I’ve run from the police more times than I can remember.
Even though that statement sounds pretty badass, it actually goes something like this:
I’m a 16 years old, sitting at a train station watching the trains go by. Like most summer evenings, I’m crammed into the station’s little shelter with half a dozen of friends, talking shit, drinking malt liquor and sacrificing braincells for the promise of an interesting thought. Just as talk turns to making a run to WaWa, a spotlight hits us in the face. Squinting into the blinding beam of light, we make out a police cruiser poised at the top of the street. Then through the light, comes a booming… albeit bullhorn-tinny voice:
“You have until the count of ten to disperse.”
As we start thinking about gathering our things and consider saving face by moseying slowly away, they start the count: “10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1!”
Domelights on, doors open, and we run.
The cops rarely followed us up the darkness of the train tracks and never into the woods. The few dozen acres of forest that lined the tracks were a lawless wilderness. We knew every tree, vine and clearing, day or night. No cop could catch us in the woods and they never actually cared enough to get any dogs involved.
But they did care. If you didn’t show the proper respect by scattering like cats from a garden hose, they’d find a reason to harass and/or arrest you. Fortunately, they always gave us the courtesy of enough time and space to get away.
Except one night.
It was around midnight and I was sitting with a couple friends near the side entrance of an elementary school. The building was set above the street, but our position was hidden. As people used to living under siege of both cops and neighborhood thugs, the isolated high ground a few feet from a busy street was a strategically sound position.
The front and both sides of the school were narrow bands of concrete and a large blacktop covered a few thousand square feet behind us. The lot was generally empty and we paid it no mind as we wrapped up our business.
I remember leaning over to lace up my boots when something caught my eye. From out of the schoolyard, rolled a police cruiser. By the time I or anyone else saw it, it was less than 20 feet away. Our eyes toasted panic as they darted between one other and the car. We were cornered and we knew it.
But like a shark rolling harmlessly through a school of mackerel, the cruiser just rolled right on by. And then the second weird thing happened.
The ramp that led down to the street was a block away, but these cops didn’t seem to care. They appeared to prefer the stairs. As panic turned to relief and then to confusion we watched as car number 1411 drove down the first 3 steps of a public school staircase. Their attention was so distracted by trying to maneuver towards a trash can and toss away a bottle in a brown paper bag, that they didn’t notice either us, or the fact that they were driving over the ledge of a set of stairs.
The crash made a pretty spectacular noise and the inability of the car to drive backwards up the steps was pretty awesome. Suspended in the air, we listened as the tires cut futily through the midnight air. As we considered our next move, we watched with a touch of horror as our friend Mike started jogging towards the cop car. Using the transparently phony, but somehow earnestly authentic voice he reserved for all authority figures he asked: “Can we be of any assistance officers?”
It turned out that the visibly drunk cops were happy to have our help. With one simple on-duty drunk driving accident in a public school parking lot, all power relationships between us had simply dissolved. As long as their cruiser hung helplessly over the precipice of the stairs, we were all brothers.
With 2 friends and one of the cops, I poised myself in a potentially suicidal position beneath the front of the car. Inside the cruiser, the other cop threw it in reverse and hit the gas. The wheels spun and we pushed the car hard. With a few solid heaves, we moved the cruiser backward until the front wheels caught solid ground. From there, the car was able to take over and finish the job. There were high fives all around and we all went our separate ways. I may be making this part up, but I swear one of them promised us a favor and apologized for not having any liquor left to share.
Every once in a while, I still see car 1411 around the old neighborhood and smile to myself as I look for the scratches and dents under its front bumper.
