Fast, Furious, Fatal
THE SUNDAY AGE
Saturday April 13, 1996
The lunacy that kills so many on Victoria's roads makes veteran policeman Bob Anderson ever more determined to haul in the idiots.
I KNEW my twenty-third Easter on the job was going to be exciting.
``Are you ready for the big rush?" asked the lady at the service station with a smile. ``No, I'm not actually," I replied. You see, ``the big rush" for those of us unlucky enough to be part of the Emergency Services has a whole different meaning. This is the time of the year when grey-haired sergeants like me grit their teeth and watch as the figure rises on the evening news; and young constables knock on the doors of people they have never met to give them news they thought was unthinkable.
Thursday comes and it seems the entire population of Melbourne is intent on ``getting out" and being there before dark. I didn't know there were that many cars in Melbourne.
The gloves are off. The road toll is getting out of hand again. It's us versus the idiots and no quarter will be given.
Even with the heavy traffic, the radar still manages to pick off three before teatime.
Booking number two staggers from his car and stands blinking like a possum as I write his ticket. ``Fatigue," he replies, when I ask him his reason for exceeding the speed limit. ``Wrong answer," I respond. ``Haven't you seen any of the publicity about fatigue?" ``No," he says. Later in the evening, well after dark, I spot two kids riding bikes up the main street of town. I catch up to them and as I start speaking to them I'm making up my mind whether it will be a warning or a booking. Neither bike has lights and neither kid is wearing a helmet. ``Why are you riding around without lights?" I ask. ``We were only riding along the footpath, " says one. Lies, at 15. ``I watched you both ride up the main street and around the corner," I respond. No reply this time, only stupid looks. ``Why do we need to have lights on the bikes?" asks one. Out comes the book. Just think what they'll be like driving cars.
Friday morning comes and its time to get fair dinkum. Only idiots will be sought today.
The first booking comes within minutes and the next five within the hour.
Of the first five, two say their reason for speeding is fatigue. I can't believe it. What is it that drives these people? They don't look stupid, but they must be.
Booking number 11 is a woman who tells me she must have been passing another car ``or something". ``Yes, madam," I reply, ``actually you were passing all the other cars."
Booking number 14 had his mum and dad along to help. As I started to write the ticket, dad says: ``Can't we do something about this Officer?" My sense of humor is almost gone by this stage. ``Sir, I am doing something about it. I'm writing your son a traffic ticket." ``Well, see if you can go easy then," he says. I cannot find a response to this fellow that would not result in a complaint being made by him, so I keep writing and ignore him.
What happens next will remain in my memory as the quote of all quotes, the absolute preciousness of some people and their utter, cursed stupidity.
As I hand the ticket to the offender his mother says: ``Can't you at least have some consideration. He's been driving all day and he's tired."
I just turn away and walk back to my car. My anger is only just under control as I think about what this stupid woman has just said to me.
So, you don't like being stopped by the police at Easter.
You don't like being booked. ``I don't usually speed," you tell the grey-haired sergeant.
Well, if I could tell you what I feel when you offer some weak, ill-conceived excuse for your stupidity, it would be: ``Don't expect us to cry for you. We have to cry for your family, those you kill, maybe your friends but we won't cry for you".
Next time you think of a policeman as ``collecting revenue", just mention that you would like to leave him your phone number. That way, next time he has to have the young constables go about their unpleasant task in your neighborhood, he can give you a ring. You might have to go along and help out. Think about that TAC ad on television: that's not how it is - it's worse.
Now we are almost half-way through Easter, the time of killing.
Tonight I spend a lot of hours with another grey-haired sergeant beside a country road. We are waiting for the Accident Investigation Section. They come to fatal and serious accidents where it's likely that a person will die.
It's the best set of skid marks I've seen since the last ``single car into tree" accident that I did. They are always spectacular. The car always hits in the middle - and someone is usually killed. Cause of death: Australian grey box. Simple isn't it? Wouldn't be anything nearly so complex as the galah behind the wheel.
As I write this, the front seat passenger is fighting for his life. He may even be dead. We'll find out tomorrow. The young constables have gone about their tasks and a family sits outside the intensive-care unit.
And it's only bloody Saturday. Wake up to yourselves.
Bob Anderson, 41, is a police sergeant at Wallan, north of Melbourne. He has spent all but one Easter patrolling the roads since he joined the police force at 16.
© 1996 THE SUNDAY AGE