Daytona State College
Many people worldwide have seen television shows like Cops where there are humorous traffic stops, wobbly, shaky, drunken, individuals doing the funky chicken instead of walking the straight line, or spelling out their ex-girlfriend’s name, sobbing and crying when they’re supposed to be saying the alphabet backwards. On the other hand, all instances cannot be comical. As evidence, news around the world has shown a minority of males that have been literally shot and killed. My story is a little bit, or quite, different.
My heart races, pitter pattering like raindrops thumping in my chest as I hide my Patron bottle and Peach Amsterdam under my seat. Heck, I’m even hiding my cancer sticks. I can’t believe I got stopped like this; I haven’t even left the bar parking lot yet. I am over the top skittish. My brother in the passenger seat looks as if he had just seen a ghost. His posture is straight like army men standing in a uniformed line getting yelled at by their drill sergeant. The cop’s red, yellow, blue, and green lights behind us reflect off the sweat pouring down my brother’s face. Fiddling in his pockets, he mumbles, “I’m not going back” trying to hide his shoulders and head. Even though it is hard to see in my car with the tinted windows, we are “two sheets gone in the wind.”
The globular organs in my head that help me to see are blurred, beclouded, and unbelievably obscured. The tension causes perspiration like swashing channels of water and trickling beads of sweat. Alcoholic beverages are coming out my pores like Niagara Falls on a blistering summer day. My palms are sweaty, legs shaking, and eyes plastered to the rear-view mirror. My heart drops like an avalanche or a falling bottomless elevator with no floor. I couldn’t help reminiscing on our earlier gabfest, a gathering of all my friends. I begin to ponder and think of a heart-to-heart conversation my pal and I had.
We called ourselves the Mob squad. Hours before the pursuit occurred, all the guys met to hang out at the “Burger Shack." One of my friends always tells these wild, obscene, deranged, but hilarious stories. He told us a story about how he got arrested and beaten with a Barbie ping pong set. He claimed he was just sitting at the local 7-Eleven when two ununiformed “pigs,’ he called them, came up to him and asked him what he was doing. With his Northern accent he yelled, “Ya Motha.”
The officers yanked him up by his brand-new Starter jacket, slammed him against the outer wall of the store, slapped handcuffs on him so tight, and of course he claimed they didn’t read him his Miranda rights, his “legal defense.” He was known to tell a fib from time to time, but we weren’t sure if he was lying or not. He wasn’t doing his usual trait he does when he lies; twisting both of his lips to the left and tracing a line in the crevasse of his mouth with his middle finger. Then, listening to other profound stories at the restaurant table, the thoughts were stuck in between the folds of tissue in my brain as I looked up at the restaurant lights.
Immediately, I realize that these shimmery red, yellow, green, and blue lights are not the restaurant lights; they’re from the frightening, unmarked police car behind me, snapping me back into reality. Due to historic events in society, I don’t know whether to flee or to sit still. I’m trying not to think irrationally on my present situation at hand as I wait for the police to get out the car. It’s taking them “forever and a day.” Two Hispanic guys on the sidewalk are “tickled pink” tipping their Corona bottles up to their mouths, waving their hands at us, telling us, “Policia, policia, go, go, go.” In my Christian slang, I whisper, “What in the fool’s nanny pop.” Being that I confessed my sins to the priest eight times this week, I am forbidden to curse.
I hear a crackling noise; a little skeet of pee trickles down my leg. My feet are heavy, and my nervous system is wrecked. My brother begins to shout out “Let’s get it, let’s go!” I put the pedal to the metal, screaming, “Get out the way!” My steering wheel locks up; I forgot to put power steering fluid in this broke down “lemon.” I turn up the music. I don’t know how, but it’s on a country radio station, playing John Denver (Take me home, country roads). Our expressions are priceless. We look at each other, smile, and start bobbing our heads to our newfound love for “country music.”
I’m hitting corners like Dale Earnhardt Jr. in a parking lot full of drunken, sensitive, battered men, and strong, independent businesswomen looking at them in disgust. The front left driver’s wheel hit the corner of the sidewalk, causing the car to do the “Harlem Shake.” My brother yelled, “Yee haw!” I frowned at him like “seriously?” My brother throws his illegal green substance out the window, in small, microscopic, pink, and clear Ziploc bags, whispering, “Bye bye bubblicious 53.” My hands flick back and forth, left and right on the steering wheel, trying to gain control of this old, broken, “hand me down” 1976 Pinto.
Thrashing out of the parking lot, a stop sign is ahead; I run through it like a dead-beat dad, running from his child support. Thinking at the light of speed, I decide to go left, looking for the perfect place to jump out, somewhere safe and secluded. Going at an extremely fast rate of 35mph, that’s as fast as I could get up to. My Mother’s house is just two to three blocks away. The police are right behind us like “ugly on a mule.” Approaching my Mother’s house, my brother comes up with a plan. In a drunken slur he exclaims, “On to the bat cave!” or something to that effect. I slam on the brakes as if I am a Ford car test dummy making a commercial for sales.
Jumping out of the driver’s seat, my foot slightly twists. I fall and get up like a jack rabbit, running like my life depends on it. I hear these distant voices behind me, laughing, yelling, “Stop, it’s me!” I stop, out of breath, wheezing like an asthma patient. My ears muffle like I have a hearing impediment from all the drinking and felony crimes I just committed. I look back in suspense to a shocking surprise ahead. Two of my close friends laugh to no end, slapping their knees. My friend punched me in the shoulder screaming, “Dude, it’s just strobe lights.” My body slumps over like a zombie.
I fall to the ground like a rag doll. Still in shock, worn out and angry, I laugh with them until I threw up, holding my stomach trying to breathe. They try to come up and “high five” me shouting, “Man you’re drunk as a skunk!” I can’t find myself to give them a handshake. This was the worst joke I’d ever seen, but between laughing and being angry, it was one of the greatest jokes I’d ever seen. Now looking for my brother, he was “out of sight, and out of mind.” Later we found out he hid under a trailer, until he claimed, “the helicopters left the scene.”
Like I always say, there’s a thin line between love and hate. I love a thrill and chase, but I also learned that the chase is not always a thrill. I am glad that I am a better person today; life has a way of molding you. Still excitement gives me pleasure that reaches my soul at an unstoppable rate. I think more rationally today than a young adult would. I know that everything that happens in life is either a blessing, or a lesson. I look at irrational decisions now and say in my church slang “What the devil?”