It’s a little weird writing a blog entry when the point has already been given away so let’s call this one a freebie. You already know to get your legal crap straight. So for now, let’s just pretend we were sitting around the dinner table and the subject of Massachusetts Police Officers came up and I happened to have a story.

I bought my car in 2007 from a guy who just happens to buy & sell a lot of cars. Most of the time, he doesn’t even bother registering them to his name, because he only owns them for a couple of weeks at a time. When I bought my 1993 Honda Accord Tour Bus from him, it was still registered to the previous owner.

“It’s still registered until April [2007]” he said, “so… no sense wasting money, you can just drive it til then & get a couple free months out of it.”

That was terrible advice.

I hate paperwork. It’s my second-least favorite thing. So after a couple of months went by, and I’d moved to Tennessee, I just conveniently forgot about the registration.

…a year passed…

———

In the summer of 2008, the car stopped running. I replaced about 7 parts, including a few that I had to take the steering column apart to reach. My laziness being what it is, I waited for about a week to put the steering column back together, which was JUST long enough to forget how everything was supposed to fit. By the time I finally got the car running again (alternator), it was the day before my 3-month fall tour was supposed to start. I would have to register the car later.

…a month passed…

—————

There’s a hairpin exit ramp just outside Attleboro Falls, Massachusetts, where the speed limit drops from 55 to 35 to (a SUGGESTED speed of) 25 almost immediately. When it’s raining and there’s a police officer tailgating you… it’s borderline entrapment: you are NOT going to get down to 25mph in time. The officer who pulled us over looked like Henry Rollins, but was otherwise an exact caricature of Detective Sergeant Dignam.

“Do you boys got any drugs in there?” he accused with his thick Massachusetts accent.

“No, sir.”

“Are you SURE?”

“Yes, sir”

“No weed, no pills, no coke?” he proceeded…

“Oh, THOSE kinds of drugs? Well, yeah, we got blow. You partying?” I said …in my head.

“No, sir” I said instead.

He grilled us about what we were doing (touring) and why we had so many bags in the back seat (just left the CMJ music festival, on tour for 3 months) and then headed back to his car. After what seemed like an eternity, I saw a tow truck pull up in front of us. I was speechless.

APPARENTLY if you don’t register your vehicle for a year and a HALF after it expires, that is a towable offense in the state of Massachusetts.

We were taken out of the car and subjected to another half an hour of questioning (he just loooooved my gun-shaped belt buckle, and seemed genuinely agitated and confused by how I could not know what was in my pockets after wearing the same pair of jeans for a month.) At this point, we were informed that even though I had not given him permission to search my car, they had to “take inventory” before the car was impounded.

For the record, “Take Inventory” is Massachusetts Statey-Speak for “Rifle-Through-Your-Crap-And-Leave-It-In-A-Heap-In-The-Backseat”.

I was not allowed to take anything (not even my guitar, which they left out of the case and upside down).  About halfway through The Reckoning, the officer leapt (LEAPT.) out of my car, and stomped with purpose to where he’d left us, 100 yards away from the car.

“DID YOU STEAL THIS CAR?!?!”

Anytime someone stomps up to you, and points at the ground while they yell, you know they are serious. It’s as if they’re pointing to where they wish they could throw you without fear of a civil suit.

“I TOOK A LOOK AT YOUR STEERING COLUMN…”

It was at this point that I could not help but laugh. The car was still last registered to someone else, someone whose name I didn’t even know, and the steering column appeared to have been hotwired. I’m amazed I didn’t get Rodney King’d right there.

Eventually, the tow truck dropped us off at the nearest gas station, and we were alone in the middle of nowhere, absolutely freezing,  no car, no gear, and no idea how to get to the show in Boston that night.

I eventually recovered my car. It took three days, two hitched rides with the other band, two shows-with-borrowed-guitars, 6 faxes to Texas (giving my parents power of attorney over my car so they could register it), and a few hundred dollars (both for registration and for impound fees).

Was the cop a total jerk? Absolutely. Was it a completely bogus pull-over? Yes. (25 was not an enforceable speed limit, it was on a yellow sign.) Could I have fought the ticket and won? I’d say yes.

However, it would have cost more to travel to Massachusetts and fight it than it did to just pay it, so I set my indignant ego aside, and took the logical solution, figuring I’d use the story eventually. And besides: I probably deserved it anyway.

There’s really no excuse for 18 months.

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Photo by http://www.flickr.com/photos/djakartafotografi/ / CC BY 2.0

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