Doing Donuts and Time

One winter up north, snow fell for three days. My friends and I were tired of being cooped up.; we decided to go out for lattes. We loaded into my car, an old beater that was as strong as a tank. I drove cautiously on the ice-slicked roads, and we admired the white branches and icicles on houses as we passed.

It was early yet; there were hardly any cars in the plaza when we arrived. I still don’t know what came over me, but I pressed the accelerator and raced to the empty side of the parking lot.
“Danette!” my friends squealed. Expertly, I cranked the wheel hard to the left. Whee! We spun around in a sharp donut. Hitting the gas again, I cranked the wheel to the right. We screamed in delight—even me—the thrill of almost losing control overtaking me. I hadn’t lost the technique I’d perfected in high school. Laughing, I whipped the car around a few more times, and then decelerated to a demure fifteen mph to park in front of the coffee shop.

But a policeman stopped me before I got to my spot.

“You endangered other people and vehicles,” he admonished as he wrote me a ticket for careless driving.

A ticket? “I’m going to fight this,” I said.

He nodded. Apparently he’d heard this before.

When my day in court came, I sat in the judge’s chambers trying to look like the law abiding citizen I was. “But it was private property, and that parking lot was basically empty,” I wheedled. “Besides, it was an accident.” Okay, I don’t know how that slipped out, but I still didn't think doing donuts meant doing time (or even getting a ticket).

The judge frowned and flipped through the paperwork. She looked directly at me. “The officer reports that the driver and passengers could be seen smiling and laughing through the windshield.”

My mouth opened and closed. I drove carefully home after paying my fine and taking my points.

Bottom line: You can go out for coffee, but don’t do donuts.