MARY KETTL

Perspective

It's not that I couldn't be a criminal - I've seen wanted posters in the post office; I have yearbook pictures worse than that - it's just that I don't really fit the criminal profile. I don't have a record, I don't own a gun, and I have such a pathological fear of breaking rules that no board game can commence until I have read aloud all the instructions printed on the inside of box. I'm just not the felony type.

So I was a little annoyed when I got pulled over by the police twice within one half hour on a recent Saturday night. Mind you, this was a Saturday night during the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally, an event during which thousands of people who should not wear tanktops in public pile onto shiny and expensive motorcycles and rush to the Black Hills of South Dakota for the purpose of riding very slowly up and down the streets on bikes so loud that it is almost impossible for people to talk about their feelings. I realize that most bikers aren't criminals, either - the big guy with the shaved head, leather chaps, and the word "pain" tattooed above his left nipple could just be your orthodontist - but on a hot night, among dozens of roaring motorcycles, hundreds of strangers, and a long and potentially unruly line at the Dairy Queen, I had to wonder why the police were targeting a middle-aged school teacher in a gray Buick.

Apparently, it's because I have poor turning skills. The first officer, pulling me over after I had turned left at an intersection, informed me that I had failed to use my turn signal. I have to admit that I did not know that this was against the law. I mean, I use my blinkers - it's not like I regularly go around veering up onto people's lawns without warning - I just thought signaling was more like saying, "Mother, may I?" than an absolute requirement.

"Is this your car?" the policeman asked.

"It's my mom's," I answered, adding, too quickly, "But she gave it to me!" Being questioned by people in authority always makes me nervous, especially when those people are wearing 62 pounds of crime-fighting equipment on their belts. "She had two of them!" I blurted out. "She said I could have this one for school!"

"OK," the officer said. "Just be careful, and remember to signal when you turn."

As he walked back to his patrol car and I realized that I would not be arrested after all, I felt both relief and also a twinge of disappointment. Like many people, I have occasionally thought about going to prison for a few months, just to get caught up on naps and letter-writing. Knowing that I taught junior high for 12 years, some people would say I've already done time, but school and prison are very different. Prison is much quieter, and there's less hitting. There's also less shoving in the lunch line. When you're standing behind a convicted axe murderer, you don't take the last chocolate milk.

As I drove back down the street, signaling blocks in advance of my intent to turn into a convenience store parking lot, I considered what kind of crime I could commit to get sent away for six months or so. Killing someone, although I regularly threaten to do this, seemed like too much work. I don't have the math skills for accounting irregularities or tax fraud. The bad things I do on a regular basis - talk during movies, eat raw cookie dough right out of the package - don't usually carry jail sentences.

Standing in line at the convenience store counter, a 12-pack of pop in each hand, I briefly considered holding up the place, but then I realized that the two things I want most from a convenience store - gasoline and Diet Mountain Dew - are too heavy and awkward to run away with. I looked around the counter area for things that were light enough to make off with in bulk, but decided it wasn't worth being sent to the big house for stealing 19 varieties of SlimJims and a basket of novelty lighters. I paid for my pop and headed back out to the car

Which is how I got pulled over again, this time for turning into the wrong lane. Mortified, I sat silently while the second patrolman called in my license number to the dispatcher, wondering if I should just give myself up. "I'm sorry!" I wanted to cry. "I can turn better! I can, if you'll just give me another chance!"

I waited for someone to yell, "Freeze!" and "Up against the car," I waited for the flashlights and handcuffs and for someone to start sewing a scarlet letter "T" to my shirt. But the officer returned minutes later, seemingly unaware of my previous occasion of sin.

"I'm giving you a courtesy warning," he said, showing me a little form with a list of violations on it, kind of like a driving report card, on which he had checked "improper turn." He had not written "needs improvement," but I promised it anyway.

"I'll do better!" I said. "You won't have to tell me again! My mom said I could have this car!" I added, somewhat uselessly.

"OK," he said. "Just be careful, and remember to signal when you turn."

Mary Kettl is a junior high teacher in Newcastle. She lives in Custer, S.D.