Scarborough, Maine: A Love-Triangle w/ The Police, Violations Bureau, and Poverty
It was midsummer, as I found myself hurtling down the pristine stretch of Maine 95 South-bound, the open windows were hissing, a symphony of mid-70s hits was blaring from Spotify.
I was driving a rental car, plated with cursed Jersey plates, courtesy of my 17-year-old neighbor who had, in her exuberance for driving on the open road, backed into the driver’s side of my car door, leaving behind a crater-sized dent.
This was the very setting for the collision between myself and the forces of Scarborough’s finest.
In the middle lane, a vehicle that might as well have been powered by the feet of Fred Flintstone was slowing down the flow of traffic. It was an old-timer who learned to drive in the days of horse-drawn carriage.
I was running late for a photography gig in Portsmouth, NH. I gave the gas pedal a nudge. Ten extra miles an hour was all I needed to pass. As I initiated the pass and looked into the man’s eyes, and was shocked to see he was smoking cigarettes while hooked to an oxygen tank. It was imperative for my safety that I zoomed by the him as quickly as possible to avoid death-by-explosion.
Just when I thought I was in the clear, flashing reds and blues in my rear-view mirror. A cop car appeared like some kind of automotive apparition. I pulled over and a cloud of dirt flung up from the tires. I turned down the radio — basking in the uncomfortable silence of awaiting one’s fate.
A tall figure stood in front of the driver’s door. I slowly rolled the automatic windows down.
“Any idea how fast you were going?”
“No, sir,” I said, but guessed I was in the range of 5–55 miles above the speed limit.
“License and registration.”
I obliged, and the bureaucratic dance of fines and violations began — a ritual as old as stone tablets and the Garden of Eden.
The cop then hobbled back from his squad car to pass forth my judgment.
“Sir, you were going 22 miles over the speed limit, and your license expired four years ago! I’m going to have to write you two fines.”
“Crap” I said, as my face fell into the steering wheel. The officer leaned into the window.
“Have a nice day,” the officer said with a grin, handed me the ticket through the window and continued his day.
Three months later, the leaves were falling, and my bank account was nearly dry due to a lack of photography gigs. I checked my mail in the afternoon to find that my license had been suspended.
But how?
The letter that was supposed to be sent in the mail got lost in the Bermuda Triangle of the postal service. I missed my violations hearing, and thus now owed three hundred and fifty-something dollars, plus late fees.
I frantically sped to the Violations Bureau in Lewiston, Maine, driving with a suspended license. I followed up with the DMV for another fine, and another one after that. In the end, the grand total I spent was shy of $500, $500 I didn’t have.
Being a barely-making-it photographer, that $500 to me was the difference between rent or homelessness. I was too broke to fight the violations, so instead, I rolled over and submitted like the poverty stricken do, in the unforgiving land we call the “Pine-Tree-State”.
But in the midst of my financial chaos, a larger question emerged: In a state that brags about being a sanctuary for the downtrodden, why is this democratic government of ours so okay with bleeding their citizens dry? And, where are the programs for those who can’t bear the weight of these violations?
Here’s the unfiltered truth: In the state of Maine, it’s the underdogs who pay the piper.
Written by: Joel Carpenter
Writer/Photographer
