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(Note: I was reminded of the events recaptured below by my wife, who was late coming to see me one day recently because she suddenly realized that her inspection sticker was expired. She did evade detection and made it to the inspection station. As the tale below shows, I was not so fortunate.)

I was caught twice for lapsed inspection stickers. Neither was overdue by more than a day or two (okay – one was a week or two, but that is still a minor lapse in my book.)

It is well known that the most important priority for the police is determining whether inspection stickers are up to date. They will ignore other things that would seem, from a superficial standpoint, to be of more pressing concern. For example:

• A car is spotted with balding tires, broken headlights, and a drunken driver. But once the police see that its inspection sticker is up to date, it is allowed to go on its merry way.

• A car goes screeching through town at a high rate of speed. The police give chase and eventually overtake the car. They finally get in front of it – not necessarily to stop it but to check its inspection sticker.

• A getaway car is waiting outside a bank, its motor revving. Robbers emerge from the bank, their weapons blazing. And what is the patrolman doing? Well, you get the idea.

The training for police to detect lapsed stickers is the most rigorous they receive. (The firing range is a mere bagatelle beside it.) For example, they are coached extensively in the reading of numerals. Now you might think such coaching would involve several digits and letters, as are present on license plates. But you would be wrong! Brilliantly, if paradoxically, it involves but one large bold black numeral!

Then, too, they must be able to ascertain the color of the background on which the numeral is printed. It is usually the case that the change of backgrounds from one year to the next is obvious, e.g., from red to green, or from blue to yellow. Such changes are easy to distinguish, of course, and they are the sort of thing that a rational Secretary of Transportation would utilize. But what if that Secretary is irrational? Suppose in particular they decide to cultivate subtlety, in the form of changing from magenta to vermilion, or from Prussian to royal blue from one year to the next? It is clear that policemen must be more than merely non-colorblind – they must be unusually perceptive.

The third thing the police are trained in (and professional vocal coaches are brought in especially for this training) is the initial oral delivery when they first confront the miscreant. It must be in the form of a question, and it must not sound rhetorical: 'Did you know that you have an expired inspection sticker?' This must be spoken with studied casualness and with a tone of genuine concern in the voice. The person hearing it must think that the officer believes him innocent of any knowledge of his sticker's expiration. The point is to set the offender at ease by creating a warm glow of sympathy. Then, just when the offender is feeling that the officer is his friend (that is, the point of greatest vulnerability), said officer delivers the verbal coup de grace: 'I'm afraid that I'm going to have to give you a citation.' Do you see? 'I'm afraid…': even here the officer, by stating that the action puts him in fear, is being gracious to the offender (while telling him he's giving him something – a sort of present.) But of course the proverbial knife has already been thrust in.

Here is an account of the first time I was caught. Tell me if I was not dealt a cruel blow!

I was driving east on Mass Ave in East Arlington when the horrible thought stole over me that my inspection sticker might be expired. A hasty translucent glance at the backwards numeral through the windshield told me that this was in fact the case. Luckily I was but two blocks from Arlington Texaco, the service station where I always went for inspections. I could see the sign in the distance.

So what did I do? Amazingly, perhaps even stupidly, I made a sudden left turn onto Adams Street where we had lived when we first came to Boston. Was there in the back of my mind the desire to tempt fate? No doubt, though I thought the temptation to be mild enough. After all, what I was doing was taking a little side trip in the shape of a 'U': I would drive down this two-block-long one-way street, check out our ex-domicile, then go a few feet on Broadway and come back to Mass Ave on a parallel one-way street.

Our old house (we had had the bottom floor of a two-family) looked the same in its brown-shingled respectability (it was only later when new owners would put tacky siding on it.) My sun porch study had faced a lovely garden across the street. (I noted with sadness that the garden had been replaced by a two-car macadam parking space.)

I finally tore myself away from this nostalgic scene. Driving the few feet to Broadway, I turned right (after a dutiful stop) and then right again. At Mass Ave the light was red. I stopped, and then glanced to the left toward the service station.

There was a police car sitting right next to my street.

My first reaction was to (mentally) pat myself on the back, on the assumption that he was situated there to catch miscreants going through the light. What a silly assumption! Did I not state above what is the first (and practically only) priority of the police?

Before the light could change, the police car moved in front of my car, effectively blocking its egress.

Well, I felt like a caged beast! I first considered bolting in my car around him (over the curb and between a tree and a mailbox) and making a dash for the inspection station. But that would be a bit – obvious. I then thought of backing down that whole street I had just driven down (is it not within the law to travel against a one-way street if you're backing up?)(For, rest assured, I wanted to stay legal here!)

But I did neither of those things, probably because I was able to posit so well what would happen if I had done either of them (a priori, I could already hear the words 'Stop or I shoot!' ringing in my ears.)

So I stayed where I was. The officer got out of his car and came around to my door. I rolled down my window, whilst fixing a look of upbeat optimism on my face. I decided to give him my monologue of breezy acknowledgement intended to sweep him off his feet:

'Yes, I know, that pesky inspection sticker!' I began, thus preempting the officer. 'And you know something? It's a funny coincidence that you should appear here right at this moment! For as a matter of fact I was on my way to that very inspection station right over there.' I pointed and the officer looked in that direction – always a good sign. 'So if you would be so good as to move your car (which – no offense! - is preventing me from doing my citizenly duty), I will mosey on over there and, quick as a wink, get this thing done, all the faster to zip right back here and show you my brand spanking new inspection sticker when I'm finished. You'll be so proud of me!'

The officer declared that he certainly hoped I would do all that.

But in the meantime he was 'afraid' he'd have to 'give' me a citation. (At the time, this fine was $25.)

By the way, I had not seen that patrol car sitting at that spot while I was driving down Mass Ave. Had I continued straight, I could have made it to the inspection station unimpeded.

The second time I was caught with a lapsed inspection sticker I was driving to my tutoring job in Lexington. I had just entered Winchester from Medford. As I was driving under the rail bridge on Bacon Street, it hit me (as it had hit me at various inconvenient times in the week or two preceding) that my inspection sticker had expired. I only relaxed again when I realized that the chances of seeing a police car (more importantly: being seen by one) on this quiet suburban street were very low indeed.

As if on command, ahead of me on the opposite side of the street there appeared a parked patrol car. I could not yet tell whether an officer was seated at the steering wheel.

It was too late to turn off onto a side street (as an ironic reflection on my last escapade?) I decided to drive blithely by and hope for the best.

I drove by the patrol car giving my best imitation of blithe unconcern (can guilt be read in the pretended demeanor of a person? Yes, when it's a bad performance!) There was indeed an officer in that car. But I didn't look at him.

As soon as I got past him, I looked in my rearview mirror. I saw him making a U-turn.

I decided to try and elude him. Luckily, the light on Church Street (the first big intersection) was green. I zipped through, and then made the first left and then an immediate right. I had entered what I used to call 'the Casbah' due to the labyrinthine nature of the streets.

I pulled ahead of a handful of parked cars and stopped there, knowing my car wouldn't be seen if the police glanced down the street.

I was safe for the moment. Of course I could not stay there for too long – my job was calling. Besides, those cops would be prowling all these streets eventually. The question was, do I hang here for a while until the proverbial dust settles? Or do I make a wild break for it immediately in the hope of eluding them by mere speed?

I realized there were disadvantages to each choice. In the first case, lingering would allow them the time to regroup, to seal off roads, and to call in reinforcements (SWAT teams, helicopters and the like.) In the second case, a moving car (especially my white Volvo) can be spotted.

I decided to choose the second case – that of seizing the advantage, of striking while the iron was hot. What I was doing was racing for the border: just as Bonnie and Clyde became safe once they crossed the line into Oklahoma, so, I reasoned, would I be safe from the inconvenient solicitations of those Winchester police once I crossed into another town.

But which town? I figured that I had five major escape routes into as many towns:

• double back, take Church Street east to Winchester Center;
• double back, take Church Street west, then south to Arlington;
• double back the way I'd come, to Medford;
• drive northeast across Winter Pond to Woburn;
• drive due west over the mountain to Lexington.

Which route should I choose? I figured that the chances of the cops finding me were only 20 percent, more or less. I say 'more or less' because, in fact, I knew that the patrol car was probably west of me, since that was the direction I was going when I eluded them. On the other hand, my job was in Lexington and I needed to get there sooner rather than later.

So I took a chance and drove into the maw of the beast. Was I once again tempting fate? No doubt. (In retrospect I realize that there was a far safer route to Lexington via Woburn, but I ignored it.) I suppose I felt like Robin Hood deliberately entering the dining hall of his Norman enemies: I was challenging the cops. Did I feel like I should give my adversary a sporting chance?

Anyway, I headed for the hills, making a heroic dash for the Lexington line. For the first time in my life I was attempting to outrun the police. It was an exhilarating feeling! I was reminded of a book I saw when I was a kid called 'Cheese It, The Cops!' And in my head was the Robert Frost parody I had read in Mad Magazine a few years before (the narrator had just run a toll booth):

'And fuzz to shake before I sleep,
And fuzz to shake before I sleep.'

(When one is in this position, the people chasing one cease to be 'officers' or even 'police' and become 'the cops' or worse.)

There was one long straight thoroughfare of several blocks that I had to drive down. This, I assumed, was the most dangerous place. (And what if I met the cops on this street? Simple: just flee back into the Casbah!) There was a light at the end of this street and it was green. I put the pedal to the metal: I was cheesing it and I was not about to let a measly light stand in my way! It turned yellow well before I reached it, but I managed to race through just as it turned red. I gave a quick glance to both sides to check for the fuzz – no dice!

And so, traveling at that same frantic speed, I began my ascent of the mountain. And with each passing second I drank in the feeling of increasing freedom.

I had done it: I had shaken the cops by dint of pure daring! I had outrun them and outsmarted them! And, just to gratify my ego, I glanced in the rearview mirror one last time.

I saw it. It was well back there, but it was unmistakable. There it was, that infernal flashing bubble-gum machine.

Apparently they had just been toying with me. I had heard that the police like to play a cat-and-mouse game with their intended victims: giving them the illusion of escape and then moving in for the kill at the very moment the prey thinks itself free.

They were now right behind me. Any sensate driver could not fail to miss them. So what did I do?

I ignored them. I drove along blissfully as if I didn't have a care in the world. I was thinking of that Lexington border, which was only a mile or two up the road. I was hoping they would come to see the futility of their cause and turn around.

They must have been more than a bit opaque, for they hadn't grasped that futility at all. For in a moment they were driving beside me and making gestures. Finally I had to notice them. And what did I do?

I waved at them and smiled (while continuing on my merry way with my window still up.)

Well, that simply triggered the engagement of an electronic bullhorn: 'Would you please pull over?' See? It is spoken as a sort of question, a polite request. How could I refuse it? I pulled over. The officer got out and came over to my car.

The amazing thing was, he wasn't angry. He did not ask me whether I had been trying to elude him, nevertheless outrun him. He did not scold me for speeding. In point of fact, he was wonderfully polite. He just simply asked me whether I knew that I had an expired inspection sticker? His voice dripped with concern.

Well! I acted like this had been the furthest thing from my mind! I simulated shock and utter surprise: 'I have an expired sticker? Moi? There must be some mistake! That is always not merely my first concern with regard to the car, but my first concern with regard to everything in my life! My children, my pet fish? I snap my fingers at their care compared to the serious pressing need of the inspection sticker! What? Have I looked at it lately? Of course not! My translucent glasses are in the repair shop. Besides, I could never read a numeral backwards - I'm dyslexic. What? Have I looked from the front of my car? Absolutely not – do you think I'm crazy? I might run over myself!'

Well, this didn't work either. The nice policeman suddenly became very frightened and told me he was going to give me something.

By the way, my wages as a tutor at Lexington High School were $7.50 per hour. So I would be working for nothing for the first four or so hours that day.

I never had another lapsed inspection sticker – not because I became suddenly vigilant, but rather because I began going to a full-service station for gas, and the attendant would warn me well before my sticker was expired.

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