The Time I Got Arrested
It’s the summer of 2001. The sun is burning hot in the midday sky, the grass a most beautiful emerald green, and I just found my first love. It is a brown 1983 Buick Regal sedan with bench seats, a vinyl top, AM and FM radio, enough fake wood to re-panel a basement rec room, and shocks so worn amazing you’d have thought you were sailing a ship across a sea of clouds. In other words, this is one serious Chick Magnet.
$200 cash and it’s mine. What a deal! The person running the estate sale let slip that the dearly departed went to meet her maker in the front seat. Like I said: Chick. Magnet.
Where was I? Right, getting arrested.
I just turned 17. I had neither the mental faculty nor the legal authority to enter into sales contracts or other binding agreements with anyone. But this lady who now owned her grandmother’s car didn’t care. She just wants the garage cleared out and I am the one to help her do it. So without any official proof the car was legally obtained, she hands me the keys and sends me on my way. The lady promises me that this exchange is completely legitimate. Who am I to argue? I now possess a car.
I drive away in a car that is not legally mine, with no license plate, no registration, and no insurance (and I forgot my driver’s license, for good measure). To top it off, this car is also not technically road legal (we’ll get to that part in a bit). But it doesn’t matter. I just got my first taste of true freedom and I am hooked.
I make the only decision a 17 year old with a car could make. I drive to my friend’s house to show it off. 40 miles away. It’s during this trip that I learn driving a car with no rear-view mirror is a ticket-worthy offense. It is during this trip that I also learn driving a car registered to a recently deceased person with none of the aforementioned paperwork bears a striking resemblance to what some people might refer to as “Grand Theft Auto” [It is also where I learn never to accept legal advice from strangers -Ed.]
This car isn’t fast. Hell, this car can’t even reach the highway speed limit. And I, still oblivious to the fact that I am committing several crimes, cruise along at a grandmother’s pace down I-69. That is, until a state trooper with superhuman vision flags me down to notify me of the mirror issue. We pull onto the shoulder and the officer makes his way toward my car.
Surely, he wants to admire the beaded covers adorning these luxurious tweed-wrapped seats up close.
He requests the usual “license and registration”, to which I reply “Oh, yea, no… I just, uh, got the car today so I, um, don’t have any of that yet.” Dearest reader, please take note: while correct, this is the Wrong Answer™ to that question.
The officer excuses himself and walks back to his squad car. A minute barely had time to pass before he is back at my window, requesting that I “step out of the car please”.
I knew it. He wants to experience these seats for himself. He’s in for a treat.
Alas, this is where my story takes a turn. This officer of the law is not here to take in the fine American craftsmanship. He is here to place me in handcuffs and put me in the backseat of his cruiser. I am bewildered. He carefully explains every unlawful act I have just committed. Panic sets in. I feel cold steel pressing against my wrist bones. I sink down as far as I can, trying my best to ignore the pain and my inevitable outcome. He walks back to my car to search it further. I start imagining the former owner was a crime boss. Was the estate sale just a front? Why did they want the car gone so fast? Did they use this car to transport narcotics and weapons? It’s only a matter of time before he finds everything. I sit up for a moment to see what fate has in store for me.
I realize something. My girlfriend has been sitting in the passenger seat this whole time and the look on her face is hilarous. Having gone through every other possible emotional reaction, the only one I have left is laughter. So I laugh. Hard. I’ve gotten myself into some seriously ridiculous situations, but this so far takes the cake. I see her laugh. Then the cop laughs.
She corroborates my story. Finding nothing other than sheer stupidity, the officer releases me. We wait for the tow truck to haul away my brown beauty and the officer drives us to a gas station where I call my friend so his dad can pick us up. As the cop departs, he leaves me with wisdom I will never forget:
“Stupid people do stupid things. Smart people do stupid things only once.”
The concept is simple and uttered quite often. Learn from your mistakes. I sure made a lot of mistakes that day. I trusted a total stranger; I got myself handcuffed; I pissed off my mom in ways my older siblings could only dream of. Not repeating these things is a definite no-brainer.
