Rural Florida, 3:00AM, convenience store parking lot, Monday night/ Tuesday morning, 1989, with nothing to do, all night to do it and nobody to do it with. It was too late/early to buy beer so I got a Mr. Pibb and a pack of Zigzag orange papers. I was admiring my 1988, dark shadow blue metallic Mustang GT with black, low profile Enkei wheels, and custom Ford Motorsport window tinting while sitting on the window ledge sipping my soda. Just then a Florida State trooper pulled in right next to it in his State issued LX pursuit Mustang.
A wave of paranoia washed over me as I stashed my recently purchased, drug paraphernalia in my pocket (rolling papers were a jailable offense even though you could legally buy them at the convenience store during this intensified era of the drug war). The trooper stepped out of his car, slowly walked past my trusty steed, checking it out, then turned his unwanted attention towards me.
I was a long haired, 25-year-old, conspicuous looking pothead and I knew that he knew it and he knew that I knew that he knew it. I grabbed a big pinch of Copenhagen snuff because that's what I did when I was nervous and wanted to impress upon the law that at least I'm a tobacco chewing, manly man, pothead anyway.
My car was the result of trying to make my family happy by having a real job in my field of electronics. I had graduated from technical school and I was on the path to career success in their eyes. I put a lot of money into that car speeding it up, making it sound cool with performance exhaust and keeping it pristine. I had an Alpine stereo system that you could feel in your chest. Anything to distract from the awful feeling that comes from not doing what I wanted to do, and the general malaise that comes with a REAL job.
I had a constant longing to play music in my soul. "Music's just a hobby," I was told in no uncertain terms anytime I mentioned the possibility of doing it for a living. I filled that hole in my life with toys to impress the girls and played in crummy, unrehearsed garage bands on the weekends. Definitely not challenging to my musical abilities or part of what I feel is my purpose on planet Earth.
I liked to go joy riding in the middle of the night because I tend to be an insomniac plus there's no traffic and I could open up my Mustang out on the interstate in the north part of the county where I grew up. From State Road 46 in Mims to County Road 5A in Scottsmore where a Stuckey's used to be, was a desolate stretch of the interstate with plenty of room to hit 165 mph. I had good reflexes back then. I didn't have an arthritic neck. I'm lucky I survived my Mustang period. I never crashed it. Friends said riding with me was more fun than Mr. Toads Wild Ride...
The trooper came out of the convenience store with his coffee and cigarettes. He set his coffee on the window ledge and did the whole ritual of beating the bottom of the pack against his hand before opening it and throwing the top of the cellophane in the trash. He pulled out a handful of cigarettes, turned one of them upside down and stuck it back in the pack. He lit one of the cigarettes up and put the others back in the pack the normal way then placed the soft pack of cowboy killers in his shirt pocket.
He took a long drag, picked up his coffee and walked over towards me. I noticed the 5.0 logo on the side of his car. He saw me looking at his car and said, "Mine can beat yours."
I pointed out the fact that mine was lighter in weight, more aerodynamic with spoilers and that I had juiced mine up a little bit from the standard issue GT.
He said he had the police special, SSP LX and so forth and so on..."It will eat your GT," he boasted.
"I don't know about that," I said. "You have the extra drag from your light rack, all the extra weight of the police radio and cop accoutrements... nah, I'm pretty sure mines faster, man."
We continued bantering back-and-forth about whose car could beat who's until the clerk came outside to smoke a cigarette and overheard our conversation. He suggested that we go out on the interstate and settle it one way or another right now. "Quit blowin' on the fur and get to the hide," he said.
I said, "Are you crazy? I ain't racing no cop, man. If he loses he might give me a ticket or take me to jail. I'm already two points away from losing my license for a year," I pointed out.
Right about the same time the trooper said, "I can't do that. I could lose my job."
"Y'all ain't got a hair on your ass. What are you, a couple of pussies?" The clerk was older and knew that he was antagonizing the situation. It was fun for him because there was nothing else to do at 3:15 AM in west Mims.
The clerk really laid into the cop accusing him of being afraid to race my car because he knew he would lose and how he didn't want to be embarrassed getting out driven by a Stonehenge, said he couldn't wait to tell the troopers' buddies later on when they stopped by for their courtesy coffee, what a pussy he was for letting a hippie in a GT get the best of him...
After several minutes of steady cajoling, the officer finished his coffee, flicked his cigarette away, whacked me on the arm and said, "Let's go!"
I protested asking, "How do I know this ain't a trick, man?"
"You don't"said he.
I looked over at the clerk who was grinning with his tobacco stained teeth like a possum eating briars. "Good luck. Wish I could go for the ride" he said.
It was a surreal feeling to be side-by-side with a state trooper doing 145 mph. Instead of the flashing lights being behind me they were beside me. I looked over at him as if to ask, "Is that all you got?"
He jerked his body back-and-forth, pushing on the steering wheel as if he was trying to make the car go faster. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "That's it, topped out."
I put my foot to the floor and accelerated away from him. I soon reached the exit at Stuckway Road (5A) where we got off I-95 and headed back south and, for whatever reason, we went back to the same convenience store where this all started much to the delight of the clerk.
The trooper was loathe to admit that he could not catch my Ford Motorsport Mustang GT (that was just my name for it, there was no actual factory vehicle of that name). He had an automatic transmission, I had a five speed manual and I think that made the difference. Well that, and I didn't have police lights on top or electric seats and windows to drag me down.
The trooper really hated to lose and the more the clerk teased him about it... The redder he got. While they were arguing about the price of tea in China, I eased on out and zipped back to Bellwood. Shit! I had to be at work in two hours chasing errant electrons around a circuit board… fun, fun, fun.
At least he didn't want to search my car or confiscate my sacagawea that I knew that he knew that I had. Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that they're not out to get you.
☮️❤️😊🎶👣🖖!
This is the best picture I could find of it. Looked good in the rain... Spent a lot of money replacing back tires... 😁
ความคิดเห็น