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Arousing contempt in the cop heart.
About five miles back I had a brush with the CHP. Not stopped or pulled over: nothing routine. I always drive properly. A bit fast, perhaps, but always with consummate skill and a natural feel for the road that even cops recognize. No cop was ever born who isn’t a sucker for a finely - executed hi - speed Controlled Drift all the way around one of those cloverleaf freeway interchanges.
Few people understand the psychology of dealing with a highway traffic cop. Your normal speeder will panic and immediately pull over to the side when he sees the big red light behind him . . . and then we will start apologizing, begging for mercy.
This is wrong. It arouses contempt in the cop - heart. The thing to do - when you’re running along about a hundred or so and you suddenly find a red - flashing CHP - tracker on your trail - what you want to do then is accelerate. Never pull over with the first siren - howl. Mash it down and make the bastard chase you at speeds up to 120 all the way to the next exit. He will follow. But he won’t know what to make of your blinker - signal that says you’re about to turn right.
This is to let him know you’re looking for a proper place to pull off and talk . .. keep signaling and hope for an off - ramp, one of those uphill side - loops with a sign saying “Max Speed 25” . . . and the trick, at this point, is to suddenly leave the freeway and take him into the chute at no less than a hundred miles an hour.
He will lock his brakes about the same time you lock yours, but it will take him a moment to realize that he’s about to make a 180 - degree turn at this speed . .. but you will be ready for it, braced for the Gs and the fast heel - toe work, and with any luck at all you will have come to a complete stop off the road at the top of the turn and be standing beside your automobile by the time he catches up.
He will not be reasonable at first . . . but no matter. Let him calm down. He will want the first word. Let him have it. His brain will be in a turmoil: he may begin jabbering, or even pull his gun. Let him unwind; keep smiling. The idea is to show him that you were always in total control of yourself and your vehicle - while he lost control of everything.
It helps to have a police/press badge in your wallet when he calms down enough to ask for your license. I had one of these - but I also had a can of Budweiser in my hand. Until that moment, I was unaware that I was holding it. I had felt totally on top of the situation . . . but when I looked down and saw that little red/silver evidence - bomb in my hand, I knew I was fucked. .
Speeding is one thing, but Drunk Driving is quite another. The cop seemed to grasp this - that I’d blown my whole performance by forgetting the beer can. His face relaxed, he actually smiled. And so did I. Because we both understood, in that moment, that my Thunder Road, moonshine - bomber act had been totally wasted: We had both scared the piss out of ourselves for nothing at all - because the fact of this beer can in my hand made any argument about “speeding” beside the point.
He accepted my open wallet with his left hand, then extended his right toward the beer can. “Could I have that?” he asked.
“Why not?” I said.
He took it, then held it up between us and poured the beer out on the road.
I smiled, no longer caring. “It was getting warm, anyway,” said. Just behind me, on the back seat of the Shark, I couldabout ten cans of hot Budweiser and a dozen or so grapefruits. I’d forgotten all about them, but now they were too obvious for either one of us to ignore. My guilt was so gross and overwhelming that explanations were useless.
The cop understood this. “You realize,” he said, “that it’s a crime to . .
“Yeah,” I said. “I know. I’m guilty. I understand that. I knew it was a crime, but I did it anyway.” I shrugged.
“Shit, why argue? I’m a fucking criminal.”
“That’s a strange attitude,” he said.
I stared at him, seeing for the first time that I was dealing with a bright - eyed young sport, around thirty, who was apparently enjoying his work.
“You know,” he said, “I get the feeling you could use a nap.” He nodded. “There’s a rest area up ahead. Why don’t you pull over and sleep a few hours?”
I instantly understood what he was telling me, but for some insane reason I shook my head. “A nap won’t help,”I said. “I’ve been awake for too long - three or four nights; I can’t even remember. If I go to sleep now, I’m dead for twenty hours.”
Good God, I thought. What have I said? This bastard is trying to be human; he could take me straight to jail, but he’s telling me to take a fucking nap. For Christ sake, agree with him: Yes, officer, of course I’ll take advantage of that rest area. And I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this break you want to give me.
But no . . . here I was insisting that if he turned me loose I would boom straight ahead for L.A. which was true, but why say it? Why push him? This is not the right time for a show - down. This is Death Valley . . . get a grip on yourself.
Of course. Get a grip. “Look,” I said. “I’ve been out in Las Vegas covering the Mint 400.” I pointed to the “VIP Parking” sticker on the windshield. “Incredible,” I said.
“All those bikes and dune buggies crashing around the desert for two days. Have you seen it?”
He smiled, shaking his head’ with a sort of melancholy un - derstanding. I could see him thinking. Was I dangerous?
Was he ready for the vicious, time - consuming scene that was bound to come if he took me under arrest? How many off - duty hours would he have to spend hanging around the courthouse, waiting to testify against me? And what kind of monster lawyer would I bring in to work out on him?
I knew, but how could he?
“OK,“ he said. “Here’s how it is. What goes into my book, as of noon, is that I apprehended you . . . for driving too fast conditions, and advised you . . . with this written warning - he handed it to me - ”to proceed no further than the next rest area . . . your stated destination, right? Where you an to take a long nap . . .“
He hung his ticket - pad back on his belt. “Do I make myself clear?” he asked as he turned away.
I shrugged. “How far is Baker? I was hoping to stop there for lunch.”
“That’s not in my jurisdiction,” he said. “The city limits are two - point - two miles beyond the rest area. Can you make it that far?” He grinned heavily.
“I’ll try,” I said. “I’ve been wanting to go to Baker for a long time. I’ve heard a lot about it.”
“Excellent seafood,” he said. “With a mind like yours, you’ll probably want the land - crab. Try the Majestic Diner.”
Few people understand the psychology of dealing with a highway traffic cop. Your normal speeder will panic and immediately pull over to the side when he sees the big red light behind him . . . and then we will start apologizing, begging for mercy.
This is wrong. It arouses contempt in the cop - heart. The thing to do - when you’re running along about a hundred or so and you suddenly find a red - flashing CHP - tracker on your trail - what you want to do then is accelerate. Never pull over with the first siren - howl. Mash it down and make the bastard chase you at speeds up to 120 all the way to the next exit. He will follow. But he won’t know what to make of your blinker - signal that says you’re about to turn right.
This is to let him know you’re looking for a proper place to pull off and talk . .. keep signaling and hope for an off - ramp, one of those uphill side - loops with a sign saying “Max Speed 25” . . . and the trick, at this point, is to suddenly leave the freeway and take him into the chute at no less than a hundred miles an hour.
He will lock his brakes about the same time you lock yours, but it will take him a moment to realize that he’s about to make a 180 - degree turn at this speed . .. but you will be ready for it, braced for the Gs and the fast heel - toe work, and with any luck at all you will have come to a complete stop off the road at the top of the turn and be standing beside your automobile by the time he catches up.
He will not be reasonable at first . . . but no matter. Let him calm down. He will want the first word. Let him have it. His brain will be in a turmoil: he may begin jabbering, or even pull his gun. Let him unwind; keep smiling. The idea is to show him that you were always in total control of yourself and your vehicle - while he lost control of everything.
It helps to have a police/press badge in your wallet when he calms down enough to ask for your license. I had one of these - but I also had a can of Budweiser in my hand. Until that moment, I was unaware that I was holding it. I had felt totally on top of the situation . . . but when I looked down and saw that little red/silver evidence - bomb in my hand, I knew I was fucked. .
Speeding is one thing, but Drunk Driving is quite another. The cop seemed to grasp this - that I’d blown my whole performance by forgetting the beer can. His face relaxed, he actually smiled. And so did I. Because we both understood, in that moment, that my Thunder Road, moonshine - bomber act had been totally wasted: We had both scared the piss out of ourselves for nothing at all - because the fact of this beer can in my hand made any argument about “speeding” beside the point.
He accepted my open wallet with his left hand, then extended his right toward the beer can. “Could I have that?” he asked.
“Why not?” I said.
He took it, then held it up between us and poured the beer out on the road.
I smiled, no longer caring. “It was getting warm, anyway,” said. Just behind me, on the back seat of the Shark, I couldabout ten cans of hot Budweiser and a dozen or so grapefruits. I’d forgotten all about them, but now they were too obvious for either one of us to ignore. My guilt was so gross and overwhelming that explanations were useless.
The cop understood this. “You realize,” he said, “that it’s a crime to . .
“Yeah,” I said. “I know. I’m guilty. I understand that. I knew it was a crime, but I did it anyway.” I shrugged.
“Shit, why argue? I’m a fucking criminal.”
“That’s a strange attitude,” he said.
I stared at him, seeing for the first time that I was dealing with a bright - eyed young sport, around thirty, who was apparently enjoying his work.
“You know,” he said, “I get the feeling you could use a nap.” He nodded. “There’s a rest area up ahead. Why don’t you pull over and sleep a few hours?”
I instantly understood what he was telling me, but for some insane reason I shook my head. “A nap won’t help,”I said. “I’ve been awake for too long - three or four nights; I can’t even remember. If I go to sleep now, I’m dead for twenty hours.”
Good God, I thought. What have I said? This bastard is trying to be human; he could take me straight to jail, but he’s telling me to take a fucking nap. For Christ sake, agree with him: Yes, officer, of course I’ll take advantage of that rest area. And I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this break you want to give me.
But no . . . here I was insisting that if he turned me loose I would boom straight ahead for L.A. which was true, but why say it? Why push him? This is not the right time for a show - down. This is Death Valley . . . get a grip on yourself.
Of course. Get a grip. “Look,” I said. “I’ve been out in Las Vegas covering the Mint 400.” I pointed to the “VIP Parking” sticker on the windshield. “Incredible,” I said.
“All those bikes and dune buggies crashing around the desert for two days. Have you seen it?”
He smiled, shaking his head’ with a sort of melancholy un - derstanding. I could see him thinking. Was I dangerous?
Was he ready for the vicious, time - consuming scene that was bound to come if he took me under arrest? How many off - duty hours would he have to spend hanging around the courthouse, waiting to testify against me? And what kind of monster lawyer would I bring in to work out on him?
I knew, but how could he?
“OK,“ he said. “Here’s how it is. What goes into my book, as of noon, is that I apprehended you . . . for driving too fast conditions, and advised you . . . with this written warning - he handed it to me - ”to proceed no further than the next rest area . . . your stated destination, right? Where you an to take a long nap . . .“
He hung his ticket - pad back on his belt. “Do I make myself clear?” he asked as he turned away.
I shrugged. “How far is Baker? I was hoping to stop there for lunch.”
“That’s not in my jurisdiction,” he said. “The city limits are two - point - two miles beyond the rest area. Can you make it that far?” He grinned heavily.
“I’ll try,” I said. “I’ve been wanting to go to Baker for a long time. I’ve heard a lot about it.”
“Excellent seafood,” he said. “With a mind like yours, you’ll probably want the land - crab. Try the Majestic Diner.”
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