02 October 1999

The Wrong And Whining Road

(From "The Misadventures of No One Famous" my memoir)

Music has always figured prominently into my life. I spent six years in an all-girl band, and then another two as a member of an acoustic female trio. Bookings had been sparse the last 12 months, since one of the women had decided to move to Colorado to be with the love of her life. We had just started another 6-week stint of gigging while she was in town, and again, my luck would be of the unfortunate variety. My financial security had become laughable, though I found no humor in it.

The band was my only source of dependable income. I left my little guest room one night, and headed for the city and the first of several gigs that would provide just enough to get my car tags renewed, along with insurance and registration. As I crested a hill after a sharp curve, the unmistakable strobing of blue lights erupted behind me. A local Barney Fife had been jarred from his Deer Hunter magazine long enough to look up and see the telling color on my tag sticker. He strutted up to my window in his little Smokey The Bear hat and asked to see my license, registration, and proof of insurance. Well, two out of three ain’t bad, as they say, so I pulled out my license and handed it to him. I then began to fumble in the glove box for those other two items, knowing I didn’t have them. I was just doing that, oh-my-god-a-cop-stopped-me-and-I-need-to-think stall. I usually carried an old insurance card that I used for emergencies like these, but it had landed in some box either in the back of the van or in the storage room I’d rented. I had scanned the card on my home computer and altered the date cleverly in my photo program, then printed out a copy It was a brilliant idea, if I do say so myself. It was convincing to those nagging locals who just wanted to see a piece of paper, and bought me a little time while avoiding a large fine. Survival Skills 101. Certified. I didn’t have THAT little piece of paper either, but I knew that for me auditing a class was just as good as taking it for credit.

"Registration and proof of insurance?"he asked again.

"Um. . . I just moved and I don’t have it with me." As if to verify, his flashlight beam moved to the back of my vehicle to the boxes and various items I had not unloaded into storage, yet.

“You are supposed to carry those things in your vehicle at all times."
And you are supposed to be nice, but you’re not.
"I know that, sir. Things have been really difficult for me lately."

“Do you have insurance?”

Is there a way to lie and still tell the truth? I wondered. I knew I didn’t have insurance. He didn’t know that yet. I was on the horns of a dilemma. If I didn’t tell him I was sans insurance, he might skip that ticket. It reminded me of when I was kid. In the days before caller ID boxes, the phone would ring, and my father was always afraid it was someone he wanted to avoid. He’d tell me to see who it was. Then he’d rush into the bathroom, and stand in the tub and say, “If it’s ‘so-and-so’ tell him I’m in the shower.” See, my Dad was no liar. He had a real conscience.That’s what I needed. A way to lie without lying. “. . . just moved in with some friends out here,” I heard myself say. “. . . and I’m waiting on a decision from SSI and the VA about my disability status. . .” Don’t tell him that, he doesn’t care, I reprimanded myself. My lips kept moving. “I’m living on $280 a month. . .I was on my way to a job to make enough money to get my tags and everything. . . it’s the only way I can get the money.”

He looked up from his ticket book. “I also clocked you at 40 in a 30.” In my own defense, the roads leading to and from this hick town were winding and hilly. In order to maintain a constant speed, you would have to have two sets of eyes. If you watch the speedometer, you’ll miss a curve. I always opted for staying on the road and not hitting a mailbox or an oncoming Subaru. But now I was being penalized for being a safe driver. All that counted was the letter of the law.

“—but I’m only going to site you for expired tags, and no proof of insurance.” I hated this town. What do you call favors like that? Underhanded? Backhanded? Backwoods. “I won’t steal your pig this time, just your chickens.” Uh. . .okey-dokey Smokey. Say hi to the wife and kids. The ones ensconced in your dream-single-wide, no doubt. “Thanks,” I muttered, signing my name to the tickets, as he informed me of the court date. I expected him to add, “Tell it to the judge,” but he didn’t. And that’s not the end of it. The “thlot plickens.”

The very next week, I was on my way to another gig, and got nailed again. This time, at least they were nice. There were two of them. Word must have gotten around that it takes two to stop me from driving illegally. One cop even apologized to me for the inconvenience. I was accommodating and polite to him. I accepted my two additional tickets with grace and aplomb. Double-jeopardy obviously did not apply to moving violations.

At the court date in April, the local (hanging) judge had no mercy, even though I explained my extenuating circumstances and told him I was driving without all that stuff because I was trying to make enough money to GET all that stuff. He still made me pay, because by golly, I was a law breaker and needed to be taught a lesson. There I stood on my crutches, having dragged myself out of bed in a Darvon-stupor to be there while Hiz Honor was an hour and a half late for court. So I got gouged with over $400 for that, and had to beg for the payments of $33 per month, which only meant I had to do without a few things. Like food. Deodorant. Gasoline. It would be a challenge to figure out which necessity I would be trimming this time.
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01 October 1999

That Dark Thing on my Head


(Excerpt from my memoir, "Falling Through the Cracks: The Misadventures of No One Famous")

Terra has recently discovered the power of her own gift of intuition. She's a baby-psychic, really. She also has an uncanny sense of smell.

Once when we were getting in my van, she sniffed the air like a bloodhound and said, "Someone just lit a cigarette-" and then frowned over at me, since I'm a smoker and she's not, and we always go round and round about it. It wasn't me, and I accused her of being so sensitive, that she imagines things.

Well, we pulled away from the curb, and around the corner. And there stood a young man puffing away. She looked over at me victoriously, and I could only shake my head. Scary, really, these visions of things and people and objects that prove accurate.

At night while she's falling asleep, she has graphic images of snakes and big rocks falling on her head. This sounds like the sort of images I should be having, but I digress...

About a year ago, during one of our prolonged phone conversations in the wee hours of the morning, she announced that she could see "a dark thing on my head."

I said, "You mean a freckle?"

"Well, no...it's big...and like, attached...sort of like a spider--"

"You mean, like that thing in Alien?"

"Well, yeah, except it's dark, like that goopy stuff you find in old plumbing...Its legs wrap around your head and hold the sides of your face...one of them goes into the corner of your eye..."

The pregnant silence that followed was enough to make her try to wiggle out of the subject, but I pressed. She believed it was somehow symbolic of this negative energy that follows me around like the proverbial black cloud. Only this was a dark growth of some sort. Like Cancer. Not exactly what I wanted to hear before going sleep.


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