Читать книгу Stories I'd Tell My Children (But Maybe Not Until They're Adults) - Michael N Marcus - Страница 16

Around 1998, I got a ticket for making an illegal right turn in Queens, New York. It was late in the afternoon, when the sun was low and caused so much glare that it was impossible to read a sign that said that right turns were not permitted between 4 p.m. and 6 p.m.

I pointed this out to the cop, and he said, “That’s what everyone tells me.” My nephew was with me, and I thought he could be a good witness for me in traffic court.

I did some research before going to court. I checked the printed regulations, and spoke to a traffic device maintainer who worked for the city. I determined that in situations where sun glare is a known problem, cities are supposed to provide additional signs farther from the intersection and/or large shields around the affected signs.

I went to court and cited chapter and verse to the judge. I also asked the cop if others had complained about difficulty in seeing the sign, and the lying SOB denied it.

My 14-year-old witness disagreed with the cop, but was deemed to have less credibility. Or maybe truth just doesn’t matter when the city needs to grab every buck it can.

The judge admired my research and said he’d give me an “A for effort,” but I still had to pay the fine. My nephew learned that cops can be liars, even in court, and even under oath. That’s an important lesson. I’m glad he learned it when he was just 14.

When we were in high school, Howie, my best friend, drove a Triumph Herald. It wasn’t a real sports car, but it was close enough: a cute little convertible, made in England, with British Racing Green paint, a wood dashboard and a 4-speed manual transmission.

Howie drove me to school in it most days, and we parked in the student lot next to the school. On one winter day, I slipped on some ice in the parking lot, dropping my book bag and scattering my notebook, texts and papers.

I briefly perched on the rear of Howie’s car to put my things in order, and then we both went into the school.

A little while later, during homeroom period, assistant principal George Kennedy summoned the two of us to the “Freedom Shrine” detention room.

Apparently someone saw what happened in the parking lot, and told someone else, who told someone else. Eventually the story reached Herman Cherman, a busybody history teacher, cursed by his parents with a dumb rhyming name. Cherman found it necessary to add a bit of embellishment and he told Kennedy that we had driven to school with me sitting up on the convertible top!

Not only would it have been very cold up there and hard to keep my balance, but I would probably have broken the top and fallen in on Howie and caused us to crash.

Fortunately the school cop, Joe Manna, came to our defense. He told Kennedy, “These are good boys; they would never do anything like that.”

In the one time he was ever nice to me in three years, Kennedy said, “I wish Cherman would mind his own damn business. I have enough real problems to deal with without him making up fake problems.”