Enter Rhoda (Part 3)

September 28, 2006

California Passes Cell Phone Law

California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger has signed legislation that prohibits the use of handheld mobile phones while driving in the state.

Effective July 1, 2008, the legislation prohibits drivers from using a wireless telephone while operating a motor vehicle unless the driver uses a hands-free device. Drivers who violate the law will face a base fine of $20 for a first offense and $50 for each subsequent offense.

The irony is, I never talk on my cell phone while driving, which is why I don't own a blue tooth. I'm a terribly nervous driver, and aside from the radio, which soothes me, I don't allow anything in the car to distract me.

But there I was, phone in hand, other hand on wheel, asking Malou for directions, right in front of a motorcycle cop who looked strangely like Officer Jon Baker from CHiPs. Ponch was nowhere to be found.

Wilcox. Good porn name.

Officer Baker began following me, and before he could even switch on his flashing light, I turned right onto a side street and stopped the car. As he dismounted his motorcycle and walked toward me, my balls began to sweat profusely. For I knew the cell phone infraction wasn't the only problem he was going to have with me.

"License and registration, please," he said. I silently handed them over. Officer Baker peered intently at my driver's license. My New York state driver's license. My New York state driver's license with the hideous photo of me taken five years ago when I still wore glasses and my Jew-fro was particularly acting up.

"How long have you lived in California?" he asked, looking at the address on my registration.

"Um, just over a year."

"And how long did you think you could live here without obtaining a California driver's license?"

I batted my eyelashes and intoned, in my best airhead voice, "Um, forever?"

"Wrong. Ten days."

"No way!"

"Way."

He asked me to wait while he went back to his motorcycle with my information. My testicles now felt like day-old, brine-soaked matzot balls. Sometimes, under stress, I fantasize about what it would feel like to do something totally insane. It's kind of an OCD-Tourette's thing I have had my whole life. When I was younger, I would sometimes act on these impulses. Like when I called my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Robinson, a bitch. Or when, at the age of 13, I had the following exchange with my mother:

Mom: You know, lately you've been acting like a perfect prick.

Me: Really? Well, you've been acting like a perfect cunt.

That hadn't ended well.

So in that moment, as I waited for Officer Baker to mete out my punishment, I fantasized about what would happen if I suddenly fled the scene. True, I was driving a car that was gasping its last breath, but maybe I could outrun him. Would he shoot at me? Would I be brought straight to jail? And if so, could I justifiably miss work the next day?

As these thoughts bounced around my sweaty brain, Officer Baker returned. "I'm writing you two tickets," he said. "One is for talking on the cell phone while driving, which you're going to have to pay or argue in court. The other will be forgiven if you obtain a California driver's license before your court date, which is Oct. 6."

"Thanks, Officer," I said meekly. As I started Carmen's emphysemic engine again, I looked up and saw a gigantic sign reading "Northside Imports." I had been right in front of it the whole time.

Penalty for talking on a cell phone while driving in California? $76.

Cost of a new heater pump for a '97 VW Passat? $135.

Avoiding all this by not buying a shitty old German car in the first place? Priceless.

Later that day, after I had finally returned to work, a crazy woman burst into my office and called me a faggot. I know this is a bit of a red herring in the story, and I'm sure it would make a far more interesting story than this whole car saga. But I can't get into it without revealing what I do for a living, which would reveal the company I work for, which I can't do. Suffice it to say, it was not a fun day. (And rest assured Miss Faggot-Caller got hers in the end.)

Israel managed to fix Carmen up to a reasonable degree, and I brought her to a high-end car wash for a complete cleaning and detailing. Now it was time to get rid of that bitch once and for all.

To be continued.

Homo ticketed. ♥