We had just scored two four finger ounces of grass. Not the good stuff, but when you have a bong, it’ll do.
We had an unopened six-pack on the floor of the back seat, and a ball of fragrant opium.
We set them in the console between the seats of my newly rebuilt GTO and went out looking for a party. Woody was riding shotgun, he was 17 and looked like a hell’s angel; not fat, but large and stocky, with rough features. Dark hair, dark eyes, round face, large dark beard four or five inches long. He always wore old jeans with a tee-shirt and over that a button down shirt left open and un-tucked, and black boots, and sometimes a red bandana around his neck.
The newly built GTO was loud and radical, with about 750 raw horsepower under the hood. I used to look for 427 cubic inch Corvette Stingrays just to embarrass them. Not many cars could take me in that monster.
We found ourselves driving through a suburb of Kansas City called Prairie Village. It was on the Kansas side and consisted of quiet middle class neighborhoods and a much larger than needed police force.
I had just turned a corner onto a major east-west road when one of the cops in the area turned on his aurora borealis, and did a little whoop, whoop, with his siren.
We pulled over right away, because I’ve always fully cooperated with local law enforcement. Some say you have to let them chase you a while in order to get some respect, but I never subscribed to that particular philosophy.
We sat in the car waiting for him to approach. He took his time, in fact it seemed that he took a measured amount of time designed to allow Woody to reach the peak of an anxiety attack.
“Fuck, man, we’re going to jail,” the word jail was the emphasis word, and spoken a little higher than the rest of the sentence and rather whinny.
“Just be cool, he’s probably just pissed at this loud ass car.” I said trying to calm him down a little, even though I knew he was probably right. I forgot about the beer in the back seat, and the ball of Opium in his pocket.
I turned the car off because it had such a radical cam shaft that it literally looked like it was hopping around when it was idling.
The cop finally approached the driver side and wanted to see our licenses. As I fetched it he used his flashlight to look us and the interior of the car over.
After seeing the beer and Woody’s under age license, he told us to get out of the car, and stand at the back of the vehicle, which we did.
He proceeded to search the car from the drivers side, leaning in and with one hand bracing himself on the very console which harbored the two ounces of pot, he opened the glove compartment, and reached under the seats. Finally he removed the unopened six-pack and brought it out and set it on my trunk. He did a quick check of my license to make sure I hadn’t murdered anyone and issued me a citation for not having any mufflers on the car, explaining that I could void the ticket with a receipt of the purchase and installation of said mufflers. He asked me to put the beer in the trunk because Woody was still 17, even though he looked 20 something.
We got back in the car and started off, but Woody was in no mood to party and absolutely refused to go anywhere but home.
“Fuck you man, we’re going home, NOW. You need to get this piece of shit fixed man; I’m not riding in this car till you do. We’re taking my car from now on man. Let’s just get the fuck out of here.”
This went on most of the ride home. He was in no mood to be reasoned with, and the night was ruined. Of course we still had the pot and opium, so it wasn’t a total loss.