As of Monday, it takes one full hand to tick off the number of
times I’ve been pulled over.
As of Monday, it takes one full hand to tick off the number of times I’ve been pulled over.
It marked the first time those pretty red and blue lights had appeared in my rearview mirror in Hollister, and although it wasn’t serious, it was definitely interesting.
Before I elaborate on my recent vehicular faux paux, let me give you a brief history of my prior automobile-related indiscretions.
They all occurred in Chico, and Chico cops are notorious for pulling over young college brats for anything and everything to levy the long hand of the law on them.
It stems from the town’s party reputation and the abundance of young drunk drivers, which is completely warranted, but sometimes they take it a little too far.
Most of the times I’ve been pulled over have been pretty legit on the cops’ part.
I have been cited for a seat belt violation, two broken tail lights (at separate times) and a headlight that was out.
The seat belt ticket was, in my opinion, a stretch, considering I was pulling out of a shopping center and in the process of putting the belt on when the cop stopped me.
But I chalked it up to a cop on a power trip, spent an entire afternoon in traffic court witnessing first hand the definition of legal hell, wrote a lame essay promising I’d never do it again and went on my merry way.
So all in all, nothing too major and nothing to blacken my driving record.
This last stop tops my list of ridiculous reasons to pull someone, though.
It was around 1 p.m. and I was driving back to work from lunch. I was stopped at the light on McCray and South streets, waiting to make a left.
And here comes the kicker – I was smoking a cigarette.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know it’s a filthy habit and I need to quit and someday I will. But for now, it’s one of the only vices I have left in my ever dwindling arsenal of enjoyable no-no’s.
So there I was, waiting patiently for the very long red light to turn green; my arm casually draped out the window, cigarette loosely clamped between my middle and index fingers.
Before I go on, let me elaborate briefly on this habit of mine. There are prime times to smoke a cigarette – after a big meal, when you’re really stressed, with alcohol or caffeine and in the car.
I don’t know why, but every time I set foot in my car I get a hankering for some nicotine.
And within this habit, I also have a sub-habit of kind of twirling the cigarette around between my fingers, flicking it even when it doesn’t need to be ashed.
While I was absent-mindedly gyrating the thin cancer stick out the window, I was oblivious to a sleek black and white Crown Vic idling behind me.
About two seconds after I made it through the intersection I became very aware of it when flashing lights caught my eye in the rear-view mirror.
As the officer lumbered up to my car I leaned my head out the window and politely asked if I had done something wrong, because for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what it could be.
“I bet you don’t even know,” he said, pointing to my cigarette with one hand while making a brisk flicking gesture with his thumb and middle finger on the other.
It seemed I had mistaken the moniker on his uniform to mean he was a CHP officer, because he was apparently part of the elusive cigarette highway patrol.
After informing me that ashing out the window could garner me a $180 fine, he graciously let me go with just a warning.
Hey, thanks.
I understand the law concerning this smoking thing – throwing a lit cigarette out the window could start a fire and that’s not good for anybody.
But I was stopped in the middle of a giant stretch of asphalt and I wasn’t even ashing the cigarette – just mindlessly twirling it.
If I had been bombing down a country road, randomly flicking lit cigarettes into nearby brush and countryside then I could see the point of stopping me and reading the riot act.
But this was just too over the top to take seriously.
And it begs the question, why me? I have a hard time believing I’m the only person out there whose cigarette is depositing stray ashes on the pristine streets of Hollister.
Not to mention the waste of time. Don’t they have more important things to do, like shelling out speeding tickets or helping old ladies repair blown tires on the side of the road?
My little encounter with the smoking patrol did cause me to change my driving routine while smoking.
Instead of mindlessly ashing my cigarette out the window whenever I want, now I check the mirror real good before I do it.
It even gives me an extra little rush, knowing I’m breaking the law.
