RUDIMENTS, pt. 752
(well, sincerest as it goes anyway)
Often, the key to getting
away with stuff is the
quality of the 'smooth'
with which you can
pull it off. Yes, that
sounds lame, and, yes,
maybe it is. Yet, here is
a story to illustrate same.
It happened to me, in
just this manner. About
1973, Summer of, I guess.
Along with my little family
of wife and a very young son,
pushing 4 years old maybe,
we'd taken a drive. The
vehicle I had going that day
was a basic farm-use job that
I kept running. A 1947 Willys.
It was just a basic, primitive,
large box on wheels. They did
used to make thousands of them.
I'd gotten this one in a trade
for a few pistols and a power
saw. The whole thing was
worth maybe 400 bucks. It
did have a license plate on it,
(Pennsylvania only uses one,
at the rear), but it was bogus,
and, as I recall, just thrown
on it for the day's ride. We
were just slowly making our
way along the old back and
farm roads. The thing only
went maybe 50, with a real
push and stress on the engine.
A long while later, we somehow
end up over the border, into
NY State - which was no
big deal, except that it meant
the laws were different and
we were now on Route 17.
We were no longer in the deep
country out-of-the-way that
we were used to, and everything
went much faster. I knew the
area pretty well and was able
to realize a few local landmarks
and directions. Normally, I
was around here in my legal
car. This Willys had nothing,
was not registered, and was
uninsured, and the plate was
false and any window sticker
out of date. Sure enough, a
'NY Statie' got me - lights
going, I saw it all behind me,
and I pulled over. Let me
straighten that : a first he
came up along side me, all
50 miles per hour of me. I
saw him looking me over,
he looked mean and serious,
with his NY State Trooper
uniform, and car, and kind
of Ranger hat thing they all
used to wear. Then I noted
he fell back a little, and then
the lights came on, and he ran
up again alongside me, and
motioned, and pulled over
ahead of me. The goodly Lord
at least had it that I had brakes
enough to stop and not
rear-end this guy.
-
Now, at this time I was in
my best 'country-boy' attire.
Scummy old dungarees, all
splattered with the usual cow
plops and juices; I had on a
white tee shirt and some silo
company cap. My hair was
about 1/16th inch long, and
I looked - if not like L'il
Abner myself, than like a
12-year old and not a 25-year
old. I knew I was sunk, In
fact, way sunk. There was
also a pistol in the vehicle,
beneath the sea I was sitting
on. Again, one of the great
unlicensed country-boy
artifiacts everyone on my
hilltops was prone to. Guns
and cars got traded around
like baseball cards out in
the deep tops and bottom
heights. So to speak, 'reversedly.'
I had about 30 seconds to get
my self together and decide
my path. And fate?
-
My decision was, I'd suppose,
the easiest in all respects. I knew
I could pull it off, just treating
it like another acting gig, some
role-playing small, two-bit part.
I was always pretty good at that
acting stuff. I decided to play the
dumb, stupid, L'il Abner role
for all it was worth; to squeeze
if dry for blood. Hell, when he
was going to ask my name, I
was so ready I would have just
answered, 'Mr. Yokel' is my
name. I've noticed, SOME cops
go right to the point - the first
words are, 'license and registration,
hands on the wheel.' (I've been
pulled over my share, 2-wheels,
and 4). He sauntered over to
the window, looking smart and
tidy. His opening gambit, much
more fortunate for me, was the
'I'm your friend' angle. "I couldn't
help but notice that you were
going pretty slowly. Anything
wrong here, with the vehicle?
And what brings you over to
these parts?" My head was
running as fast as my brain,
and I - in my finest bumpkin
slur and slang, said, "Well, we
came out this way a'cause of
Father's Day - see I been
meaning to get my boy here a
little puppy, so's we could sorta'
share all that y'know. The wife
here she too was OK with it, and
we drove out here today cuz I'd
knowed there was a dog pound
out here, up one of these hillsides,
which turn I been looking for a
few miles now, and not wanting
to miss it. The son here, he's all
excited with the thought, and
we're just trying to keep him calm
til we find it and get there." I just
kept talking, about the car, the
land, how seldom we got out, how
maybe I shoulda' took the other
car, I see now, for this trip, blah,
blah. It was pretty cool. Mr.
Trooper fell for the whole thing!
Never asked for paperwork, never
sought a license, or any of that,
and most certainly never had me
step out of the van. Everyone else
just stayed pretty quiet. I tugged
on my hat brim now and then,
just so, like a hillbilly would
do, for sure. I'd even wished I'd
brought a plug of tobacco along
so as to have reason to be spitting
as I talked, spitting down, I mean,
like farmers and all do, not at the
cop. He verified the dog pound,
told us, even, where it was, when
to turn, how to get there, and the
rest. Hook. Line. And Sinker.
If I was Capt. Ahab, I'd have just
gotten the whale, perfectly.
-
That was a really close call - and
a close-to-ending for our day and
afternoon had it gone the other
way. It could have been a real
mess. We did get to the kennels,
just in case we were still to be
observed or followed. Went in,
walked around, looked at all
the dogs, etc. But we came away
with nothing - and besides we
already had like 5 crazy dogs at
the farmhouse. Everyone was
real nice to us - the kennel
ladies gave us good deference
and consideration. It all just
got me thinking about sincerity
and honesty and all. I did feel
pretty skunky for what I'd done,
but there was really no other
way out of what would have
been a true problem for us -
money-wise and situation-wise.
I couldn't figure what a New
York State Highway cop would
even know or understand about
how we lived up in the Pennsylvania
hills - even though, from what I
knew, the borders didn't much matter
and the same things went on over
on the NY side - same kind of
poor, skinny, country folk, guns
and cars and butter and meat
trading back and forth between
people. Hell, wives, sons and
daughters too. Along with the
usual moonshine, guns, things
never returned, and even cattle
and fencelines swapped. Nothing
really 'legal' much ever transpired.
I think he realized that; and I think,
partially, that's what got me through
the scene; a kind of insulation
from trouble just for being the
local sort of what I was - which,
in reality, I was NOT at all. See.
That's how it all got, and gets,
so dang tricky. Like I said, the
quality of the 'smooth' and how
well you can pull it off without
blinking, that's what most often
counts. Heck, I should'a got a
country-boy Oscar for that one.
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