MICHELE ON THE LAM

How I came to be living on the lam is a long story, starting with living in Massachusetts, where the state has determined it is in the best interest of the environment, and the car repair industry, that all vehicles must be inspected annually at a state-approved garage for the neat sum of thirty-five dollars. While it is a pain in the butt, I have always just done it as late in the month when it is due as I can stretch.

 

           Last year my inspection was due in December, a month filled with events, some merry, many not. Mine was filled with multiple medical appointments for my husband, whom I must drive. I made several efforts to have my car inspected but was told by a local garage I was too late, they were going to lunch, or I’d have to remove my dog’s crate first. The men I spoke to had an attitude and it wasn’t friendly. I tried a few more times and got the same reception.

 

            By mid-January, I knew my sticker had expired and that I was living on the lam. With more medical appointments to get to than in December, I set my priorities and accepted my fate. Avoiding the police was my new goal. I began taking the road less traveled, hoping the cops would stick to congested routes where criminals were more likely lurking.

I learned the backroads of Cape Cod and where every local police station was located. It became a game. Avoiding the police was my new goal. I began taking the road less traveled, hoping the cops would stick to congested routes where criminals were more likely lurking. I learned the backroads of Cape Cod and where every local police station was located. It became a game. I learned the backroads of Cape Cod and where every local police station was located. It became a game. Avoiding the police was my new goal. I began taking the road less traveled, hoping the cops would stick to congested routes where criminals were more likely lurking. I learned the backroads of Cape Cod and where every local police station was located. It became a game.

            My neighbors laughed at me when I told them I was on the lam. One who works with law enforcement assured me I’d only get a warning if caught, although technically driving without an inspection sticker is a moving violation. Still, every time I got behind the wheel, I drew a deep breath and conjured a new story for the cop I was sure would stop me. “Officer, I really tried to get a sticker, but between so many medical appointments and being rejected by the garage personnel, it was impossible,” I imagined myself saying as I dropped my forehead against the steering wheel. Maybe I would do better if I said nothing and just burst into tears, I wondered. But I’m not a big crier and wasn’t sure I could start now. Other times when I was so exhausted from all the driving I was doing and from avoiding law enforcement, I pictured a baby-faced cop stopping me as I held out my wrists for the handcuffs and stoically told him to just take me away. Being a fugitive from justice is so depleting.

            I lived without an inspection sticker for nearly five months. I began enjoying the game. I’d drive past a cruiser and laugh. “We got away again, Salty,” I’d say to my dog. I think she smiled back at me.  The writer in me kept thinking about all the characters I had read about and created that lived on the lam. I had loved the television show, The Fugitive, and cheered during the last episode when justice was finally served. Wasn’t being “wanted” kind of romantic?

 

            But my minor foray into a life of crime told me differently and gave me insight as a writer. Having to be hypervigilant about when you’ll encounter your next police officer can’t be fun. Knowing you may have to abandon your grocery cart if you get behind a cop in line or add five miles to your route to avoid a speed trap can get old. And if you fear your loss of liberty and not merely a warning or fine, it would be terrifying.

            A few days ago, I found a new garage and decided to make an appointment. A friendly man told me they could take me right now, pointed to a comfy bench to sit on while I waited, and smiled without scolding me for having an expired sticker. No problem with the puppy crate in the bag seat, he assured me. Within three minutes, I was no longer on the lam, sporting a new sticker on my car and feeling ridiculously relieved and redeemed.

Michele Dorsey is the author of Oh Danny Girl and the Sabrina Salter series, including No Virgin Island, Permanent Sunset, Tropical Depression, and Salt Water Wounds. Her latest novel, Gone But Not Forgotten will be published by Severn House in July 2023.Michele is a lawyer, mediator, former adjunct law professor and nurse, who didn’t know she could be a writer when she grew up. Now that she does, Michele writes constantly, whether on St John, outer Cape Cod, or anywhere within a mile of the ocean.