Do Not Feed the Fear

The stories we focus our attention on feed that fearful wolf

Day two of my drive home after the immediate aftermath of The Divorce was far better than the first day. I needed to go home for a week before coming back to Vegas and facing the dark carnival music of that situation. Driving from Nevada to New Mexico was a zombie-ride, listening to but not hearing podcasts, talking to but not remembering conversations on the road with friends and family. Knowing that I had to break the news of the specifics to my family when I arrived and worrying about how they'd respond.

No, day two, after spending the night in the filthiest motel in the United States in the crotch of three major highways of Albuquerque, was seeped in the euphoria of the road, the music of my youth, and the giddy sense that things could not possibly be worse. The first day there were at least four definitive moments when I pondered the idea of just wrenching the steering wheel left and crashing my Prius into a ditch at 75 miles an hour and letting the sweet embrace of carnage stop the mantra of self doubt and self recrimination that wouldn't change tracks. The second day was the feeling of freedom scored by Eddie Van Halen and Steven Tyler, arm out the window, singing at the top of my lungs the kind of lyrics that are considered Neanderthal by the standards of today.

Of course I was going to get a speeding ticket.

The first in decades, the officer pulled me over going 80 in a 55 as those little speed trap towns do in western Kansas, pockets of immediate speed limit shifts designed to slow you down as you enter their two-horse towns and catch you when you don't.

I was still smiling despite the seriousness of the cop. I happily handed over my information, apologized for the lack of awareness, and took the citation. Later, back in Vegas, I dug out a book of old checks—still connected to my bank account but with my old Chicago address on it. Who pays with checks anymore? The small town didn't take a digital payment but a personal check was acceptable. I signed it, I mailed it, I forgot about it. I had a few other things to occupy my mind including how to carry out my trash without passing by my ex-wife's window and being serenaded by sounds of her having sex with someone.

Once I had moved back to Kansas to convalesce and figure out the bizarre trajectory of things out of the shadow of my failed marriage a friend forwarded some mail to my mother's house. In it was a notice that the tiny speed trap town still wanted the fine. I sighed, looked up the check in my account, did a screenshot of proof that I had paid the fine, and emailed it to them. "Here's proof of payment. I hope this closes the matter and thank you."

I put it out of my mind. I was looking for work, piecing things back together like being given a box of jigsaw puzzle pieces and trying to put it together without having any idea what the end result was supposed to look like.

This week, having dinner with my parents and watching the finale of Tough as Nails, my dad asks my mom "Did you give him his mail?"

"Later, after the show," she replied but there was something off about the exchange. At a break in the show, I hopped up and looked for my mail. No mail but there was a rolled up document, three pages stapled. wrapped in a thin rubber band. I checked it and it was a summons to court for May in a town in western Kansas. It informed me that I was to appear "to be examined and answer questions under oath or penalty of perjury concerning [my] property, assets and income." Also included is the order to bring with me a copy of my 2021 and 2022 Income Tax Returns with all schedules and W-2's, current wage verification and current photo ID.

For a speeding ticket?

My first thought is that I did pay this fine but, if these folks didn't receive it or someone on their end screwed up, I have to admire the tenacity and scare tactics. Like the paper boy in Better Off Dead, they'll go to great lengths to get their two dollars.

Second is that the delivery of a legal document seems sketchy. An official court summons rolled up with a rubber band and stuck to a mailbox? At the bottom of the official document is this: "This is a communication from a debt collector. Be advised that this is an attempt to collect a debt and that any information obtained will be used for that purpose." The District Court Trustee lists a P.O. Box and has a Yahoo email address. The judge's signature is obviously pasted in as a jpeg. On the other hand, this is Small Town, KS and, without prejudice, my guess is that the obvious lack of an official address or legit email may just be one of those cultural differences between the city mouse and the country mouse.

Third, this worries my mom. I think part of it is that I’m on solid ground for the first time in nearly a year and she is concerned that this will knock me off my good vibes. It doesn’t phase me which tells me the ground is truly solid and a blip on the radar isn’t going to send me into a panic or a dark hole of anxiety. She tells me I should get this taken care of (I don’t think she believes I paid the fine which says more about her trust that I am, in fact, a grown person rather than my nephew) because she worries that police these days beat people up and sometimes kill them over traffic violations. Her perception is that the cops kill lots of people over traffic violations and that I may be in physical danger over a speeding ticket.

She both right and wrong to be afraid.

Police in the US have killed nearly 600 people during traffic stops since 2017, with the deaths continuing apace this year, a review of national police violence data shows. That’s a lot. On the other hand, police pull over approximately 32 million drivers each year which means that 0.001875% of traffic violations result in any violence. I’m more likely to get eaten by a rabid squirrel or die choking on an Oreo than get killed by a cop at a traffic stop. Further, I survived the traffic stop and as much as I want to see rural America from a Deliverance point of view, I’m pretty certain no one’s killing me for a speeding ticket. Maybe anally raping me in the woods like Ned Beatty but not murder.

The stories, on the news, online, on social media, are all designed to scare the living shit out of us. I recall a local television special about deaths caused by escalators. The statistics behind the number of people who died on faulty escalators is so ridiculously small that it’s almost Darwin Award territory but, if the news of escalator deaths was reported day after day for weeks, we’d all be taking the stairs. Mom and I laughed a month or so ago as the national news reported every day for a week about rogue wave hitting a cruise ship and how we needed to watch out for those pernicious rogue waves cuz you never know.

This is only marginally different from being murdered in America.

There were 24,576 homicides in 2020 compared to 200,955 accidental deaths, according to the CDC. You’re about twice as likely to die from an unintentional fall, for example, than be murdered. Of those homicides 600 were by police with just over half of those as a response to the victim wielding a weapon.

Unless I drive to Dodge City with a pistol, run into the courthouse screaming like an idiot, and convince them I’m black, I’ll probably be fine.

The thing that we have to contend with is that numbers, even if they’re correct, even if they prove the point, are not persuasive. Stories are. No one changed their mind from a list of numbers. The stories we are told and pass on to others is the meat and gravy of conviction. Hear and believe enough good, solid stories about people being drowned in a rogue wave and rogue waves become an imminent threat. The issue is curation. We can’t expect those telling us stories for market share and audience capture to tell us stories to keep us positive. It is in their best interest, financially, to frighten the piss out of us because we eat that up with a spork.

The world isn’t nearly as bad as it plays on TV.

If you judge Chicago by the national news, it’s a city filled with crime and murder. Having lived there for thirty years, it is not that. At all. The stories we hear become the convictions we maintain.

I did some online hunting. The Trustee was actually a Trustee of the court and her number was listed as “County of Ford.” I looked that up and it looked legit.

I called the number. I explained that the notification seemed a little 'scammy' from its appearance. She understood and emailed me (from an official email) the full documentation (including a scan of the ticket with my signature). Turns out they had received my check, had cashed it, but there was an additional $37.00 fee tagged on after ten business days that was not paid. She claimed they had tried to get a hold of me but, as I explained to her, I had been in transition for the past year so I understood that it was a challenge. I mentioned that the whole summons to court over thirty-seven bones felt a bit extreme but she didn’t find it unusual or funny. She lectured me about paying the full amount in a timely manner. I paid the $37.00 and she sent me official confirmation.

The world might be every bit as corrupt as it plays on TV but it really isn't the horror show those in charge of telling stories want us to believe.