Gordon, the Economist

Ray runs a red light and finds himself in a bit of trouble.

Thunder and I were on a typical drive back from Foxwoods one evening in the GTI.

 

“Look, that ain’t no damn good, it’s mids.”

 

“It’s not mids! I swear to you, Thunder: Marc always does us right! Every time.”

 

Thunder said, “Nope. Not a damn time did he do us right.”

 

I said, “It’s good bud, dude. I paid sixty, Marc gave me sixty worth. That’s how it goes with the dude. That’s it! I’m putting on Ab-soul.”

 

I put in the CD-R labeled “$ Doubleballa Kookbook $” and turned up the bass. I played the fourth track, Gone Insane by Ab-Soul. I said,

 

“Let me see that, anyway.”

 

Thunder raised up the bud and I turned towards to look at it. I examined it. It had enough orange hairs to my liking. Crystals were visible.

 

“Yellow. Look out,” Thunder said.

 

I looked up. I was between solid white lines already, but the light went red.

 

I ran the light and a few seconds later, I saw the red and blue lights in the background.

 

Damn it.

 

Thunder said, “S**t.”

 

He started getting the weed together to hide it. Marijuana is decriminalized in Connecticut. We would only have to pay a fine, if caught, but the crime is still not even worth that.

 

I thought about this for a moment. I would have to pay a fine for speeding, and I could potentially be charged with reckless driving for running a red light. A speeding ticket is a legal document stating that you must funnel money back into the government. Thunder and I were small business owners. We funnel money back into the government anyway with the American income tax.

 

About half the money goes into the state and local court systems, then some of the money goes to the court employees and law enforcement, money that could be provided by the ludicrous amount of money spent by the United States Congress. Instead, I would have to pay it. Cop cars cruise down highways, hide behind roads, wait at red lights, in order to meet a quota for tickets. The system for traffic law enforcement does work, but it only punishes the unlucky. Many times, a man will be driving just as fast as the next on the highway, perhaps ten over the speed limit, as usual, but he will be the only one picked out to pay the price for it. The dynamic looks like a predator picking out a single gazelle from the herd. Only the most watchful and mindful will avoid being ticketed. Usually, if a cop is not in sight, then a man will speed as usual. The system is flawed, there is no doubt about that. And now, for the first time, I would be the gazelle, caught in stride.

 

F**k that.

 

“YOU!”

 

Thunder looked up.

 

“ARE NOT!”

 

I dropped my right hand to the gear shifter.

 

“ON MY PAYROLL!!”

 

I dropped the gear from fourth to third, and I released the clutch with a hard press on the gas pedal. The GTI’s turbo engaged and we took off down Route 2. I heard the sirens turn on. My eyes were fixated on the road ahead, trying to plan further and further advance such that I could drive fast enough to do what I was about to do.

 

I didn’t understand why the American road system had to be plagued by cop cars. I paid taxes, but I couldn’t enjoy my favorite megastructure? I love driving. It is where I achieve Zen, peace. Yet, a speeding ticket is so expensive, and for what? So we can fund the court system and the police? I didn’t like that idea at all. The federal government should pay for all that. They pay for fat people to get motor scooters, why couldn’t they pay for me to drive on the road I pay for?

 

The highway system is very intricate, and it needs a certain level of maintenance. Route 95, however, is ridden with problems. There’s traffic as you go into New York, as you leave New York, as you go through Baltimore, as you go through D.C. The highway is just outdated. It’s too small. It was built during the Eisenhower administration, in what was a brilliant use of executive power. Now, the population with cars is much higher, and we need highways that can handle more congestion, but now there is no money for things like that. There was, of course, the stimulus package, which was squandered on temporary fixes. If they had spent those hundreds of billions on a new superhighway, or a bullet train, one that goes through all the major cities, it would have been a permanent improvement to the United States infrastructure, and consequently, a permanent improvement to the United States economy.

 

No, now we pay money on entitlements, on a massive national security budget, to fight off all the people in the world who hate us for having left our borders in the first place. Now, we have enemies that will be hard to erase, and we have a colossal lower-class addicted to welfare. Now, my whole generation is signed up to pay for debts we accumulated, yet we can’t even get paid well enough to move out of our parents’ houses. The government wants my money to pay for all these things that are crippling our economy, yet they also want me to pay massive fines for their s****y road system.

 

Not today.

 

Thunder said, “God, please grant us the strength to make it through the trials and tribulations you have presented us with.”

 

I double shifted my way to fifth gear. I had practiced double-shifting a couple times when I took the GTI to the underground racing circuit in Norwich. I sped up to 50, 60, 70.

 

On the radio, Ab-soul said,

 

I think I’m Jimi Hendrix

I think I’m Kurt Cobain

I think I’m John Lennon (John Lennon!)

Gone insane.

 

I shifted to sixth gear and leaned back far enough such that my arms were outstretched all the way to the wheel. I sped up.

 

80.

 

Someone take this gun.

 

Thunder was clutching his crystal.

 

“God, please let Ray drive tonight as well as�"”

 

Before I blow out my brain. (Bang.)

 

“he did in the circuit last week.”

 

My brow was tense. I was focusing on the road before me. The cop was right behind me. I had to gain on him somehow. I had to think, but there was no time.

 

90.

 

100.

 

“Please let Ray make wise decisions, as he tries to escape the po-po. Amen.”

 

110.

 

The sirens were blaring behind me, but I could hear the sound stretching further out as I gained speed. I was approaching the fastest speed my vehicle could go while making the slight bends in the road. The police car behind me was faster. I was frustrated.

 

I figured I would have to lose this guy soon, or he would have his back-up cut me off with a spike strip. Ab-soul continued.

 

Yo’ hands up as if you won’t strike like lightning.

Don’t shoot! You can’t fight a viking on vicodin.

Can you?

 

The sign ahead said to slow down to forty-five to make the turn ahead.

 

I said, “Hold on.”

 

I would like to see you try it then.

 

I banked the turn going 112, and we gained on the police car for a moment.

 

“His turn radius, Thunder. Mine’s better.”

 

I knew what I was going to do.

 

I be eatin’ rappers that the only way I’m bitin’ them!

 

There was someone on the road ahead of me. I swerved to the right, into the shoulder lane, and swept around him. The cop car came around on the left. I sped up. The rotary circle was ahead.

 

“Thunder, how much do you trust me?”

 

Thunder was still gripping his quartz crystal.

 

“I trust you. I played ball witchu,” he said.

 

“You played ball with me. That’s right. I want you to trust me when I tell you to try to hold on tight. I can’t have your weight shifting around for this.”

 

I approached the rotary circle, where Route 184 comes across Route 2. The speed limit was 45 here. I was going 116. There was a mini-van setting a lower bound of my window of ingress. I had to get in front of it.

 

I called out to my ancestor as the samurai might have in his time.

 

“Johan Wendel Pulver, of Palantine, if you’re up there, I could really use some warrior spirit right now.”

I got closer to the circle. The mini-van driver would probably not notice me until it was too late. It was up to me to make sure all of us made it home safe.

 

The horns sounded from my car and the mini-van. I successfully swung just in front of the driver coming across the circle. I turned my wheel slightly left, just enough to stay on the road. I could hear the sound of the tires screeching under the drift. I held the car pointed in the right direction. As I pumped the brake softly against the drift, my expression remained tightly focused on survival.

And we cleared it. Exiting the other side of the circle, I looked into my rear view. The police car was backing up for some reason, next to the van. He must have stopped to try to avoid collision. Now was my chance.

 

I continued another mile down the road and looked to the right, at the office of Gourmet Galley, the company I work at as a waiter. I drove to the back of the building where the company trucks are, and I parked in between, completely obscured from the road. I pulled the parking brake, got out, and pulled out a cigarette. Thunder was still in shock when got out of the passenger side.

 

“Goddamn. That was a cop, Ray! A cop! Do you just do whatever you want? All the time?”

 

I took a drag off my cigarette.

 

“Yes.”