Derelict Driving and My 15 Minutes of Fame

So my state, Illinois, just declared this fun, stay-at-home party is going to last an extra month. Woof. I must say that news took the wind out of my emotional sails. I feel like we are all living the adult version of "The Year Without a Santa Claus" but in this case, Santa is tennis, street festivals, eating out, concerts and everything else I enjoy.

I was already planning my grand social re-emergence as a much fitter, more nimble and taller Barb. Yeah, you heard me. All this yoga has surely made me a little taller, no? Well, sadly it appears you will all have to wait. I'm not going to sugar coat this: this is a really big bowl of bummer and I have done my allowable amount of sulking about it, but time to shake it off. I mean we will get through this...yada yada yada. Ok, consider that today's pep talk. I think it went well.

This is actually spooky accurate. 

Driving in the city 

One of the more obvious effects of this whole quarantine thing is that I basically go nowhere. Other than my twice daily dog walks and my exciting weekly trip to the grocery, I am here. I literally have not driven my car in weeks. Before moving to Chicago four years ago, I used to love to drive but since moving here, I can't really say that remains true.

Some of it is because I've developed really bad "road rage" and can't drive anywhere without morphing into a homicidal maniac with a potty mouth. Perhaps some of you remember my ill-fated "Be a Better Barb" initiative I tried launching a few years ago. Started out promising, however, as a result of an abnormally high number of assholes on the streets that day, that initiative was suspended indefinitely.

I also struggle with parallel parking under duress. Don't misunderstand me; when provided the luxury of time and the absence of onlookers, I'm a pretty badass parker. Might take me a few times, but I eventually persevere. In the city, however, you basically have people already angry that you are even going to attempt to parallel park so the "hate" vibe can be sensed. Cue the performance anxiety, flop sweat and tears. Add in my Direction Deficit Disorder (DDD) and it just made sense to move to ride sharing. Despite this, I remain a very confident and skilled driver, and I honestly think my Uber drivers appreciate my helpful advice and sometimes criticism...or not.

Derelict driving with my partner in crime

At an early age, I was anxious to get behind the wheel. Well before hitting the official age, my mom would occasionally let me pilot the station wagon. That obviously piqued my interest. During my preteen years, when the opportunity would arise, I, along with my best friend and co-conspirator, Karen, would occasionally "borrow" our respective family station wagons for a quick spin around the subdivision. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, our moms would go to Jazzercise class together so we would bolt off the bus, run home, grab the keys, and off we would go. Keep in mind, she was 14, I was 15 and neither of us cleared 5 feet. An issue, but nothing we couldn't work around.

Barbie Jones, counterculture since 1982. Co-conspirator Karen on the right. 

That all came to a screeching halt one night when we were supposed to be babysitting our younger siblings. Instead we got brave and/or stupid and decided to go cruising, this time outside of the neighborhood. Unfortunately, disaster struck and as we were returning, we crossed paths with Karen's dad who had clearly been dispatched to find the missing babysitters. Needless to say, this ending my driving for a while. By the grace of God, we had out-of-town company staying with us at the time so my dad couldn't actually kill me as he had he planned. I was grounded for two months; Karen for two weeks. I did broach the topic of the obvious disparity in sentences, but that didn't really go anywhere.

Once I was finally able to get my driver's license, I proved to be a competent driver, perhaps a little fast but I like to think I had the quick reflexes to justify it. Patrolmen rarely get this. So aside from a few speeding tickets, to this day the only accident I've ever gotten in is also probably going to be designated as my 15 minutes of fame.

Paddy wagons, the President and my 15 Minutes of Fame

It all began the Friday before the July 4th weekend, 1993. I was enormously pregnant with my first child, due a month later. I was leaving work at a publishing company in downtown Cleveland, rushing home to meet my in-laws who were visiting from Texas. As I was approaching a fairly tricky intersection before merging onto the highway, I took note of two motorcycle patrolmen on the shoulder of the entrance ramp. Neither had blinkers on or their siren/lights on so I honestly didn't pay them much mind.  Critical error. This is what we call foreshadowing, folks.

Maybe this is a good time to mention that President Clinton was coincidentally in town for an official visit. Honestly I was more concerned with getting home to pick up my house before the in-law invasion than the presidential visit.

Ok, back to the story: I looked to my left to see if any cars were coming while also speeding up to make another final merge before getting on the highway. Unfortunately when I looked straight ahead, one of the motorcycles was literally perpendicular to my car. I was about to T-bone a cop on a bike. Apparently he was attempting to close down the highway. I slammed on the brakes as quickly as my rabbit-like reflexes would allow, however, it was not quite quick enough. I barely tapped his bike but it was enough to knock him off his bike. I jumped out of my car to find him writhing in pain. Apparently he had fallen on his service revolver.

His partner then got on the radio and said the fateful words, "Officer down." What I had not realized initially is that these two were part of an advanced unit of the presidential motorcade escorting the present back to the airport. As a result, that "officer down" radio call literally led to the most insane domino effect I've ever witnessed. First on the scene was a paddy wagon. I wasn't sure if they were coming for me or him, but he waved them off insisting on an ambulance. Next up was a firetruck. Again, waved off. Next up were the news crews literally running on foot to be the first to capture video of the criminal mastermind/dangerous driver behind this hideous crime.

The news folks arrived at the same time as the ambulance so they were able to capture video of him as he was put into a back board and finally carried off to the hospital. The police finally interviewed me and charged me with "driver inattention," which I swear they made up on the spot having nothing else to charge me with as it was pretty obvious I wasn't drunk or reckless and most likely not intending to take out the presidential motorcade. 

Hours later I arrived home to find my in-laws sitting on my front porch. I told them I really didn't want to talk about my day or why I was late, but that if they watched the news at 6, they would find out all about it. News came on and yes indeed, there was the story. The fallen officer, AKA brave hero, put his life on the line to save the president. I was still convinced he was in the wrong for not using his blinker, but my insurance company said it was probably best not to fight on "the man" on this. 

The next morning's newspaper had an article about the incident as well, which my coworkers were only to happy to clip out and stick on my office door. The President called him from Airforce One to thank him for his bravery in duty. Oh please, I barely tapped him and he fell on his revolver. Bruised hip was the only injury.

When I called my parents the next day, my mom was not home. These types of situations are not something my dad would typically deal with. I told him dad that I had been in an accident. 

"Oh, no," he said. After inquiring as to how I and the baby were, he asked about the car I hit. "Well, it wasn't a car actually, it was a motorcycle." 

His reply a bit more grim: "Oh no. Was the person injured?" Then I mentioned the fact that he was a policeman, in fact part of Clinton's motorcade and was taken to the hospital. That additional piece of information led to complete radio silence. 

He finally uttered, "Oh shit." He had heard enough. This had clearly exceeded his parental paygrade. "Well, I'll have your mom call you when she gets home." 

Ok, thanks Dad.

A few weeks later and days before giving birth, I had to go to court. My ex-husband insisted I plead not guilty. I had selected my frumpiest maternity dress for the occasion. 

When it was my turn, I waddled my way to the front of the court, a murmur of laughter accompanying me. The bailiff read the charge, "Barbara Schmitz, you are charged with the crime of "driver inattention" in a case involving Officer Sydney Rosen." That got even more laughs. 

Then, the judge literally looked down at me and said, "Oh, I remember you from the news. You hit Sid." I just stood there speechless. 

In my head I was screaming, "Can I request a change of venue?" but instead I just stammered, "yes." How do you plead? "No contest." Boom. Paid my $120 fine gladly and walked out the court. Happy to report that it's been nearly 27 years and I haven't been back to traffic court since. So that's it; my short but rather infamous life of crime.

Don't want to start a rumor, but have any of you seen these two at the same place and same time?

That's all for this week. I hope this blog finds you all well and staying sane despite these rather insane circumstances. I would love to hear how you are all coping. I'll leave you all with this question: have you ever seen these the Heat Miser and President Trump at the same place and time? Just saying...

Until next time, fellow quarantiners,

Barb

Missed any blogs? You can catch up with the past blogs with links below:

It's About DamnTime: Barb's First Blog

6 Tips for Working from Home

Celebrating Love Amid Dark Days

Derelict Driving and My 15 Minutes of Fame

Pandemic Family Craziness

Are We Living Through the Greatest Depression?

Why is Mother's Day a Day and Not a Week?

No-Speed Naveed and the Joys of Urban Transport

Shapewear and The Costs of Being Female

Online Dating in Your 50s 

Golf, the Cruel Mistress of Summer

From Darkness Comes Light

2021: A New Year, a New Outlook

The Barbuda Triangle

Don't Call Me a Cougar 

Bidding Adieu to a Wonderful Summer

The Time Machine in the Garage

The Benefits of Being a Certain Age

There's a Sandwich in Every Beer