She was eighteen, free-wheeling down the road in her new pre-owned Honda, cell phone plastered to her right ear, loving the carefree life Iraqis can only dream of. That’s when she hit me. She didn’t lay a millimeter of rubber. Didn’t swerve a smidgen. Didn’t zig. Didn’t zag. From 60 feet I could see the whites of her eyes, frozen in panic. But the eyes and their brain were disconnected and, like a runaway Amtrack bound to its rails, the little sedan torpedoed the front end of my perfectly restored 1982 RX7. T-bone city. The entire bumper assembly in the street like a grotesque body part. It was a scene deserving of tears. Sure enough, the teenager was convulsing and hyperventilating as she babbled incessantly on the cell now growing out of her left ear. At least she was ambidextrous with something, if not the car. Of course, the cop charged me. Said I was in her lane. “That’s true, officer, but the van was letting me turn left and I could see about 100 feet and nothing was coming so I eased out but she was coming so fast and she had a turn lane to swerve into and I wasn’t halfway across her lane and she could have braked a lot harder and she wasn’t paying attention or she could have easily missed me and…..” Sorry pal. Open and shut. The intersection was loaded with eyewitnesses but no need. Open and shut. Guilty. Only later did it occur to me there was an ear witness. Whoever was on the other end of the cell must have heard the entire thing. Could have gone something like this: “Yeah, I gotta study but Danny’s comin’ over to see the car. Can’t wait til…..OH, MY GOD. WATCH OUT….THERE’S A CAR…THERE’S A CAR……THERE’S A CAR….WHAT’LL I DO….WHAT’LL I DO??? EEEEEEEEE!!! (crunch). Nothing is what she did. The only thing she was moving was her mouth which, when engaged, evidently disabled all her other bodily functions. On the bright side, nobody was hurt, the assistant DA dismissed the case with proof my insurance paid for the Honda’s face-lift and my 7’s now in reconstructive surgery. It’s just money. And somewhere out there, there’s a young blonde, gaily zipping along, chatting away on her cell, eyes seeing but unseeing, secure in the knowledge that it wasn’t her fault.

The Supreme Court has decreed that minors should be exempt from the death penalty, citing cruel and unusual punishment. This decision should gladden the hearts of decent people everywhere, knowing that teen killers can be spared, to one day mature into adult psychopaths. Except for the perfectly reasonable and justifiable practice of exterminating useless, unborn children, imposing the death penalty is a heartless, barbaric act, unworthy of a civilized society. Thankfully, every family in America now can breathe a sigh of relief, secure in the knowledge that their children are free to commit murder without fear of the ultimate penalty. Unfortunately, not everyone agrees with the sagacity of the high court. Millions among us — merciless wretches all — still spew the language of revenge. They cry for blood, an eye for an eye and all that nonsense. They would stamp out the precious life of misunderstood adolescents. Can’t they see that these young people are struggling to get through a tough period in their lives, to overcome abusive parents, ignorant parents, no parents, aloof parents and a drastic lack of self esteem? While these troubled juveniles may take a false step and butcher their grandparents or gun down classmates or strangle a playmate, we all know these acts are a cry for help. We know these acts are temporary lapses in behavior. And we know that, in time, with patience and understanding, these lovely children will develop into caring adults and become productive members of society. Examples of this rehabilitation are clear proof. When the gifted mystery writer Anne Perry (aka. Juliet Hulme) was a girl in New Zealand, her best friend’s mother refused to allow Pauline (the daughter) to join Anne on a trip abroad with her affluent family. Becoming frustrated as teens do, Anne and her friend arranged a walk in the park with the stern old bag, and they efficiently bludgeoned dear old Mom to death. They claimed she fell; but a bloody brick encased in a silk stocking, and 45 blows to the woman’s skull, gave police a different impression. Of course, the pair was convicted of the crime; but English law was lenient on minors and the two spent five years in “prison” before their release. You see — Anne may have been a vicious murderer then, but today Ms. Perry is a respected author of more than 30 novels as well as a sought-after lecturer. Had the authorities snuffed out her life, the world would have lost her talent. Anyway, the truth be known, Pauline’s mother very likely deserved to die. As difficult as it may be to suffer the loss of someone murdered by a teenager, the survivors should put aside their grief and resentment to realize that killers do have reasons for their actions — that, in time, these youngsters, given a fair shake in life, can shake off their juvenile hormones and be pillars of the community. Some diehards will nag about justice; but that precept is essentially obsolete, for instance, in the hallowed, intellectual halls of Europe. It’s time we followed suit. We should recognize that thousands of people will be murdered by teenagers and learn to accept the fact that casualties are part of The Master Plan. Once these victims are dead, we can’t restore their lives, can we? They’re going to die sooner or later, anyway; and some of them left to live out their lives, likely would commit their own crimes. No, it’s not our place to condemn minors and certainly not our right to execute them. After all, they’re victims, too. If you saw a teenager caving in the skull of an old man, or stabbing a classmate, and you were carrying a pistol, could you honestly bring yourself to shoot this tragic figure? Of course not. You haven’t that right. Later, after they haul the unlucky body away, you will feel gratified knowing that one life was spared and that very life would be rehabilitated as if nothing had happened. Ain’t life grand?

Some scholars make a living in top-secret labs studying the unexplainable. They delve into paranormal events, into bizarre behaviors, into supernatural phenomena. They conduct experiments to shed light in a world of dark imaginings. For the rest of us mortals, if we’re interested in the realms of abnormality and aberration, all we need do is pick up a newspaper and read about the airline industry. There, in plain sight, we find verifiable lunacy, alive and well and walking among us, like The Shining’s Jack Torrance, staggering the corridors of The Overlook, muttering gibberish. But at least Torrance was genuinely possessed and clinically insane. Can an entire industry suffer from dementia? Can a global business be subject to mass psychosis? Evidently. What other explanation can there be for such deviance, such absurdity. Witness the insanity. Every flight going to every destination is chock full. Like migratory flocks, travelers swoop into airports to feed and fly to all manner of destinations, grateful for a place to buckle up. 767 to Honolulu. Full. Shuttle to Buffalo. Full. 777 to Hong Kong. Full. Pick a flight, any flight — say, to the Mongolian capital of Ulaanbaatar. Yep, full up. You get the picture. Sure you do. Because you see it first-hand every time you queue up through airport security and finally wedge yourself into 23E. Why then, you ask yourself, is the industry going to rot? When did bankruptcy become a fad? Isn’t a sold-out plane good for business? What’s missing in our friendly skies? Being of sound mind and skilled in 5th grade arithmetic, you boldly deduce that US Despair is losing more money than it makes. If this assertion is true, why, it must mean one of two things. Either the price to fly is too low or the cost of flying is too high. It must be the cost, you surmise brilliantly. You consider the obscenely posh amenities like deluxe pretzels, plush pillows and state-of-the-art plastic cups. Another culprit could be the backlog of frequent flyer bonus miles finally come home to roost. That must be it — nobody pays to fly. Or the crisis could have something to do with flight crews working three-day weeks for full weeks’ pay. But that’s not all, is it? You can’t ignore skyrocketing fuel costs, impossible weather events and union walkouts. Let’s face it. Costs are rising faster than a Levitra-induced erection. The industry’s cure for this rampant growth in overhead? Cut fares across the board. Cut the Saturday night requirement. Create even greater demand for aircraft already clogged with humans who impersonate cattle very well, thank you. Sell it for less and less and lose more and more income. Has the word “schizoid” crossed anyone’s mind yet? Or to put it more gently, as Andy Dufresne put it to Warden Samuel Norton, “How can you be so obtuse?” The question sits there, begging for attention. And then your light finally comes on. During bankruptcy protection, plenty of people make plenty of money. Bankruptcy is, after all, a strategy, not insanity. Bankruptcy is polite larceny. Certain people get rich; others get raped. Bailed out by Uncle Sam, the industry will make like Gladys Knight and “keep on keepin’ on.” It has to. Sure, some people get screwed. Thousands of stockholders, suppliers and employees get the shaft. Meanwhile, undaunted by insolvency, the industry plans to roll out new aircraft that hold twice the number of passengers as ever before. Now you can take your place among the 500 souls that will fit into a single jetliner . . . uh, that is, if you can wangle yourself a seat.