The Homecoming
Page 64
Then, she suddenly saw a driving safety video on the list of recommendations with the name Sileski attached. There were only so many Sileskis. The video was called The Cop’s Ticket Quota. It was a YouTube video. She typed it into her computer, did a search and brought it up. And there he was. Well, he said he’d done a couple of programs for high school students.
It appeared to be an assembly. Seth stood on a stage behind a podium with a large screen behind him. He introduced himself as Officer Seth Sileski and offered the three best ways to get out of a ticket.
“But first, let me introduce you to me a few years ago, when I was eighteen,” he said. Up on the screen appeared a picture of a handsome young football player in a Ducks uniform, posing like a Heisman trophy winner. “And nineteen.” There he was in a Seahawks uniform. “At nineteen I pretty much had it all. My family was so proud of me. Especially my dad. He was the only dad in town who had a pro ball player for a son.” There was a picture of him in civilian clothes, leaning against a silver Ferrari. “I loved that car. I didn’t think I’d ever have a car like that,” he said to laughter from the audience. “Most of the guys in this room would give their left...ah, ear? For a car like that.” More laughter followed.
Then he walked out from behind the podium and crossed the stage about halfway and Iris noticed at once that he limped a little more than usual.
“And this is my best friend, Oscar. We shared some mighty important memories and are still close.”
A picture of Oscar appeared on the screen. He was smiling his award-winning smile, but he was in the neck brace that held up his head, something he must have graduated out of in the years since the picture was taken. He looked happy enough. Anyone in that student audience who’d seen Seth in his football uniforms might have taken Oscar for a player who’d been injured playing ball. In fact, since these were not Thunder Point kids and Seth’s days as a wunderkind were many years past, they might’ve thought his limp had something to do with football.
“But I’m not here to bore you with the details of my exciting youth—I’m a cop now and we hate cops, right?” There was more laughter. “Cops just want to spoil our fun, right? And because I have the inside track, I can tell you how to get around ’em. They’re not as smart as they think they are. So let’s cut right to the chase. They’re only looking for one kind of driver—the driver that looks dangerous. Frankly, we don’t care that you’re ten miles over the limit if there’s no potential conflict involved. If you’re tearing down the highway at sixty-five in a fifty-five and there aren’t any other cars in sight, your cop probably has better things to do than go after you. But, if you’re weaving down the road at two in the morning, unable to stay in a lane, and your cop is on his way home, he’s going to say damn it, or worse, because he’s now forced to pull you over and check your sobriety before you kill yourself.
“Cops don’t really have quotas. Well, some do. We do get bonuses at Christmas for making quotas, but that’s supposed to be a secret so don’t tell anyone.” He grinned, then grew very serious. “What we do have is a responsibility to prevent accidents. So there are three major reasons people have accidents. One—they’re impaired. Now, that could be drugs or alcohol, but it might also be they’re falling asleep. Or there’s even the possibility of a medical event—a heart attack or stroke or seizure. We can tell if someone’s impaired—they’re all over the road. Sometimes we can’t tell in time, so when we see it, we’re right on it. That’s gonna get attention—watch for that.
“Reason number two—they’re distracted. Talking or texting on the cell phone will get you in trouble. We’re looking for that and we’re not waiting to see if that talking or texting is going to make you swerve—we’re going to stop you before you swerve into another vehicle. In fact, there are all kinds of distractions—too many passengers in the car, fussy baby in the backseat, big bunch of balloons for the girlfriend, hyperactive dog bouncing all over the place... So what do you do if you’re distracted and you know it? Before one of those self-serving, quota-making cops spoils your fun, just pull over and handle the distraction. I hate to tell you that because I’m thinking about my Christmas bonus here and I hate to give up a penny of it.” He paused so the kids could laugh at the image he was presenting.
“Reason number three—excessive speed. Now, I know it’s hard to trust the government. Hell, I don’t trust the government, so why should you? But here’s what I know from traffic school—the speed limits are established based on population, road conditions, usage, equipment, weather equations and a bunch of other silly little things. They take all kinds of possibilities into account, things like—you have this quiet suburban street that very few cars travel, hardly any parking on the street, no school in the neighborhood, road is smooth and wide, kind of a ghost town street, and the limit is set at twenty-five. And who are we kidding? Twenty-five?”
A new picture came up on the screen—a diagram. The road, a few nicely spaced houses, some trees and driveways and a red arrow aiming for a stick man and a trash can. “At twenty-five miles an hour on this street you can put on the brakes and stop before running into Mr. Miller, who is just putting out his trash.” A new diagram came up. There were two red arrows. One went right over Mr. Miller and the other went right into a tree. “At forty miles an hour, if you apply your brakes the second you see Mr. Miller, you will not stop in time. If you swerve to avoid him, you’ll hit the tree head-on. Someone is going to die.”
The audience was silent. A third diagram came up—it showed all the same things, but a police car was added, and that car was on the far left of the screen at the very beginning of the arrow. “This guy is going to stop you if you’re doing forty. He’s a cop. He’ll save your life, Mr. Miller’s life and get his Christmas bonus.
“I could show you a diagram for every road and vehicle possibility—like the empty freeway, the deserted street or the mountain or desert road that is completely vacant, where there’s no Mr. Miller or no Preacher Smith in his wobbly old pickup and there would appear to be no reason on earth for that speed limit.”
He limped across the stage again. “Sometimes it might seem there is no logical reason for a speed limit of any kind. Except that at certain speeds the average person stands a better-than-average chance of losing control of the vehicle and having an accident. Now, where’s a guy, or girl, with a really great car going to find out what it can do? I mean, if you can’t even pick a safe, deserted road to have a little fun, then where can you give it a good test? The speedway. Every big city has one. If you can’t locate one, call the police department and ask. They’ll direct you to a safe speedway where you can work it out.
It appeared to be an assembly. Seth stood on a stage behind a podium with a large screen behind him. He introduced himself as Officer Seth Sileski and offered the three best ways to get out of a ticket.
“But first, let me introduce you to me a few years ago, when I was eighteen,” he said. Up on the screen appeared a picture of a handsome young football player in a Ducks uniform, posing like a Heisman trophy winner. “And nineteen.” There he was in a Seahawks uniform. “At nineteen I pretty much had it all. My family was so proud of me. Especially my dad. He was the only dad in town who had a pro ball player for a son.” There was a picture of him in civilian clothes, leaning against a silver Ferrari. “I loved that car. I didn’t think I’d ever have a car like that,” he said to laughter from the audience. “Most of the guys in this room would give their left...ah, ear? For a car like that.” More laughter followed.
Then he walked out from behind the podium and crossed the stage about halfway and Iris noticed at once that he limped a little more than usual.
“And this is my best friend, Oscar. We shared some mighty important memories and are still close.”
A picture of Oscar appeared on the screen. He was smiling his award-winning smile, but he was in the neck brace that held up his head, something he must have graduated out of in the years since the picture was taken. He looked happy enough. Anyone in that student audience who’d seen Seth in his football uniforms might have taken Oscar for a player who’d been injured playing ball. In fact, since these were not Thunder Point kids and Seth’s days as a wunderkind were many years past, they might’ve thought his limp had something to do with football.
“But I’m not here to bore you with the details of my exciting youth—I’m a cop now and we hate cops, right?” There was more laughter. “Cops just want to spoil our fun, right? And because I have the inside track, I can tell you how to get around ’em. They’re not as smart as they think they are. So let’s cut right to the chase. They’re only looking for one kind of driver—the driver that looks dangerous. Frankly, we don’t care that you’re ten miles over the limit if there’s no potential conflict involved. If you’re tearing down the highway at sixty-five in a fifty-five and there aren’t any other cars in sight, your cop probably has better things to do than go after you. But, if you’re weaving down the road at two in the morning, unable to stay in a lane, and your cop is on his way home, he’s going to say damn it, or worse, because he’s now forced to pull you over and check your sobriety before you kill yourself.
“Cops don’t really have quotas. Well, some do. We do get bonuses at Christmas for making quotas, but that’s supposed to be a secret so don’t tell anyone.” He grinned, then grew very serious. “What we do have is a responsibility to prevent accidents. So there are three major reasons people have accidents. One—they’re impaired. Now, that could be drugs or alcohol, but it might also be they’re falling asleep. Or there’s even the possibility of a medical event—a heart attack or stroke or seizure. We can tell if someone’s impaired—they’re all over the road. Sometimes we can’t tell in time, so when we see it, we’re right on it. That’s gonna get attention—watch for that.
“Reason number two—they’re distracted. Talking or texting on the cell phone will get you in trouble. We’re looking for that and we’re not waiting to see if that talking or texting is going to make you swerve—we’re going to stop you before you swerve into another vehicle. In fact, there are all kinds of distractions—too many passengers in the car, fussy baby in the backseat, big bunch of balloons for the girlfriend, hyperactive dog bouncing all over the place... So what do you do if you’re distracted and you know it? Before one of those self-serving, quota-making cops spoils your fun, just pull over and handle the distraction. I hate to tell you that because I’m thinking about my Christmas bonus here and I hate to give up a penny of it.” He paused so the kids could laugh at the image he was presenting.
“Reason number three—excessive speed. Now, I know it’s hard to trust the government. Hell, I don’t trust the government, so why should you? But here’s what I know from traffic school—the speed limits are established based on population, road conditions, usage, equipment, weather equations and a bunch of other silly little things. They take all kinds of possibilities into account, things like—you have this quiet suburban street that very few cars travel, hardly any parking on the street, no school in the neighborhood, road is smooth and wide, kind of a ghost town street, and the limit is set at twenty-five. And who are we kidding? Twenty-five?”
A new picture came up on the screen—a diagram. The road, a few nicely spaced houses, some trees and driveways and a red arrow aiming for a stick man and a trash can. “At twenty-five miles an hour on this street you can put on the brakes and stop before running into Mr. Miller, who is just putting out his trash.” A new diagram came up. There were two red arrows. One went right over Mr. Miller and the other went right into a tree. “At forty miles an hour, if you apply your brakes the second you see Mr. Miller, you will not stop in time. If you swerve to avoid him, you’ll hit the tree head-on. Someone is going to die.”
The audience was silent. A third diagram came up—it showed all the same things, but a police car was added, and that car was on the far left of the screen at the very beginning of the arrow. “This guy is going to stop you if you’re doing forty. He’s a cop. He’ll save your life, Mr. Miller’s life and get his Christmas bonus.
“I could show you a diagram for every road and vehicle possibility—like the empty freeway, the deserted street or the mountain or desert road that is completely vacant, where there’s no Mr. Miller or no Preacher Smith in his wobbly old pickup and there would appear to be no reason on earth for that speed limit.”
He limped across the stage again. “Sometimes it might seem there is no logical reason for a speed limit of any kind. Except that at certain speeds the average person stands a better-than-average chance of losing control of the vehicle and having an accident. Now, where’s a guy, or girl, with a really great car going to find out what it can do? I mean, if you can’t even pick a safe, deserted road to have a little fun, then where can you give it a good test? The speedway. Every big city has one. If you can’t locate one, call the police department and ask. They’ll direct you to a safe speedway where you can work it out.
