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The Perfect Logic Of Youth

by T.SHER SINGH

I was 22 years old and had been in Canada only a few months when I realized I needed a car. And therefore, a Canadian driver’s license.

I’d been driving for several years in India before immigrating to Canada, so I was confident that getting one wouldn’t be a problem.

The written test was a shoo-in, though I did make a few slip-ups. It was obvious some of the signs and symbols were a little different here.

My friend Paul offered to let me use his Chevy Nova for the driving test.

The day before the test, he suggested we take the car out for a spin, so that I could get accustomed to it.

I got behind the wheel and he rode in the passenger seat. We took the long inter-city road connecting Port Arthur with Fort William - even though these Northern Ontario cities had been amalgamated and collectively renamed Thunder Bay only a year or so earlier, the old names still prevailed.

We drove along uneventfully for a few minutes, when Paul suddenly gasped:

“What did you do that for?”

“What?” I asked.

“What do you mean ‘What’? You just went through a stop sign!”

“I sure did. So?” I asked, genuinely puzzled. “What’s wrong with that? Why should I have stopped?”

He simply stared at me.

I explained: “Look, there was no traffic in any direction, nothing at all anywhere. So I didn’t stop. What’s wrong with that?”

“God! How did you ever pass the written test? Don’t you know you have to stop dead at a stop sign, no matter what. Every time you come to a stop sign! C’mon. You know that!” He sounded irritated.

“Of course I know you have to stop dead at a stop sign. But not just willy nilly ... Not when you can see there isn’t a soul for miles around. The law isn’t stupid. And it doesn’t expect you to be stupid.”

I couldn’t believe how irrational he was being.

“No, No, No!” he shook his head emphatically.

I pulled up by the side of the road, since our discussion was getting heated. And Paul was getting red in the face.

He went on: “You stop. You stop dead. E-v-e-r-y time!

“You count to three, or whatever, and then go. And it doesn’t matter if there is no traffic or if there isn’t a soul within miles. That’s the law. Check the book, or ask any cop, ask anybody, and they’ll tell you this. For heaven’s sake, take my word, or you’re not going to be getting a driver’s licence tomorrow.”

“Listen here, Paul,” I said, as I turned and faced him squarely. “Let’s be logical. We’re both educated. For heaven’s sake, we’re both studying for our Master’s. Surely we don’t need too much more intelligence to see that there could be no law which could demand such a ridiculous observance. Imagine, if you were right, we’d have thousands of drivers at any given moment stopping dead, counting to five, and driving away, all for no reason whatsoever. If there is traffic, it makes perfect sense. If there isn’t, it doesn’t. Believe me, the law couldn’t possibly say anything this asinine.“

Paul threw up his hands, rolled his eyes, and said: “Let’s get going. You’ll find out. Soon.”

The next day, I went for the test.

Paul looked at me sadly as the instructor and I drove away, leaving him on the sidewalk, wondering, I suppose, if he‘d ever see his car again.

The route was simple and short. There were no stop signs on the way.

When we got back, I was told I had passed with flying colours.

I got my licence.

For some reason, Paul did not look very pleased. I smiled a look of I-told-you-so at him. He shook his head, but didn’t brave a word.
 
Shortly thereafter, I acquired a Karmann Ghia. Sporty and sleek red. It didn’t go as fast as I wanted it to, but it sure sounded fast: it had, I was told, a “Cyclone” muffler. Which meant that, instead of muffling the sound, it sort of amplified it. You could hear me coming from a couple of blocks away.

I enjoyed the car during the next few months. In fact, even more so when I got stopped a few times by the police who suggested, very politely, that maybe the silencer in the car wasn’t working too well and I may want to get it replaced.

It’s a Cyclone muffler, I would tell them, and mutter a “No, thank you” under my breath as I walked away.

One night, about 10 months after I acquired the machine, I was heading home from a late night party. It was 3:00 in the morning, actually. The town was dead asleep. Not a soul in sight for miles.

I could’ve spotted anything coming from a couple of blocks away. It was dark. It was crisp, but not too cold to keep your windows up.

I thought of a short-cut. I swung left and headed down a long road that made a beeline through a new residential neighbourhood. It was peacefully quiet … but for my Cyclone muffler whose presence, I’m sure, reverberated across the valley.

I could see straight down the road for a mile, it seemed, and not a living soul anywhere. I looked around, and there wasn’t a single light in sight to indicate a moving vehicle.

I pressed on the accelerator, and we shot through space at, well, at 60 mph or so. It was exhilarating. The road was clear. Intersections and stop signs whizzed by like checkered flags.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a motor headlight gleam above the houses a few blocks to the right. It gradually started moving in the direction I was going.

Then another light appeared on the horizon a few blocks further away, also sort of heading in the same direction I was.

Then a third, from the opposite side.

It is nice to be up at this hour and enjoy the city in repose, I said to myself. And witness all of the distant comings and goings in panoramic, unfettered vision.

The headlight beams inching towards me quickly broke into an orchestra of colours. Dancing reds, yellows, blues, playfully painting the houses around them.

Looks like I might see some excitement, I figured. Cop cars chasing a burglar, may be.

Or, a fire? Maybe a rescue.

I slowed down. As I approached the commotion, I could see a police car stop right in the middle of the road, a block away. 

Another two appeared suddenly from different directions, blocking the road completely. It was too late for me to veer off on a side road to take an alternate route. I stopped about 50 feet in front of them, their headlights washing me squeaky clean.

I waited, eager to see the drama unfold before my very eyes. A ringside seat!

A loudspeaker came on, asking someone to step out. This is turning into fun, I thought, but should I duck or something? I had visions of a scene from Hawaii-Five-O, and could already see myself telling my friends in school the next day about this real-life take-down I had stumbled into.

The headlights were dimmed. A police officer emerged from one car. He had a gun in his hand.

It was pointing at me.

I sat completely still for a few seconds. Eons, actually.

I felt, no, heard, a light bulb come on in the deep recesses of my head.

Hell! I said loudly, to no one in particular.

A voice from within my skull whispered: Paul was right. The stop signs!

I opened the door and slid out of my seat.

“Raise your hands. H-I-G-H!” someone bellowed.

I stood upright, my hands held high. I was an avid TV-watcher. I knew exactly what to do.

Once ensconced in the back of a cruiser, the two officers in the front turned around to gawk at me. One screamed: “We could hear you from a mile away. What the f--k were you doing out there?”

I stammered and spluttered a bit and then: "I can explain it all, Officer. Everything.”

And I did.

I told them about my logic theory about stop signs, and how my cockiness had overruled my head.

They just looked at me.

They heard me ramble and mumble.

And then, they let me go. With a warning, no more.

They said my story was so stupid, it had to be true.

And yes, they also made me promise I'd change the silencer within 48 hours.

March 28, 2012      

 
 

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