Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Illinois was at least six feet tall, with thick shoulders and muscled arms that looked
like they belonged to a heavyweight boxer. He wore a brown ranger hat that
matched his short-sleeve uniform and had on reflector sunglasses that made it
“Do you know how fast you were going?” the patrolman barked.
“Seventy-five miles an hour. That’s twenty miles over the speed limit.”
“Was I really going that fast? I’m sorry, officer. I didn’t realize it.” Dad was
smiling and trying to act congenial but I could tell he was nervous. He gripped the
steering wheel with both hands and his knuckles were turning white.
Dad pulled his wallet from his back pocket, fumbled for his driver’s license and
“Ingrid, will you look in there and see if you can find the registration for me?”
I opened it and frantically began shoving around the mass of papers, knowing
and we definitely have insurance.” Dad offered him another sincere, apologetic
smile.
Dad watched in the rear view mirror as the patrolman walked back to his car.
His hands were still on the steering wheel and I noticed that his right hand was
shaking. I had never seen him scared before, and it was scaring me.
A couple weeks earlier, he had told me there was a warrant out for his arrest.
He said that one of his ex-sales guys had bounced a $10,000 check with his
signature on it at a bank in Texas and charges had been filed. It didn’t seem like a
big deal to me. Dad liked to refer to himself as a `creative financier’ and often
“You know I got the golden tongue, Ingrid. Nobody’s going to do nothing to me.
Plus I didn’t do anything wrong. Those banks have plenty of money and I’m going
At least five minutes lapsed. Dad didn’t speak; he just kept glancing at the rear
view mirror.
“Oh shit!” he yelled suddenly. His face, normally a ruddy complexion, had
turned chalk colored. Before I could respond, I saw the patrolman at Dad’s door.
Then I saw his gun, pointed only a few inches from Dad’s head.
"Get your arms in the air and keep your hands where I can see them! And don’t
We both threw up our arms and kept our bodies frozen. I was too scared to
breathe. The cop yanked the car door open with one hand while keeping the gun
trained on Dad. He grabbed Dad by his left arm, yanked him out of the car and
pulled him around to the back, where he threw him face down against the trunk.
slammed Dad against the trunk a second time and pulled out handcuffs, which he
clamped down on Dad’s wrists. I felt tears streaming down my face and heard a
Dad lay bent over the trunk, his face smashed against the steel. The patrolman
frisked him and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. He spent a minute combing
“What’s this?” he asked seconds later, pulling out an ID card from Dad’s wallet.
"I had that made up as a joke," I heard Dad say, his face still smashed against
the trunk.
I watched as he pushed Dad toward his patrol car and locked him in the back
“Sixteen.”
I couldn’t stop my hand from trembling as I reached for the card. Mascara
The officer grabbed it out of my hand. He stared hard and then laughed.
“Are you sure this is you?” he sneered as he tossed it back into my lap.
“So you live in Utah?” he continued, motioning toward my driver’s license.
I nodded my head.
“Well, we are probably going to end up extraditing your Dad to Texas so I don’t
“Normally we would impound the car, but since you can drive, here’s what I
want you to do. I want you to follow me back to the police station and we can figure
A fresh round of sobs had taken over and I was crying too hard to speak. I
Another nod.
The patrolman walked back to his car. I crawled over into Dad’s seat and
adjusted it forward as far as it would go. Still sobbing, I turned the key in the
ignition, pulled out behind the squad car and concentrated on the tail lights in front
of me – willing myself to ignore the desperate loneliness and fear swirling inside me.
###
Thanks for reading my piece! It you are interested in learning more about Hippie Boy, the