The High Life

If you happen to be in my town and you see a police car pulled over with a grumpy looking guy in the back, probably in handcuffs, that will most likely be me.

I can’t explain it, but I have been on a bit of a crime spree and what is worse, I have been broadcasting my misdeeds for the world to see.

My law-breaking concerns motor vehicles. Last week, I drove the thousand feet from our community mailbox to my home without strapping myself in with the seatbelt. And I liked it.

Now, I am confessing to possibly a more serious infraction. Early this summer, I noticed, to my dismay, that one of the headlights on my car was burned out. I immediately said the word “Rats!” and I meant it. I might, in fact, have said it twice.

I opened the hood and had a look to see what my prospects of replacing the bulb by myself would be. This was the equivalent of a border collie, smart as he is, reading the packaging on a bag of his dog food to assess the quality of its ingredients. I closed the hood.

My car was months away from a regular visit to my mechanic who could fix that light quicker than a man can say “Rats!” three times in a hurry. I could have taken it to another shop but I knew the bill for such a simple thing would top out at at least $50.

Then a mini miracle happened. I turned on my high beams, also known as the car’s “brights”. When I did that, light came cascading out of both headlights, including the lamp with the burned-out low beam.

So, for the past few months, I have been driving around my town and the surrounding countryside, blinding every motorist I meet with my piercing bright beams. I have to do this, because if I use my low beams, I will be arrested for driving with a burned out headlamp.

It’s a matter of survival and while I am becoming the most hated man among the temporarily blinded drivers in my area, I can finally see where I am going at night which is a bonus. One thing I have learned through all this, however, is that low beams are highly overrated.

Pass it on.

©2019 Jim Hagarty

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Author: Jim Hagarty

I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.