Bonnie and Clyde? More Like Lucy and Desi

For the most part, I consider myself a fairly honest, moral, and upstanding human being. I am a teacher for goodness sake, shaping the lives of tomorrow’s youth. That is certainly not a job for the ethically corrupt (at least not for long). Perhaps the most morally ambiguous action in which I have ever partaken involved sneaking into the movie theater as a teenager, and really, at those prices, who could blame me? I hold doors for the elderly, let people with small purchases go in front of me in the grocery store, and I even bless strangers that sneeze in my vicinity.

However, this fairly squeaky clean, do-gooder attitude is exactly the reason why the events of a few nights ago have so appalled me and shaken my entire sense of self. Of course, I was not alone in the series of events that I am about to explain as my husband also participated in the succeeding act of delinquency. I should have known that, at some point, this man would get me in trouble with the law, maybe not to the extent of the Craigslist killer and his devoted fiancé, but maybe a car chase or parking violation at least. It was only a matter of time.

The evening of our impending wrongdoing started off very positively. We had purchased tickets to see Dane Cook live in Baltimore and since most of our exciting nights usually consist of going to dinner and then watching tv in separate rooms, this was a monumental night out. As we arrived at the parking garage near the arena, the lady in front informed us that we could either pay ten dollars then or use a credit card upon exiting. Like most members of our generation, we don’t carry cash and selected the latter option. We found a decent spot and headed in to enjoy the show.

After a night filled with laughter that sometimes brought us to tears, we contentedly made our way back to our vehicle. Then, the night began to take a turn for the worse. Immediately upon entering the car, my husband proceeded to get a violent nose bleed. Blood was everywhere and he looked about as competent at handling this situation as a three year old. He just sat there and let blood pour out of his nose like water from a faucet. It was disgusting and after I repeatedly explained the whole pinch your nose with the Kleenex procedure, he finally caught on. However, the damage to his wardrobe had been done. Now, instead of attending a comedy show, it appeared as though we had come to Baltimore, unfortunately like so many others, to participate in some sort of mass murder.

As the blood bath abated, he shed his outer button down shirt and was left with a slightly less bloody undershirt while I was left with a car full of scarlet paper products. At this point, I knew that our blissful rendez-vous had drawn to a close.

Finally, we were able to join the endless line of cars snaking down the parking structure. Twenty minutes later we had not edged any further toward the exit when we noticed that some automobiles were headed towards an alternate point of departure. Thank goodness. As we followed this new path, we observed a sign that read, “Credit Cards Only”. Perfect, I mused to myself, since that was our intended payment plan from the start of this evening. Unfortunately, I had counted my chickens before they hatched.

Upon pulling up to the gray ticket machine and sliding in first my parking ticket and then my credit card, the feeling of hope and promise that we would be leaving soon began to disintegrate. “Bad Credit Card” the machine stated. What does that mean? I tried the whole action again while behind me, cars continued to line up like anxious contestants for American Idol. Again, my credit card was denied. Now, I started to panic. There was no way out. I certainly couldn’t ask hundreds of people to back their cars up so I could find another route, and I couldn’t drive forward as the bright yellow and black electric arm stood blocking my path. I was trapped and I could tell that the people behind me were starting to get restless.

Now, I am normally the problem solver in our relationship, the calm, collected one who fixes mistakes and gets my husband out of trouble, so when I shouted “Get out of the car and lift up the arm,” in a tone resembling Zul the gatekeeper, I think he began to realize the gravity of the situation and the extent of my anxiety. However, his immediate response was less than I had hoped. “I’m not getting out of the car, I’m covered in blood,” he growled back angrily. But, as my voice increased in both volume and frequency and the intensity of my glare began to burn into his skin, he finally realized that I was serious. This was not a topic for discussion.

In my head, I envisioned my husband lifting up the mechanical arm so that I could drive my car underneath. However, he clearly had an alternate interpretation of events planned out in his own mind. As he raised the mechanical blockade, I started to drive my car forward, but my husband did not seem to be moving out of the way. Then, rather than step aside, he suddenly became the incredible hulk and bent the mechanical arm in half and tried to shove it out of the driving lane. Needless to say, mangling the device did not exactly solve the problem and probably created new ones. While the arm retracted at first, and my husband dove back into the car, it began to rebound as I drove forward, gently, lamely, hitting the windshield as I continued to make my escape.

Suddenly, we were Bonnie and Clyde, but not nearly as nonchalant about our criminal activity. The fact that Baltimore on a Friday night is ridden with cops due to its impressive crime rate did not help to ease our anxiety. “I can’t believe we just did that,” I wheezed, barely able to breath. My heart was beating with the speed of a snare drum. I could not even process the events of the previous few minutes. “Where there cameras?” My husband inquired frantically. “I didn’t see any, but I was busy trying not to pass out from fear, so maybe,” I replied, now realizing the implication of having driven my vehicle to the concert. While my husband was observed by the throng of cars behind us dressed like a serial killer, any images on video would be of my license plate.

As reality set in and we hurriedly tried to maneuver our way out of Baltimore, we quickly called my husband’s best friend and the only lawyer we knew. We needed to determine the severity of our actions. While I was pretty sure we could make a good case for having to go through the ticket area without paying, I was fairly certain that massacring the mechanical arm would require a bit more explanation. Fortunately, our friend was able to reassure us that the consequences of our actions, if there were any, would be minimal and we wouldn’t lose our jobs or chances for future employment. Nevertheless, each police siren nearly sent us into catatonic states of shock. We couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being followed and it was only a matter of time before the long arm of the law found us.

So far, we have managed to elude the police, probably since Baltimore has greater issues than a couple of parking garage payment violators. Although our quiet evenings of separate television viewing originally seemed monotonous, perhaps we were safer on our couches than attempting to venture out into the real world. The previous time we traveled outside for a night on the town, we went to an ‘80s cover band concert and ended up being pulled over dressed like Madonna and Don Johnson. Apparently, nightlife is just not for us. I have come to the realization that I would much rather be watching an episode of Law and Order than becoming one.