the car seats. We are now on our third set of seats, each one promising to be more user friendly than the last. One might think that having now done this for five years we would be accomplished, experts perhaps, but sadly no, it's possible we have regressed. Jack pulls and pushes, I climb about in every kind of unflattering position, wedging myself in between the seats, feet in the air, while the girls play in the open back area, hungry, tired and often cranky. In a convoluted car version of Twister, he hands me a strap which I attach to the nearest thing that looks to be a receiver, Mary's seat now firmly held in place to the front seat shoulder strap. We begin again. When they appear to be firmly in place I begin the test drive, shaking each seat violently, assuring myself that the car could roll over twice and bounce to the moon and the seats would not move.

Now strapped in we begin, and when navigation is an issue, I drive because my husband has decided that it is far more painful to watch me make sense of a map, choosing instead to suffer through my my driving, to which I defend myself, "but Jack! I once drove in Paris". He turns, "and I thank God each and every day that I was not with you". Bravely I pass over the Do Not Back Up sharp things and turn left, no right. This car beeps and we turn up the radio and sing; at home this behavior is considered foolish and is strongly discouraged. Beeps and bells are to be immediately investigated and discussed in detail with the car repair man. However, when flying along on unfamiliar roadways in New Hampshire, it is perfectly acceptable to completely ignore the car's attempt at attention getting and enjoy the scenery. One rain drop, then two, and we both search for the wiper switch, turning on seat warmers, headlights, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang wings and the cruise control before landing the right lever to whisk away the bothersome rain on our once clean windshield.

This camaraderie does not exist in our own car where the driver is expected to know the specific purpose of each and every knob, stick and button available. Save the stereo, where the driver is only allowed limited control.

The rain slows to a stop just as I turn onto our street and with a boldness usually reserved for guacamole making, I reach to turn off the windshield wipers. Swish, swish, the back wiper jumps to attention, whisking away any remaining drops on the rear window. Found it!

It's My Turn

Remember this?
That was Jack, this is me, 80 mph in a 65 mph zone somewhere downstate, near Springfield as Officer Slow Down pulled out right in the middle of a conversation about the former Governor. A conversation about what happens when adults break the rules and how it is quite likely that Mr. Blagojevich is on his way to jail as he was not honest and did not follow the law.

Nor did their mother who thought she was clipping along at about 70 mph but was corrected when the flashing lights appeared in the rear view mirror. A very brief explanation to the children and the Illinois State Patrolman appeared at my window, not at all friendly, unhappy really, which is a difficult state to be in when Bert and Ernie are singing "Rubber Ducky". Mary began to cry, certainly assuming I would be whisked away to jail, leaving her with her sister on the side of the road.

We were all left on the side of the road after I fished out $75, which included 12 quarters, as highway patrol men in Illinois do not make change, nor do they take kindly to being offered $80 when you only must pay $75. Also to note, they do not seem to have a keen sense of humor as I pointed out that I had just two weeks ago received my Safe Driver Certificate from Secretary of State Jesse White, and he did not break a grin, obviously disagreeing completely with Jesse White's assessment of my driving skills.

And we were off, only seven and a half more hours, all driven at or very near the speed limit. It was a very long trip.