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Thursday, January 27, 2011

Swartswood: Moving Violations


Clutch in. Gas. Foot off break. Release clutch, increase pressure on gas pedal. Move forward. Increase speed. Punch the clutch, drop into second gear, wind out the engine. Hit third gear, burst forward, and launch all four wheels off the ground. Temporary weightlessness. Gravity held at bay for a fleeting moment before feeling the leaf springs collapse and the skid plate grind against the tar and chip road. You have just gotten your driver’s license, and life in North Jersey is good.

People say you learn by observing the world around you and studying the examples of your elders, but I didn’t see too many adults drift their cars onto two wheels or redline their engines before launching off the town jump. We learned to drive like the Lord of the Flies kids learned to negotiate–in packs and dangerously–then we buckled those self-destructive habits in and took them everywhere.

For years, at least one kid from every local graduating class was lost in a traffic related fatality. My cousin’s best friend was a kid named Shane whose Volkswagen met a gravel truck as he moved to pass another car.  Two of my classmates were obliterated a few years after graduating. We’d always rallied on our way to school; they just didn’t beat the odds that day. We never assumed it could happen to us, and each fatality was a new surprise. It never occurred to us that a car could be dangerous, or that driving safely was a social responsibility.

So, when we left the Swartswood State Park motor pool with a brand new Dodge pickup, the first model released with the premier Magnum engine, our first stop was the town jump.  We returned the truck with a grapefruit-sized dent between the cab and bed, and my vehicle was immediately downgraded to an S-10 with much less power. The little 4-cylinder still had a bubble light on top, so we switched out our safety orange dome with a spare Ranger red one and amused ourselves for an afternoon pulling people over. We’d drive by laughing, watching as nervous looks turned angry, then giving the finger back and continuing with our spree of moving violations.

It wasn’t just kids that disrespected the motor pool. My first week at Swartswood, a middle-aged crew leader left a truck in neutral with both doors open so she could hear the radio while she worked, only to witness the doors get  ripped off as it rolled away backwards hitting trees. A full time maintenance chief began every morning driving wildly across the main lawn, laying on his horn to prevent the Canada geese from settling in. Rangers used their Crown Vics as rolling nap wagons, and every full timer kept either a beer or a bong which they’d “just found in the park” behind their seats. In that respect, we did learn by seeing.  All state vehicles were rolling playgrounds.

Before claiming the keys to my S-10, I claimed the park speed record in the new Dodge. There were other titles to be earned, too: most donuts without hitting another car, best electrical fire caused by rewiring a stereo, and most winch truck rescues required in a given week.  We played hide-a-dent, pinging a truck somewhere and seeing if the fleet manager would notice. Touching a door handle without gloves was never wise.  A dirty windshield was a sign your wiper blades had been removed, and every windshield had deeply grooved arcs scratched in before we learned to check them.  We were kids with no sense of accountability, and it only really hurt when a personal vehicle ghost rolled downhill from the employee parking lot and destroyed tables in the picnic grove.

Our only motivation was not getting caught, so we maintained safety zones where our antics were forbidden. I kept a 5-mile radius around the home of an old farmer who hated me, so I was surprised when I opened and read a letter from Park Superintendent Big Stan stating I was no longer welcome to return for a fifth year at Swartswood.  I wouldn’t debate most of the unproven accusations—before leaving, I’d hidden a large, leaky bag of goose scat in the park office, and had posted a mean-spirited cartoon “summer recap” on the October section of the lunchroom calendar.  There were literally dozens of valid reasons to not rehire me, but the letter claimed that I’d been witnessed driving recklessly past the old farmer’s home on several occasions, and therefore posed a risk to public safety.  I found out shortly after receiving the letter that Big Stan was a close friend of the old farmer’s, and I’d been outmatched by a couple of seasoned North Jersey cronies. 

Big Stan still works for the state in a high ranking position, but the farmer passed away a few summers ago.  He’d been repairing a gate in one of the fields just two miles from his home, when a pair of kids from the next town collided with his old Jeep Cherokee, killing all three instantly.  I still drive past his place from time to time, but now I drive slowly because I want to, not for fear of repercussions.  I’m no longer a reckless kid found guilty of unproven allegations, but realize that even as a careful adult, I can still receive his sentence at any moment.  

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