So I did that thing, again, tonight, that we all do. You know, that Beverly Hills/ Hollywood thing. Where you head through a light you know you’re not exactly going to make, in an intersection that you know is between automatic photo intersections, without being sure that this one has one itself.
And you get to the other side, and spend the next five minutes (to hours) asking yourself if you saw a bright flash. You didn’t, really, but maybe you did? You replay it over and over, lecturing and scolding and weirdly savoring how it’s probably all for nothing, because Nothing Happened, that light didn’t have a camera box on it anyway. Except maybe it did?
You can swap all those you’s out for I’s, by the way. Because it was ME. I DID IT. I’M THE ONE.
Obviously I keep swearing I’ll stop.
It’s not, you know, compulsive or anything. I don’t sneak out at night just to drive by the skin of my teeth through random intersections, daring the municipalities of Hollywood and Beverly Hills to apprehend me by photograph. It’s not like, when I’m stressed, I find myself thinking, “oh, if I could just bait myself with the possibility of an enormous automated traffic ticket, I’d be fine.” But there is something a little bit, you know, neurotic about it, all the same. I hear the sane, prudent, reasonable, law-abiding, conscientious voice in my head telling me to just slow down and stop. Except I want to club this voice down like a fluffy baby seal, and then in turn get jumped by some batshit Greenpeace volunteer, in a kind of Full Cycle of Justice, and so instead I step on the gas.
Without the cameras, without the Schrodinger’s cat uncertainty of whether or not, in fact, THERE WAS A CAMERA, where’d be the thrill in these yellow lights?
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