Small Things #1

The “Small Things” series consists ofhalf-hour morning exercises. I sit, let a memory hit and type it out …. with the clock set for one half hour. Doesn’t leave much time for worrying about grammar or editing. Just get the stuff out the door.

I STOLE MY MOM’S CAR and debit card when I was 14. We lived in Woodland, California. It was the night before my first year of high school, and I still didn’t have any school supplies. We had been in a fight about something and she refused to take me to Safeway (or maybe it was Longs) to stock up.

And so I took her car, a 1980 Toyota Celica and off I went to the bank. It’s been awhile, so all I remember is that the night was as dark as I was nervous. After I pulled the cash from the ATM, I got back in the car and headed for Safeway (or maybe it was Longs).

About a block from the bank, a cop pulled in behind me. Do you remember the feeling you got the first time you saw a cop riding your tail in your rear view mirror? I still get it each and every time. I focused on smooth shifting and steady clutch releases. Maybe I focused too much, as the red lights flashed and I nearly — and I know this phrase is overused, but it’s appropriate here — shit myself.

I had no license, no trainer’s permit, and no good reason to be out in my mom’s car without her permission. I told my story to the officer. He listened to me and then … well, before I tell you what happened to me, I’ll tell you what would happen to me today: I’d be taken to juvenile hall, my mother arrested for negligence, I’d be placed on a regimen of mind-altering drugs, stuck with a record that would kill my chances at college, and saddled with a complex that would haunt me for decades.

What really happened: The cop told me to drive straight home. And good luck with school. Yep, seriously.

The MF good old days.