Life, Liberty, and Lifeguard Stands

After saving for three years, I bought a lifeguard stand at Wrightsville Beach. Most people think I’m crazy for spending my hard-earned money on a tall wooden hut that protects boys with whistles and red shorts from the sun’s killer rays. Others think I’m noble and community-conscious because my stand makes the beach safer for children, poor swimmers, and drunks who think Captain Morgan’s ship is just beyond the buoys. However, I’m not a big lifeguard-sympathizer, community leader or anything else; I’m just a selfish person who discovered a way to sponsor a lifeguard stand without the hassle of public recognition, personal thanks, or even familial acknowledgement. Using stealth and an extended payment plan, along with other strategic cloak-and-dagger business moves, I secured ownership of the lookout without anyone catching on. I accomplished all this and more via special police documents called traffic tickets.

Traffic tickets—also known as violations, citations, and infractions—are blessings to anyone who’s ever wanted to unofficially purchase a lifeguard stand. Here’s how the system works: citizens give their money to cops, and these cops pass it on to city officials, who in turn buy expensive hookers, designer drugs, European cars, and lifeguard stands. Since the cash switches hands three times at the very least, no one can trace it back to the citizens. Having understood the cycle of dirty funds since I was born, slipping my money into the city officials’ fingers was no problem. First off, tickets were easy to score. Any man in a blue suit with a big shiny pin on his chest was willing to give me one. Most of the time, I snagged two. These men in blue still tour the city like obscure celebrities, their pockets bursting with pink, white, orange, and green tickets for anyone who wants prime beach-front property.

After I moved to Wilmington, I started picking up tickets like dirty socks. I didn’t even try for my first one: a stupid-looking cop awarded it to me simply because he admired the way my car flickered as it screamed down I-40 at 107 mph. I almost blushed when I heard the siren. There I was, a novice ticket-taker, and I got to put down $300 towards my lifeguard stand. “I did you a favor and only put you down for ninety-five in a seventy, so I’m giving you a break. But keep this up and you’ll be going to jail,” said the little blue man. One part of me was furious that he had altered the only written record of my heroic speed, but another part was pleased that he considered me dangerous enough to deserve prison time. Right then, I felt like I could speed anywhere and get any ticket I wanted.

My next citation, however, had nothing to do with speeding. During freshman year, I wound up at some downtown club around eleven thirty p.m.—completely embalmed. I can’t remember how I got in, but I remember being thrown out by an ego-tripping Italian bouncer who thought he was Michael Corleone. Being a gentleman, he opened up the door to the waiting patrol car before shoving my whole drunk corpse inside. Elation strummed my nerves when I realized the situation: I was underage, intoxicated, belligerent, and desperate to make another payment on my lifeguard stand. I could smell the pink paper and black ink, smell the animal high, smell the perfumed Chinese exchange student with whom I shared the back of the blue-and-white. After the cop rattled off the $150 court costs, I smiled at the girl and threw up all over the radio receiver.

After the huge club success, I took a break from big jobs and worked on ticket mongering around campus for a few weeks. Eight parking tickets later, I finally left Randall Library. Somewhat bored, I hit College Road in a hurry, looking for action and purposely leaving my seatbelt off. Nothing happened. I decided to peel out around a u-turn. Nothing hap—oh, sirens! A fat blue man on a motorcycle was eating up the road behind me like a donut. After car and bike ground to a halt, we exchanged pleasantries and he honored me with a seatbelt violation. As he walked away, he noticed my out-of-date inspection sticker, which I had planted conspicuously on my windshield. “Oh, what’s this?” he asked. “Son, I’m gonna have to write you another ticket.” I looked at him with pseudo-sorrow as he scribbled. Once finished, he skipped back to his bike full of pep, like one of those waitresses at a drive-in hot-dog stand, calling back, “You’re lucky I’m so nice!" If I had been truly lucky, however, he would’ve found the pot stash in my spare tire and written me three tickets.

As of now, I’ve secretly transferred $1,000 of my own sweat-and-labor cash to the City of Wilmington via the magic of drinking, parking, speeding, and seatbelt tickets. The mayor doesn’t know, the governor doesn’t know, and the president definitely doesn’t know. It’s called outsmarting the system; it’s called freedom. So the next time I hit the beach, I’m going to march straight up to one of those big shiny lifeguard stands, falsely inform the boy in red shorts that his car is being towed, and claim my inalienable right to relax in the shade.