I’m not much of a criminal. It isn’t because I have a strict moral code. Although I have a conscience, my moral behavior is fenced in with a fear of consequences. I don’t want to be caught and I certainly don’t want to go to jail. My thinking leads me to the edge where my fear snatches my hand and jerks me away.
2014 marked the beginning of the Crosby St. crime spree. The year started out hectic. Although my work gets busy when I’m bidding a job or doing billings, most of my 40 hour work week is low key. Just before a bid and at the end of the month when I’m doing billings, I am nose down at my desk. Otherwise, I can answer a text or a call with impunity.
We started this year with work and with opportunities for more work. Some days I get into the office, start the coffee, get a call from the field with a hair on fire problem, look wistfully at the pot of coffee, lock up the office, and leave to see what’s up on the job. Before I get to one job site, there’s something happening on one of the other sites. I find myself driving like a demon, jaw and bum cheeks clenched, mind darting from project to project to project.
I was in that crazed mindset as I dashed to our Portland job and noticed a DPS trooper slowly arc around and turn on his lights. 76 in a 60. The trooper was nice, of course, explaining that I needed to make contact with the JP and that I could take defensive driving so the ticket wouldn’t impact my car insurance rates.
Should I tell Bob about this ticket? Fifteen years of single life weigh in: Why bother him about the ticket? You’ll be taking defensive driving and it won’t show up. Pay for it out of your personal account. He doesn’t need to know. He’ll just get upset and yell at you.
Bob yells at me about my driving all the time. It sounds like this, Baby. I was following you back from the meeting and you just slowed down at the 4 way stop sign. I worry about you when you drive so fast. Please be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you.
I didn’t say anything to Bob and made plans to take the course.
Ten days later on the way to a project, lead foot kicked in as I tried to make up 20 minutes in 10. It was the flashing lights in my rear view mirror that made me glance at the speedometer and wince. 78 in a 65. I was too demoralized to try to talk my way out of the ticket. I told my boss, Max, about the tickets in a rehearsal speech for Bob. If Bob yelled at me like Max, I’d never tell him anything. Woman! What is the matter with you? Are you trying to kill yourself? You didn’t tell Bob? Dios mio! Are you stupid? He won’t stay married to you if you lie to him. Not telling is the same as LYING. Mentirosa!
Really, Bob wasn’t that upset. It might have helped that I started out with “I have something terrible to tell you. I’ve done something just awful and haven’t told you the truth.” He looked relieved that it was only two speeding tickets.