The Trooper

The storm had rolled upon us so suddenly that it drove us from the woods. That's what a couple of college goofs get for trying to spend spring break in Shenandoah National Park of woody Appalachian-heart fame. As the tiny hail began converting over to accumulating snow, three of us had looked at each other said, "Florida." Backpacks, dehydrated food, and blankets were thrown into back of car and we started south in shifts of three.

Just after sunset on the second day of the drive we stopped at a quick-mart to get gas and boil our noodles over a cricket butane stove. Boiled macaroni and cheese. We had no money to buy restaurant food. JJ winced at the thought of eating another boiled meal, but he succumbed. We ate in silence and wolfed down chunks of cut-up wienies in the noodles. It was good once it was down, not to have the hungers all over us.

When we had first arrived we joked about the fact that there was a Carolina State Police patrol car outside the quick-mart. We hadn't smoked any pot in the last couple of days and had no alcohol on us, so he would have to bust us on poor hygiene if anything (or thought crimes against the nation - don't laugh). He was quiet, sitting at a table in the mart, and looked us over and probably had to hold back a chuckle. On the top of his head was the tightest, blunt crew-cut I had ever scene. It seemed to shine with didacticism and the supremest authority. In contrast, we all had dirty, long-ass hair that we kept pulling out of our eyes. You don't see many cops with shoulder-length hair. The trooper made us uneasy. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he kept pointing his gun at the nose of the attendant's dog and saying, "I hate this dawg. Awta blow it away."

I paid the bill and sheepishly looked at the attendant. He made no expression whatsoever. Then I turned and smiled all sheepish at JJ and Martin who looked equally sheepish (c'mon there was trooper in the midst of us potheads...the paranoia alone was blowing me away). It was time to at least address the trooper. A simple `good evening' might loosen up the air.

"Good evening," I said on my way out the door, looking vacantly at a magazine rack like I was interested. Martin and JJ were off elsewhere in the store, nervously.

"Where you boys headin'?" he asked all good-naturedly. He turned towards me, keeping one arm on the table and the other one on the backrest of the seat.

"Florida. You know, spring break and all." I turned back to him and decided that since he was just making small talk. He hadn't yet jammed my face into the ground to perform body-cavity search. I might as well pass the time in simple conversation.

"Where to? Fawt Lauderdale? Plenty of women down on those beaches."

Part of me wanted to say that I was gay, just to see his reaction. Probably would have whipped his pistol out in a second and shot me down, then walked calmly around the store until he had dusted JJ and Martin off in turn. "Oh yeah man." My voice cracked a little in an attempt to sound macho-ballsy. "We're headed for Boca Raton actually."

The trooper nodded his head and seemed to me that he wanted to keep on talking. I moved over to the first aid section of the store and was gawking my head around trying to find some low-priced band-aids. Thank god I was looking for something and seemed as though I had at least some immediate mission in life.

"One of you guys hurt or something?" the trooper asked, his eyes evidently following me to the first aid aisle.

I held my hand up and spoke, touching the soar on my hand. "Well, we had been camping in Virginia before heading down this way, and I burnt my hand trying to melt the end of the polyester rope. A glob of that shit fell on my hand."

"Camping, huh? That storm drove you out of the mountains I bet. Hey come here, boy, I think I got something in my car for that hand." He got up and we all followed him. Martin and JJ were too curious about this turn of events to miss it. Could it be that a State Trooper of sweet Carolina just wanted some friends?

He opened his patrol car authoritatively and there before our eyes was the fabled pump-action shotgun of our jokes. We frequently pretended that we were being slaughtered by a rebel branch of state troopers when we were stoned. This time it was for real before our eyes, not just dancing in the hands of an imaginary trooper! Even more strange, this trooper was not coming at us with a pump-action 12 gauge and blowing our young heads off (one second there with wide eyes, the next second gone in a bloody splattered instant), he was fixing to help us. Specifically me and my blistered hand. Leaning into the trunk of the car, we saw all kinds of stuff that was evidently confiscated along the Interstate 95 patrol corridor. He got some burn-jelly out and put it thoughtfully on my hand; then some colored band-aids and put one on the spot. He didn't shove them at me and say, `Here, put this on,' but rather did it himself. Then when that was done he turned his attention to some of the stuff in the back of the trunk. He grabbed a bottle of liquor and asked us if we wanted it.

"You boys want some tequila (pronounced ta-kill-a)?" he held it in his hand and gave it a shake as if to produce that swishing boozy sound to prove it was the real stuff. "You boys may need it when you get down to Florida. Nothing like a good tequila party! Eee hee hee haw!"

My tongue rolled out of my mouth and bounced off the ground. The sound of smashing stereotypes had to of been heard for miles in old antebellum. All I could do was stand there and think, "Jesus Christ, now this blunt-cut trooper of our sickest joke episodes of shotgun oblivion wants to gives us a goddamn bottle of Tequila. Hmmm... maybe to bait us and THEN blow us away."

"Sure!" Martin grabbed the bottle before anyone else could object. It had to be illegal. JJ wasn't even 21 yet. "We'll keep it capped `till we get into a hotel somewhere and start partying."

That's exactly what the trooper wanted to hear - that we were ALIVE and heedless. "Yee hoo! That's right. Naw, I trust you boys. You're a little haggard, but your hearts in the right place. Be careful and keep it below 68. I mean it, anything over 68 and they'll pull you right over. They're even tougher in Georgia."

Then he walked inside and took his place by the dog and the attendant. We pulled out and waived goodbye. Different sides having a moment of understanding between each other.

"You believe that?" I was amazed from the back seat. "Martin I can't believe you took that bottle of tequila."

"It was unbelievable, but I trusted that guy for some reason."

"Yeah right, he's probably dispatching a whole posse to encircle the potheads and then how trusting will he be when he breaks out that chrome plated shotgun to remove your slight head!" JJ started laughing as we quickly returned to our old impression of the authorities. It was definitely more fun. We went off about what COULD have happened. It was a different story. The troopers had us in the interrogation room and rather than question us, just pumped one into the chamber and at point-blank-range blew our heads off. JJ just rapidly tapped and danced his fingers all over the dashboard of the car. It was an incredible night to be alive and free enough to be rolling away the miles on the great hilarious globe of the diminishing glorious eternity. I laughed myself into a comfortable position in my ol' seat and fell asleep.