| Humor Fiction posted July 7, 2021 |
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Conning the cops: three stops in one wild night
Smooth Talker Hightails it
by Elizabeth Emerald
During the summer of '64, when my friend Chuck and his six-pack of beer buddies were four years short of legal drinking age, they creatively endeavored to circumvent the law.
Even back then, 25 years before drunk driving became a cause cé·lè·bre, teens knew not to push their luck. With the proviso that his alcoholic reward would be generously rendered back at the ranch, Chuck volunteered as sober chauffeur.
Chuck was not only the designated driver, he was also the designated talker. It was a testament to his artistry as regards cow-patty piling that he and his sidekicks evaded arrest three times, in three towns, in one night. Take it away, Chuck!
So, we're driving down to the Cape on a steamy Saturday night, first stop Falmouth. Jimmy knows someone, who knows someone, who's throwing a party. We crash it. Jimmy gets trashed. Crashes into a table. Trashes the snack tray. Which sends chips scattering and upends the crock of onion dip onto the carpet, into which mess he face plants. He gets hauled up and tossed out.
We catch up to him on the sidewalk, where he's being grilled by a cop, who'd been called to the scene on neighbors' complaints about the ruckus.
So, here's Jimmy, totally wasted, face smeared with sour cream, dripping blood from his battle with the brass table.
So, I'm racking my brains for a plausible cover-story, and tell the cop Jimmy works at the supermarket, in the butcher-shop, hacked a hunk of beef, apron askew, blood squirts down his shirt. As for the goop on his face, I tell him a canister of whipped cream burst in the dairy aisle, just as Jimmy passed by. And that Jimmy's not drunk, just tranked out from the Xanax the doctor prescribed following the trauma of the explosion.
So, here I'm rattling off this tale, in awe at my on-the-spot ingenuity, but the cop's not believing a word of it. Apparently overwhelmed by the convolutions of my fabrication, he clutches his aching, shaking head, then tells me to grab the drunken coot and scoot.
So, next stop is the town of Dennis. Greg suggests stopping for sundaes, so as to sober Jimmy up. So, we drive around, till we spot a place called Ice Cream Xtreme, which advertises "make-your-own." They start us off with three scoops, then tell us to head to the "top-it-off" table.
So, we guys ladle on hot fudge and whipped cream, then take our seats. Except for Jimmy. He keeps going, slopping on fudge, butterscotch, and strawberry sauces, glopping cream on top, dumping all the walnuts and M&Ms and whatever else, and the mess overflows the tray, and the manager yells at us to get the eff-out.
On the way to the door, Jimmy tips his tray into the waste bucket and misses, then the manager chases us out to the street, screaming, and of course, wouldn't you know, there's a cop on the beat, and the manager rants about the havoc, at which point I interject that Jimmy is brain-damaged and can't help himself.
The manager is mortified, and apologizes profusely for tossing us out, and tells the cop to let us go.
So, next stop is Harwich. There's a outdoor concert on the town common, so we figure we'll chill out until Jimmy dries out. As luck would have it, a cop's passing by the very second Jimmy stumbles out of the car and hits the pavement. The cop bends down to help him up and of course, Jimmy reeks of booze, so the cop approaches my car, where I'm still behind the wheel, and asks for my license.
So, I whip out my license, and he peers in the back seat looking for alcohol, which, fortunately, we'd stashed in the trunk, then, not so fortunately, the cop asks me to open the trunk. Busted.
So, I'm desperately trying to think of a way out, without getting him suspicious. I pretend to be eager to cooperate, and take out my house key and hand it over. Of course, it doesn't go into the lock and I profess to be puzzled, and take the key and attempt to jam it in, then I clap my hand to my forehead and tell the cop that I must have grabbed the house key by mistake, and I didn't notice because I had no need for the trunk.
By now, a crowd has gathered. The cop gets in my face, and under his breath, tells me to play along. He clues me in that he's going to act tough for the benefit of the audience, so they don't think he's a pussy, after which I'm free to get out of Dodge.
I wink to let him know I get it, after which he loudly lambastes me for trying to put one over on him, and commands that I follow him to the police station wherein they have tools to pop my trunk.
So, the guys pile back into the car, and I set off after the police car. At the lights, he takes a right; I take a right. At the next set of lights, he takes a left; I take a left. He takes a right to turn into the station; I take a left and hightail it outta there.
The guys, who hadn't heard the whispered exchange, go nuts, screaming at me for being so stupid as to try to escape, that we're going be chased down and wind up in jail.
I let them sweat it out for the next five minutes before confessing to the ruse.
Story of the Month contest entry
During the summer of '64, when my friend Chuck and his six-pack of beer buddies were four years short of legal drinking age, they creatively endeavored to circumvent the law.
Even back then, 25 years before drunk driving became a cause cé·lè·bre, teens knew not to push their luck. With the proviso that his alcoholic reward would be generously rendered back at the ranch, Chuck volunteered as sober chauffeur.
Chuck was not only the designated driver, he was also the designated talker. It was a testament to his artistry as regards cow-patty piling that he and his sidekicks evaded arrest three times, in three towns, in one night. Take it away, Chuck!
So, we're driving down to the Cape on a steamy Saturday night, first stop Falmouth. Jimmy knows someone, who knows someone, who's throwing a party. We crash it. Jimmy gets trashed. Crashes into a table. Trashes the snack tray. Which sends chips scattering and upends the crock of onion dip onto the carpet, into which mess he face plants. He gets hauled up and tossed out.
We catch up to him on the sidewalk, where he's being grilled by a cop, who'd been called to the scene on neighbors' complaints about the ruckus.
So, here's Jimmy, totally wasted, face smeared with sour cream, dripping blood from his battle with the brass table.
So, I'm racking my brains for a plausible cover-story, and tell the cop Jimmy works at the supermarket, in the butcher-shop, hacked a hunk of beef, apron askew, blood squirts down his shirt. As for the goop on his face, I tell him a canister of whipped cream burst in the dairy aisle, just as Jimmy passed by. And that Jimmy's not drunk, just tranked out from the Xanax the doctor prescribed following the trauma of the explosion.
So, here I'm rattling off this tale, in awe at my on-the-spot ingenuity, but the cop's not believing a word of it. Apparently overwhelmed by the convolutions of my fabrication, he clutches his aching, shaking head, then tells me to grab the drunken coot and scoot.
So, next stop is the town of Dennis. Greg suggests stopping for sundaes, so as to sober Jimmy up. So, we drive around, till we spot a place called Ice Cream Xtreme, which advertises "make-your-own." They start us off with three scoops, then tell us to head to the "top-it-off" table.
So, we guys ladle on hot fudge and whipped cream, then take our seats. Except for Jimmy. He keeps going, slopping on fudge, butterscotch, and strawberry sauces, glopping cream on top, dumping all the walnuts and M&Ms and whatever else, and the mess overflows the tray, and the manager yells at us to get the eff-out.
On the way to the door, Jimmy tips his tray into the waste bucket and misses, then the manager chases us out to the street, screaming, and of course, wouldn't you know, there's a cop on the beat, and the manager rants about the havoc, at which point I interject that Jimmy is brain-damaged and can't help himself.
The manager is mortified, and apologizes profusely for tossing us out, and tells the cop to let us go.
So, next stop is Harwich. There's a outdoor concert on the town common, so we figure we'll chill out until Jimmy dries out. As luck would have it, a cop's passing by the very second Jimmy stumbles out of the car and hits the pavement. The cop bends down to help him up and of course, Jimmy reeks of booze, so the cop approaches my car, where I'm still behind the wheel, and asks for my license.
So, I whip out my license, and he peers in the back seat looking for alcohol, which, fortunately, we'd stashed in the trunk, then, not so fortunately, the cop asks me to open the trunk. Busted.
So, I'm desperately trying to think of a way out, without getting him suspicious. I pretend to be eager to cooperate, and take out my house key and hand it over. Of course, it doesn't go into the lock and I profess to be puzzled, and take the key and attempt to jam it in, then I clap my hand to my forehead and tell the cop that I must have grabbed the house key by mistake, and I didn't notice because I had no need for the trunk.
By now, a crowd has gathered. The cop gets in my face, and under his breath, tells me to play along. He clues me in that he's going to act tough for the benefit of the audience, so they don't think he's a pussy, after which I'm free to get out of Dodge.
I wink to let him know I get it, after which he loudly lambastes me for trying to put one over on him, and commands that I follow him to the police station wherein they have tools to pop my trunk.
So, the guys pile back into the car, and I set off after the police car. At the lights, he takes a right; I take a right. At the next set of lights, he takes a left; I take a left. He takes a right to turn into the station; I take a left and hightail it outta there.
The guys, who hadn't heard the whispered exchange, go nuts, screaming at me for being so stupid as to try to escape, that we're going be chased down and wind up in jail.
I let them sweat it out for the next five minutes before confessing to the ruse.
Even back then, 25 years before drunk driving became a cause cé·lè·bre, teens knew not to push their luck. With the proviso that his alcoholic reward would be generously rendered back at the ranch, Chuck volunteered as sober chauffeur.
Chuck was not only the designated driver, he was also the designated talker. It was a testament to his artistry as regards cow-patty piling that he and his sidekicks evaded arrest three times, in three towns, in one night. Take it away, Chuck!
So, we're driving down to the Cape on a steamy Saturday night, first stop Falmouth. Jimmy knows someone, who knows someone, who's throwing a party. We crash it. Jimmy gets trashed. Crashes into a table. Trashes the snack tray. Which sends chips scattering and upends the crock of onion dip onto the carpet, into which mess he face plants. He gets hauled up and tossed out.
We catch up to him on the sidewalk, where he's being grilled by a cop, who'd been called to the scene on neighbors' complaints about the ruckus.
So, here's Jimmy, totally wasted, face smeared with sour cream, dripping blood from his battle with the brass table.
So, I'm racking my brains for a plausible cover-story, and tell the cop Jimmy works at the supermarket, in the butcher-shop, hacked a hunk of beef, apron askew, blood squirts down his shirt. As for the goop on his face, I tell him a canister of whipped cream burst in the dairy aisle, just as Jimmy passed by. And that Jimmy's not drunk, just tranked out from the Xanax the doctor prescribed following the trauma of the explosion.
So, here I'm rattling off this tale, in awe at my on-the-spot ingenuity, but the cop's not believing a word of it. Apparently overwhelmed by the convolutions of my fabrication, he clutches his aching, shaking head, then tells me to grab the drunken coot and scoot.
So, next stop is the town of Dennis. Greg suggests stopping for sundaes, so as to sober Jimmy up. So, we drive around, till we spot a place called Ice Cream Xtreme, which advertises "make-your-own." They start us off with three scoops, then tell us to head to the "top-it-off" table.
So, we guys ladle on hot fudge and whipped cream, then take our seats. Except for Jimmy. He keeps going, slopping on fudge, butterscotch, and strawberry sauces, glopping cream on top, dumping all the walnuts and M&Ms and whatever else, and the mess overflows the tray, and the manager yells at us to get the eff-out.
On the way to the door, Jimmy tips his tray into the waste bucket and misses, then the manager chases us out to the street, screaming, and of course, wouldn't you know, there's a cop on the beat, and the manager rants about the havoc, at which point I interject that Jimmy is brain-damaged and can't help himself.
The manager is mortified, and apologizes profusely for tossing us out, and tells the cop to let us go.
So, next stop is Harwich. There's a outdoor concert on the town common, so we figure we'll chill out until Jimmy dries out. As luck would have it, a cop's passing by the very second Jimmy stumbles out of the car and hits the pavement. The cop bends down to help him up and of course, Jimmy reeks of booze, so the cop approaches my car, where I'm still behind the wheel, and asks for my license.
So, I whip out my license, and he peers in the back seat looking for alcohol, which, fortunately, we'd stashed in the trunk, then, not so fortunately, the cop asks me to open the trunk. Busted.
So, I'm desperately trying to think of a way out, without getting him suspicious. I pretend to be eager to cooperate, and take out my house key and hand it over. Of course, it doesn't go into the lock and I profess to be puzzled, and take the key and attempt to jam it in, then I clap my hand to my forehead and tell the cop that I must have grabbed the house key by mistake, and I didn't notice because I had no need for the trunk.
By now, a crowd has gathered. The cop gets in my face, and under his breath, tells me to play along. He clues me in that he's going to act tough for the benefit of the audience, so they don't think he's a pussy, after which I'm free to get out of Dodge.
I wink to let him know I get it, after which he loudly lambastes me for trying to put one over on him, and commands that I follow him to the police station wherein they have tools to pop my trunk.
So, the guys pile back into the car, and I set off after the police car. At the lights, he takes a right; I take a right. At the next set of lights, he takes a left; I take a left. He takes a right to turn into the station; I take a left and hightail it outta there.
The guys, who hadn't heard the whispered exchange, go nuts, screaming at me for being so stupid as to try to escape, that we're going be chased down and wind up in jail.
I let them sweat it out for the next five minutes before confessing to the ruse.
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#7 July 2021 |
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