Mitchell College - Thames Log Yearbook (New London, CT)

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A Modest Proposal by Thomas H. Finnegan Seat belts save lives. That slogan ought to be clear enough for every occupant of every automobile in the country to glean the message therein. But, by all appearances, the message is NOT registering, studies show a disappointingly small percentage of American drivers consistently buckling up to insure their very lives if and when. Obviously, then, the lesson is not being leamed. Realizing that a stern, lecturing approach is not the best way to drive the point home, interested groups resorted to levity - the smug sense of humor. Television, radio, and press ads showed the good excuses and where they get you - I find them too confining followed by a shot of the speaker solidly confined to traction in a hospital. Apparently the viewing, listening, and reading audience was favorably entertained, but the sermon was promptly ignored. Perhaps a different tack? Shock. Signal Seven and others of the gender, cinema footage of the decade's finest, most spectacular traffic fatalities and injuries, with special attention paid to unorthodox and imaginative maimings. To ensure that, prior to age twenty-one, every young driver has the opportunity to savor decapitation and dismemberment, not to mention the dazzling destruction of lots of high-performance iron just Like His on the big screen moments before his embarkation for The Great American Holiday Weekend Wars. The memory of all that red, red krovvy, as they say in A CLOCKWORK ORANGE, should keep his speed down for a good . . . oh . . . two hours? Well, that would be a great help, were it not for the fact that his destination invariably lies well beyond two hours' drive distant. All right, then, how about The Real Thing? Preceded, as always, by a frantic flurry of brake lights and the forma- tion of long queues of now-wide-awake-and-definitely-ready-for- the-very-worst spectators, in order that no one should remain asleep through The Feature, lest some martyr shed his blood in vain. Even those not yet old enough to be Principle Combatants could derive some educational value from the sight - to heighten the youngsters' appreciation of the event, a rating system could be devised C'Gee, Dad, that was NUTHIN' compared to that 65-pointer we saw last Easter! j. For the benefit of the brave souls who staged the event, troopers at the end of the Accident Zone could compile the comments of the spectators C Tell the guy in the Buick that a rollover woulda clinched my vote, willya, officer? J, and a national system of Recognition and Gratitude could be established in order that the Veterans' names, like those of Vice-Presidents and Tag Team Wrestling Stars, may become household words, if not folk heroes C Gla- dys! Gladys! Guess who I saw on the way home from work?! johnny the jackknife!! Christ, he nailed three Volk- swagens and then winged a cop car before he stopped rolling!! It wuz beautiful!!! j. As always, there is a tremendous potentional for a huge and profitable aftermarket, also Cthere - now we have the backing of the Business Interestsj. Bubble gum trading cards, T-shirts, model car kits and racing sets, beer mugs, even autographed replica crash bump- ers. All of this might help immeasurably to lend some glamor or even a note of dignity to an otherwise sordid and unattractive aspect of our Great American Lifestyle. Perhaps we could begin by changing our usual reference to

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lklllvkllflk I promise I will never again try to fix the tail light while going ninety miles per hour. Thank you, God, Thank you for not making it hurt. I can hack an itch. Two heads. Moon-man and someone new. My God, what happened? He just came right over. Into my lane. He must have been going a hundred! So fast!! I've never killed anyone in my life! Are you a policeman? No. Good lord. It could have been me and not you. Well, what can we do? What can we do for him ?,' Oh,jesus. I don't believe it. Look. He's still blinking. I can hear you, guys. How about helping me out, huh? Where's his . . . other leg? My other leg? I don't know. Oh, no no no. Why did this have to happen? Why did this have to happen to ME? Youl? He just hung there on top of the windshield for so long! Arn I cut up? Will you look at my car! Can you imagine how fast he must have been going? I'm lucky to be alive! YOU'RE lucky to be alive!! Well, let's try to do something for him. Anything. Ask him if he can hear us. Ask him if it hurts. Ask him if he's coldf' And then the moon-man laid down on top of me. Very roughly. In sheer panic he placed a wet, glistening hand in my face as he scrambled to get away from me. He stood there, shaking violently, and from the surviving headlight's eerie beam the blood now covering the front of his clothes looked shiny black. I thought he was going to gag. Or cry. I slipped. I fell on him. Oh, Mother of Godllv And so I knew he wasn't going to ask me if I could hear him. Or if it hurts. Or if I'm cold. And he wasn't going to scratch my leg. And I was lying in a lot of my own blood. And the bike is mined anyway. So I decided to leave. I didnit even look back. I just turned away and headed straight for Amy's house. And the night seeped in to fill the void I left behind.

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Death on the Highway to Danger and Daring on the Highwaygv think what that will do for respectability and audience appeal. And yet, I can't help but feel that this might be a step in the wrong direction. Popularization might tend to defeat the original purpose of this approach to our problem in much the same way that, after an evening of Smash-'Em, Bash-'Em Stock Car Racing, the announcer's parting entreaty to Drive safely on the way home! falls on deaf ears as the fans, glutted with bloodlust and convinced that they can do better that Number 47 did, roar out the gate, eyes abulge and pulses racing. Maybe, then, we shouldn't take a chance on turning Mr. Average Dull Driver into Mr. Crosstown Careener. After all these failures, don't feel too despondent. I do have the answer. It's the next logical step from spectating, and is accomplished in a manner that is desirably effective, impressive, and easily cleaned up. The first thing we'll have to do is herd all of our drivers into the States' Motor Vehicle Offices. We could manage this easily enough by requiring a renewal of all operator's licenses, say, every three years. This would afford a second- ary benefit, also, in that it would weed out some of the drivers who obtained licenses in 1916 and have never been required by their native states to renew or be re-examined since - and who may have undergone such trivial changes in driving capability as having gone blind or deaf. fSuch people need something other than safety vehicles, I feel.j So, every three years we'll march the drivers into the Motor Vehicle Offices and have them requalify. Com- pletely. Written exam, eye test, physician's statements, road test. Then, as they heave a sigh of relief at having made it and step up to the cashier's counter, we will have an official escort them out behind the building. There we will have this set of railroad tracks about two-hundred feet long, terminating in a sturdy, ten-foot-high brick wall. Down on the other end, mounted on a railroad handcar chassis, will be a 1964 Ford Galaxie's bench front seat, across which will lie the two unbuckled but available ends of a seat belt. No dashboard, no steering wheel, no bumper, no two tons of sheetmetal. just a big seat with a seatbelt. Now, sir, if you'll kindly take your place on our Test Vehicle, we'll conclude your renewal procedure. A pause. You may buckle up, sir, if you wish . . .