Nothing good happens on the back roads of Nisku. Nothing. I have four memorable events in my life from those pot-hole ridden, gravel spitting intersections of disappointment and regret. One incident of soiling myself with food poisoning, one car crash, one fist size rock contacting my chest whilst I was pulled over to relieve myself (I did not come equipped with a road trip bladder) and perhaps the most memorable: A forty minute police chase in the passenger seat of a 1956 truck I didn’t know was stolen at the time.
How does one get into a stolen truck, you ask? He accepts the carpool to work from the man whom just started at his sheet metal shop.
It started as any other day to work, I dragged myself out of bed late, scrambled through brushing my teeth while rifling through the fridge to hodge-podge a lunch together and flew out the door without any care to personal appearance or basic hygiene. I picked up a coffee and hopped out of my vehicle at Newbies house. There I got into his gigantic gas guzzling truck ( We took his truck into work because there was no way a 300 lb, 6’5 man built like a powerlifter was going to fit into my compact car) and sped off towards work at a breakneck pace.
We made it to the intersection of the highway when Newbie started acting a little odd. He was normally a talkative and boisterous man, talking of his exploits and laughing about things he had done in his past.
I was rather comfortable working with ex convicts. Why? Because if you ever got into a fistfight with one at work, all you had to do was inform the police and BOOM: No more problem because they’re off with their parole officer.
Today, his head was on a swivel. His awareness was up at peak levels and he was watching two men behind him on a cellular phone. His eyes narrowed to slits and he said “Grab the dash.” as he put the truck into reverse and slammed their brand new Pontiac. Now, I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but hitting a new car in an old truck feels like jumping off a building onto a high jump mat. You’re mildly aware of a bump, but you don’t realize how hard you’ve hit the mat until you see where your body has deformed it. We had mangled that car.
I had no idea whom we’d just collided with, but I did know that suddenly I didn’t want to be anywhere near them or the truck in which I was now a prisoner in. He popped into gear and squealed across the intersection. The mangled Pontiac, its front end dragging sparks, gave chase.
I didn’t really know how to process all that was going in. So, I made myself useful in the only way I knew how: Calling out obstacles, cars, turns, signs and distances between the chasing Pontiac and ourselves. I got so used to this role, in fact, that my behavior didn’t change when more cars began to chase us. All of them with red and blue lights on top.
Survival instinct is a funny thing. If you think that you may genuinely die to ANYONE in a particular situation, you tend to want to stay away from everyone. That meant getting as close to the door on my side of the vehicle, and continuing to call out obstacles and road blocks.
Forty five minutes into our game of Need For Speed: Commute Edition, I heard the words “Oh shit. We’re almost out of gas!” from my left. This was not really a surprise, we were driving fast in a four gear truck for an extended period of time. Equally not surprising, the number of cars behind us had steadily grown. One became three, three became six, six became ten and a helicopter.
In a last ditch evasive maneuver, we careened into a farmers field and skidded to a halt, Newbie looked me in the eyes and yelled “Looks like we’re on foot, dude!” with something akin to the rakish grin of a pirate on his mustached face. While he was busy scrambling out the door, I was silently counting my blessings and considering waiting in the truck for the police.
Turns out. I didn’t have to wait at all. Our last ditch maneuver really hadn’t lost anyone. Behind us was a parked fleet of police cars, officers over hoods in shooting position. Newbie, hanging halfway out the door asked casually “What’s the problem?”.
The next half an hour was a blur of being dragged out of a truck at gunpoint, cuffed face down in a farmers field with a knee across my back, stuffed uncomfortably in the car (thankfully, there were enough cars there that I got one all to myself) and driven to the police station. I stayed entirely silent for the whole ride, my brain sifting through the limited information and massive amount of stimuli it had just gone through.
This silence was not really a good idea, apparently. When police see a calm and silent person they think: Accomplice, seasoned criminal, guilt!
When really what they should have seen was: “Why am I not at work? I haven’t had coffee yet. This morning sure was noisy. What’s my name, again?”
I always thought if I was arrested, I’d be a badass who knew my rights. Turns out I’m a paranoid tearful crybaby whom would have admitted to any crime he had done in his life, no matter how small. Fortunately, some ethically questionable activities aside, I’m not a lawbreaker.
Two hours of telling them I was carpooling with newbie for the second time, one box of kleenex, a shameful loss of self respect and one phone call to my boss ( Whom thankfully picked me up) later, I was released from my cell with no charges laid.
Turns out Newbie was a career criminal. They knew he was in possession of the truck and they had staked out his normal commute. Just my luck that we happened across a police car on my second carpool with the fellow.
Needless to say, I haven’t carpooled since. I also don’t do well with police chases on TV.The Dukes of Hazzard shine a little less brightly.
So, when a stranger offers you a ride…just say no.
Remember, nothing good happens on the back roads of Nisku.
Love, Rob.
I am bad at being an adult 