Please refrain from flash photography
There I was, walking up a suburban sidewalk with my groceries. The night was fraught with darkness and drizzle. Vehicles passed. Except for one. In the curb lane sat that bane of the modern motorist, the photo radar van.
Yes, the photo radar van. Feared by many, hated by most, the photo radar van lies in wait, as cold and unfeeling as a hypothermic gynecologist on Novocaine. Perhaps we fear it because of its purity. Its singularity of purpose. The way it performs its function unclouded by conscience, remorse, or delusions of morality.
For it has no prejudice. It exercises no subjective judgement. It issues no warnings. It is unmoved by how attractive or innocent we may appear. It spares not rich nor poor, black nor white, male nor female, able-bodied nor differently-abled. Its impassive, metallic eye discriminates only between the illegally fast and the not illegally fast. And it makes no exceptions.
I paused as I walked past, and admired the van’s sleekness. It seemed almost reptilian in the way it idled, exuding a plume of exhaust that was white in the cool night air. It was the perfect law enforcement vehicle, its structural perfection matched only by its hostility.
Through the tinted glass, I could just make out the shape of the officer who skulked in the belly of the beast. As per police regulations, he was playing solitaire on a laptop computer. I could tell from his movements that he was playing like a professional.
At that moment a yellow compact car blundered into the serpent’s web. There was a flash as a tongue of fire lashed out through the rain and struck its license plate, burning an indelible inscription on the eye of the beast.
The driver hit the brakes, but it was too late. The quarry was landed. I stood and watched the traffic pass, my face glowing red in the taillights of those who were warned by the yellow car’s fate.
I moved further up the street, so I could watch the faces of the damned as they were struck by the swift thunderbolt of justice. At the moment of judgment, some displayed surprise, some anger, others a heart-rending sadness. Many seemed under the glare of Medusa herself, their frightened faces turning to stone as the demon’s eye winked in their rear view. Then there were the brave few who simply narrowed their eyes and kept on speeding, confident that the worst had passed.
As I watched, I became aware that I was not the only one indulging in photo-radar voyeurism that night. A pair of alcohol-enhanced pedestrians were making their way up the opposite sidewalk, and they too had paused to watch the action.
For me, each flash of the van was observed stoically, as an ephemeral moment of pseudo-philosophical reflection. For them, photo radar was a raucous spectator sport. They egged on the traffic, placing spontaneous bets on who was about to get zapped.
A red sports car whizzed past. FLASH! The drunk guys cheered. Then a blue Toyota. FLASH! They cheered again. Then a fully-loaded 4-wheel drive. FLASH! The corpses were piling up.
Then I heard laughter behind me. I turned to see two muscle-shirted men seated on a balcony above, presiding over the spectacle like bluebloods at the venerable Globe. They were drinking beer and smoking marijuana—in full view of the police van—and when the flashbulb popped they crowed in delight. They were not nearly as bombastic as the guys across the street, but their laid-back hoots and hollers lent an air of understated dignity to the proceedings.
And lo, the van went on culling the herd with extreme Darwinism. With each new wave of traffic, one or two would be taken. A grey Volvo sped past. FLASH! Then a red Mazda. FLASH! Then a beautifully restored 1966 Ford Falcon. FLASH!
This, I realized, is street theatre for the new millennium. The drunk guys, the stoned guys and I were the audience, and a sweeping epic was playing out before us on an asphalt stage. All the elements were there: comedy, tragedy, hubris, and a uniformed villain representing power and corruption at the highest levels of society.
But it went deeper than that. We were a motley crew of common citizens, thrown together by fate, united in a shared appreciation of some other poor bastards getting screwed. Verily, t’was a beautiful thing.
Finally, in a moment so perfect that many will accuse me of making it up, a police car crested the hill. It was going too fast. I knew it. The drunk guys across the street knew it. The stoned guys on the balcony knew it. We all knew it. We drew a collective breath. And....
FLASH! The audience roared. The guys across the street jumped up and punched the air. The balcony dudes toasted their beer in celebration. I did a dance of joy. It was a moment of pure, distilled irony, intoxicating as the finest mead.
For alas, unlike the flesh-and-blood cop, the photo radar van discriminates not between the civilian and the police vehicle. The plot of our little drama had come full circle. The piglet had fallen upon his own needle teeth. Officer Hamlet, embroiled in his solitaire, had unwittingly slain Officer Polonius. The snake had swallowed his own tail.
And that was all. The show was over. The drunk guys and I picked up our things and continued on our way. The stoned guys finished their joint and went inside. And deep in the tinted depths of the photo radar van, the police officer started a new game. •
Originally published in The Peak, February 12 2001. For more mock-heroic automotive musings, try Death of a Honda.
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