In that climate, young people who lived elsewhere ran away to California; however, those of us who had lived in California all our lives ran in quite a more easterly direction. . .
The boy I had chosen to run away with was from Oklahoma. He was a bright, affable young man with a broad, dimply smile which came from real, heartfelt humor rather than being donned as a cover for uneasiness.
We wound up in Texas where his cousins lived. The day after we arrived, he got a job with his cousin’s husband working out in the fields of the Panhandle constructing irrigation systems long enough for us to save enough money to afford to buy a car. It wasn’t a great car -- a 1961 model Buick “Special” station wagon -- but it was clean and the body was straight.
By that time, we were tired of endlessly flat, freezing-cold prairie life. We decided we would go see his father who was a cook in a large casino in downtown Las Vegas and try it there for awhile. But, only part way into the trip, we realized that we needed more money and, we stopped in the little town of Dumas, Texas, where he got a job at the nearest fast-food place for a couple of weeks while we lived in a motel.
I was 15 and had never had a driver’s license but, so that I wouldn’t have to sit around all day with nothing to do while he was at work, he would drive us both to his job in the morning and then I would take the car and come back for him at the end of his work shift.
The threat of being pulled over by the police, however -- who might find out that I was wanted as a runaway back in California -- weighed heavily upon my thoughts during those days… heavily indeed…
One morning, after dropping my boyfriend off at work and heading back to the motel, I came upon the aftermath of a traffic accident where several Texas State Trooper cars were parked on both sides of the road. A couple of Troopers were out in the middle of the street, directing traffic around the scene.
I suppose that I must have whizzed by pretty quickly because, in those days (when we were all much younger), we sped around everywhere that we went. When I looked in the rearview mirror, I saw one of the Troopers dash to his patrol car, jump in, turn on the lights and siren and rapidly close the distance between us. There wasn’t much more I could do at that point except pull over and stop.
I watched as a tall, thin Trooper unfolded like a roadmap from his police car. He put on his “Smokey the Bear” hat -- snugging the strap beneath his chin -- as he approached me from behind.
Bending down and resting an elbow on the frame of my open car window, he slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and slowly drawled, “Mornin’ Ma’am, may I see your driver’s license and vehicle registration?”
As I retrieved the registration papers from the glove compartment, I stammered nervously, “Why did you pull me over? Did I do something wrong, Officer?”
“Why, yes, Ma’am,” he said after a moment’s hesitation, “I was tryin’ to gesture to you to keep down your speed as you went around the scene of that accident back there but you were goin’ a pretty good clip…”
“I’m sorry, I did brake when I saw you,” I said as I handed him the papers.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he answered as he looked over the registration, “You sure did but, the roads out here are pretty slick. It’s been snowin’ and it’s pretty cold even now… We get a lotta spinouts this time of year and I wouldn’t like callin’ the next ambulance for you -- if you get my drift…”
Scrutinizing the registration, he looked up with a puzzled expression on his face, “Uh… Can I see your license, please, Ma’am?”
I summoned some courage, looked him in the eye and said matter-of-factly, “I don’t have one.”
His eyes widened and he took a half-step backwards. “You mean you don’t have a license to operate this vehicle?” he said -- looking rather incredulous.
“That’s right,” I retorted, “I sure don’t.”
“Why, Ma’am, you can’t operate a vehicle without a driver’s license!” he interjected, sounding agitated.
“Well,” I countered, “Obviously I can -- as you can plainly see, I’m doing it…”
My tone belied the panic that was rapidly rising from the pit of my stomach and catching in my throat. The tension became unbearable and I felt like I was going to lose it right there -- as though I was going to start screaming and not be able to stop.
Just then, I remembered one of the tension-easing techniques that the counselors taught us back home at “The House” -- a refuge for troubled teens that I’d frequented for quite a few months before running away with my boyfriend. They called it “Gestalt Therapy” and it included screaming loudly, sharply and without reservation. The technique was supposed to act as a “pressure valve” to act as a siphon to relieve anxiety.
I smiled at the State Trooper and said, “Excuse me a moment.”
I then let out a long, screeching, blood-curdling scream.
When I did so, the Trooper crouched down and put his hand over the leather band that snapped over his side arm -- readying his pistol in its holster. He glanced around furtively as though he was trying to identify the source of the reaction he had just witnessed.
“What? What is it?” he stammered -- warily scanning for the source of my scream.
“It’s okay,” I reassured him, “It’s just a relaxation technique that I learned in Gestalt Therapy class. I was feeling a little nervous. . .”
The Trooper stood there and stared at me for about 30 seconds.
“Well… I tell you what, here’s your registration,” he said, sighing deeply, as he handed the paper back to me, “Now, I’m gonna get back in my cruiser and drive away and I’m not going to stop you again. I can’t guarantee that some other Trooper won’t stop you later on but, it won’t be me -- I promise you that.”
Tipping his hat slightly, he turned to walk away and stopped in mid-pace, “You just wait until after I pull away and then go on about your business, okay?”
“Sure,” I said -- not believing that he was just going to let me go.
True to his word, the Trooper got back into his patrol car and pulled away. I waited for a moment or two and then drove off as well.
“30”
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