How To Get Caught By The Police (Part One: The Chase)

I’ve asked around quite extensively and it would seem that precious few sixteen year olds can say that they’ve been chased down by helicopters, handcuffed and thrown in the back of a cop car. However god, the petty and vindictive son of a bitch that he is found it best to bestow me with such an experience.

It was another average night for my friends and I. We had played a show for some five-hundred ravenous undergarment tossing fans and planned to round out the evening with a sound dose of drugs, drink and debauchery. The only thing different about this night as opposed to any other was where we chose to perform the latter of these tasks. More often than not our elicit activities were confined within the soundly constructed walls of one of out Carmichael homes. It would seem that this night however we were full of youthful defiance and a well honed belief that we were invincible. We had decided that the best arena for the under aged consumption of mass amount of drugs and alcohol was Star King Middle School. Nestled safely within one of the many sub-suburbs Star King was not unlike any other middle school found in Carmichael. Unfortunately unlike many of the other houses of education found in the area Star King had recently experienced a rash of vandalism. It was this unknown fact that would prove to be our undoing.

In a decision that we at the time found to incredibly wise we chose to set up shop at the far end of the property. On the bleachers where hundreds perhaps thousands of parents had sat to watch their children play soccer we set out to become thoroughly inebriated. Even then we knew it to be impossible to have an acceptably good time without the proper music to awaken the slumbering soul. A boom box was brought forth to amplify what we found to be the great music of our era. I’m sure now that any house within earshot (of which there were quite a few) found their quiet bedrooms filled with the less than soothing voices of Ben Weasel, Fat Mike and Joe Queer. However the assurance of a sound nights sleep for a few squares was the least of our concerns.

We were sixteen year old gods rollicking on the field of battle that is adolescence. For almost three hours we worshipped at the throne of hedonism and all were welcome to the plunder. Stacks of Natural Ice piled chest high, uncountable bottles of Boones Farm representing every color of the rainbow and sandwich baggies that in grade school had once housed peanut butter sandwiches were now overflowing with the finest marijuana a high school campus could provide. We had made ourselves kings and even went so far as to provide the court with crowns. For as anyone who has wasted a respectable amount of their lives drink cheap booze knows that a twelve pack box fits perfectly over ones head. However it would seem that our reign was not meant to last. Perhaps we had grown too vain with power. Perhaps we hadn’t offered the gods proper tribute. Regardless of what brought about our fate, in the end our empire would be inexplicably crushed.

Like a specter of doom a helicopter rose on the horizon and adorned with an empty twelve pack box on my head I mused,

“Wouldn’t it be funny… If that helicopter was here for us?”

Before the quip could complete its escape from my lips the heavens broke open and the light of judgment shown upon us. In simpler terms the cops wrecked our fucking party. The ensuing moments were absolute chaos. Perhaps it is because I was thoroughly fucking hammered but all I remember are glimpses of moments, flashes and Oliver Stone jump cuts. Although I do recall vividly that the officer manning the helicopter’s loud speaker was a godless condescending cocksucker. From the height and perspective of the helicopter it was undoubtedly a ridiculous site. Within seconds all twenty of us has scattered like so many pieces of drunken shrapnel. I now understand the vague and primal concept of fight or flight. The moment that spotlight dropped down upon us it was every man and woman for themselves. Like very one of my friends I chose to run like hell. Had I chosen fight what would I have done? Should I have thrown my beer can skyward in an attempt to bring down the helicopter? Ultimately, running was most likely the best choice. Eleven years later I now realize that there was a third option open to us. We could have, I suppose, stayed right where we were and waited to receive our fair and just punishment. However there was no way I was going out like that. Outside of running my first instinct was to hide. Although it seemed logical at the time I now know that you can not hide from a helicopter under a tree. I pressed myself against the nearest trunk certain that the canopy of leaves would offer me the cover I so desperately needed.

As I looked out on the seen before me I witnessed Mac perform an act I will forever admire him for. He had been caught dead to rights in the unforgiving glow of the spotlight. In one hand he held a half drained bottle of Boones Farm, in the other a cigarette. He looked up directly into the light. He then looked over to his bottle of Boones Farm and then his cigarette. He finally turned his eyes to me and then in complete silence, without a single word being spoken we had a conversation.

“What should I do?” his eyes pleaded.

My eyes told him to run.

“What about the Boones. And the cigarette!?”

As I shot him the glare that told him to forget about it I could tell he had already made his decision. He turned his head skyward for but a second assessing the situation. Then while bathed in light with determination the likes of which I had never seen he proceeded to chug the rest of his Boones Farm, take one last drag of his cigarette, toss them both and run. It was a bold and defiant move. One that unmistakably declared,

“I paid three dollars for this booze and I’m not letting it go to waste!”

Upon Mac departure the helicopter turned its attention to me. The tree which I was certain would provide my solace was immediately awash in light. A smug voice came through the loud speaker,

“I can see you down there smart guy! DO NOT RUN!”

I hadn’t run far enough or fast enough. I knew I had been beaten. I was instructed to return to my vehicle and I did so. Upon my arrival I was greeted by Mac and Rorick, their faces drenched with sweat and fear. Police cruisers descended upon us. Out of twenty they had brought down only the three of us but we would be made to know who was in charge. We were bullied threatened and ultimately cuffed and thrown in the back of a cop car. As we departed an officer leaned in and asked,

“Do you know what happens to soft little suburban boys like you in prison?”

Ever the defiant little son of a bitch I responded,

“No, what happens to soft little suburban boys like us in prison?”

Next Time

How To Get Caught By The Police (Part Two: The Aftermath)