the reason I stopped you was I noticed your vehicle weaving between lanes a few miles back.”
I hold up the Pepsi. “Officer, that was my fault. I had given John this bottle of pop and he couldn’t open it. I should have opened it before I handed it to him.”
The cop gives me a pointed stare. “Ma’am, if you don’t mind, I’d like Mr. Robina to answer the question.”
Uh-oh. If John says something crazy, we’re going to both wind up in the calaboose. Or worse, back to Detroit.
“I just was saying—”
“Ma’am, please? Mr. Robina, is that what happened?” His eyes narrow as he scans John’s face.
John looks at the cop, then nods. “Yes sir, I was trying to open the thing.”
“The thing?” The cop looks at him.
John clears his throat. “The thing, the, the bottle.”
There is a terribly long silence as the officer scrutinizes us both. John lets out a medium loud belch, then sighs. I scowl at him. The officer leaves with John’s license and registration. There is only the faint smell of Aqua Velva left in the air. From the driver’s-side mirror, I can see him step into his squad car.
“What are you, nuts? You don’t burp at a police officer.”
John smirks at me and belches again.
It worries me what’s going on in that squad car. I’m wondering if Kevin and Cindy have indeed reported us. Both had decided a few months back (at one of their “What are we going to do about Mom and Dad?” meetings, no doubt) that John should no longer own a valid driver’s license. Kevinhad already tried to disable our old Impala, but he underestimated us. John opened the hood, I spotted the distributor wire that Kevin had yanked, and we had the car running again in nothing flat. Even beyond the teen years, parents still have to prove to their children that they are not as stupid as they think. After that, Kevin and Cindy both shut up for a while, until a few weeks ago. That’s when the “Dad shouldn’t be driving” talks started anew. Except this time, we took it on the lam.
Right about now, John starts up the Leisure Seeker again. He is about to put it into gear when I reach over and turn the key off. I pull it out of the ignition.
I hiss at him. “Are you off your rocker?”
“Give me those fucking keys,” he says.
“What do you think? You’re going to lose him in this monster? We’re going to have a high-speed chase like they do on the news in Detroit?”
John looks at me with such hatred that it breaks my heart. I think, He’s finally going to belt me after all these years . Then I’m going to have to kill him. The old John knows that I would do that, but maybe not this one. I ball up the keys in my fist, ready for anything. Then I look in the side mirror again.
“Shut up, he’s coming back,” I say, watching the cop get larger in the mirror. He steps up to the side of the van.
“Thought you were going to take off on me for a minute,” he says, smiling. He hands John back his license and registration. “You’re all set. Please be more careful. Stay in your lane and proceed at the posted limits, all right?”
I smile again at the officer, playing up the sweet old dear routine for all it’s worth. “We certainly will, Officer. Thanks so much. Have a nice day!”
I watch him get back in his squad car and drive away. I’m cold and my body feels absolutely limp. I’m so relieved that there wasn’t an APB out on us, or whatever they used to do on Adam-12 .
“Where are the keys?” says John, checking all the cup holders and niches on the dash. He could be looking for quite some time. He has the inside of this van so glopped up with gadgets and magnetic contraptions and compasses and dispensers, it’s amazing that we can even move in here.
I drop the keys firmly in his lap.
“Ow!” yelps John, cupping his crotch.
“Let’s go, Barney Oldfield.”
No sooner do we get going than we decide to stop again. I see a sign for the Route 66 Museum in Clinton. I am torn
I hold up the Pepsi. “Officer, that was my fault. I had given John this bottle of pop and he couldn’t open it. I should have opened it before I handed it to him.”
The cop gives me a pointed stare. “Ma’am, if you don’t mind, I’d like Mr. Robina to answer the question.”
Uh-oh. If John says something crazy, we’re going to both wind up in the calaboose. Or worse, back to Detroit.
“I just was saying—”
“Ma’am, please? Mr. Robina, is that what happened?” His eyes narrow as he scans John’s face.
John looks at the cop, then nods. “Yes sir, I was trying to open the thing.”
“The thing?” The cop looks at him.
John clears his throat. “The thing, the, the bottle.”
There is a terribly long silence as the officer scrutinizes us both. John lets out a medium loud belch, then sighs. I scowl at him. The officer leaves with John’s license and registration. There is only the faint smell of Aqua Velva left in the air. From the driver’s-side mirror, I can see him step into his squad car.
“What are you, nuts? You don’t burp at a police officer.”
John smirks at me and belches again.
It worries me what’s going on in that squad car. I’m wondering if Kevin and Cindy have indeed reported us. Both had decided a few months back (at one of their “What are we going to do about Mom and Dad?” meetings, no doubt) that John should no longer own a valid driver’s license. Kevinhad already tried to disable our old Impala, but he underestimated us. John opened the hood, I spotted the distributor wire that Kevin had yanked, and we had the car running again in nothing flat. Even beyond the teen years, parents still have to prove to their children that they are not as stupid as they think. After that, Kevin and Cindy both shut up for a while, until a few weeks ago. That’s when the “Dad shouldn’t be driving” talks started anew. Except this time, we took it on the lam.
Right about now, John starts up the Leisure Seeker again. He is about to put it into gear when I reach over and turn the key off. I pull it out of the ignition.
I hiss at him. “Are you off your rocker?”
“Give me those fucking keys,” he says.
“What do you think? You’re going to lose him in this monster? We’re going to have a high-speed chase like they do on the news in Detroit?”
John looks at me with such hatred that it breaks my heart. I think, He’s finally going to belt me after all these years . Then I’m going to have to kill him. The old John knows that I would do that, but maybe not this one. I ball up the keys in my fist, ready for anything. Then I look in the side mirror again.
“Shut up, he’s coming back,” I say, watching the cop get larger in the mirror. He steps up to the side of the van.
“Thought you were going to take off on me for a minute,” he says, smiling. He hands John back his license and registration. “You’re all set. Please be more careful. Stay in your lane and proceed at the posted limits, all right?”
I smile again at the officer, playing up the sweet old dear routine for all it’s worth. “We certainly will, Officer. Thanks so much. Have a nice day!”
I watch him get back in his squad car and drive away. I’m cold and my body feels absolutely limp. I’m so relieved that there wasn’t an APB out on us, or whatever they used to do on Adam-12 .
“Where are the keys?” says John, checking all the cup holders and niches on the dash. He could be looking for quite some time. He has the inside of this van so glopped up with gadgets and magnetic contraptions and compasses and dispensers, it’s amazing that we can even move in here.
I drop the keys firmly in his lap.
“Ow!” yelps John, cupping his crotch.
“Let’s go, Barney Oldfield.”
No sooner do we get going than we decide to stop again. I see a sign for the Route 66 Museum in Clinton. I am torn
Similar Books
