I’ve been asked to see if I can remember my past here in Syracuse and if I’d like to write some of my favorite memories and I just had one come to mind.  It involves everyone in the front row and a fourth person you’ll never see a picture of – he hates cameras.  There were others involved, they were at Wally’s the other night and that prompted this memory and it’s a doozy.

When I was fourteen, I was given a car.  We have a big yard and I drove it all over the place but since we legally can’t drive until we’re sixteen, that was the extent of what I could do.

One night when my parents were out of town and my sister who was left in charge was sound asleep, my friend suggested we run to the gas station.  To be honest, I have no idea why we thought we needed to run to the gas station.  We had poked a little smot so we were pretty stupid but I was somehow convinced (dared – I can’t pass up a dare) to take the plates off my sisters car, put them on my unregistered lawn car, push it across the field and go for a joyride.

The four of us, all life-long friends (clearly to this day since that picture above was taken a few days ago and this happened nineteen years ago (holy shit).

This is how it all went down. 

“Hey!  Let’s take your car for a drive!”

“Really?  Where?”

“I don’t know, just the gas station.”

“Really?  Why?”

“Why not?”

“…..Okay”

We then find a screwdriver, take the plates from my sisters car and put it on my Honda Accord.  We push the car across the field and get her going.  We start driving.  I’m following directions given to me by my very dear friend who isn’t in the picture.  The three of us in the picture were 13 and 14.  Mr. Obscure was 15.  He and I were actually laughing about this a few weeks ago, too.  That fucker.  This is all his fault.

So we’re driving.  Driving.  This doesn’t look like a gas station in B’Ville to me. What the hell’s going on?  Oh fuck.  Fuck.  The car’s stalling.

…and it’s dead.

I feel it’s important to mention that “somehow” we were in the absolute worst part of Syracuse by this point.  It wasn’t until we were in the thick of it that I found out our buddy was really taking us to a party up at Syracuse University and we were on E. Fayette Street (not good) during the Rodney King Trials (not good for four white bread clueless kids – especially when the driver is a VERY adorable, talkative blond with no filter) at two in the morning.

So putta putta putta spit.  Sizzle, steam, smoke.  We’re fucked.  Right at a stop light a car pulls up next to me, stops and clearly says “Bitch betta start her car!” as they laughed at me.

Here’s something awesome about me.  I kick ass in high pressure situations.  That’s why I rocked as an airline employee.  I handle delays and cancellations with ease.  I can get anyone through anything, it’s once the situation is resolved that I completely melt.  That being said, I managed to keep my shit together for the three hours that followed.

My friends didn’t.  Just sayin’.

First, we pulled the car off to the side of the road.  Well, the boys pushed it.  I was pissed.  I had just been informed of our actual destination and was pissed because I knew I was too young, too adorable and not wearing a cute enough outfit to be at a frat party.  Then we sat there.  Cell phones didn’t exist.  We didn’t really want to use the pay phone because I have germ issues (no shit, that was my reason) and we had no idea who to call.

Suddenly out of nowhere some random dude come banging on my window.  I unroll it all the way.  He wants our money.  We don’t have money.  He tries negotiating.  We don’t have money.  We told him if we find any we’ll get in touch with him.

A little while later, some police come knocking on my window.  I unroll it maybe an inch.

“What happened?”

“We broke down.”

“Where were you going?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where are you from?”

“Lakeland.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, well watch yourself.  We have a massive crack bust going on right over there so try to stay in your car until you figure out what to do.  Stay out of that area.”

“Okay.”

They never asked me my name or my age.  I’m guessing the massive crack bust helped me out there and I have some natural ability to get out of trouble with ease.  I couldn’t figure out why all my friends were freaking out.  Turns out we had an arsenal of happy fun time activities on us.  I didn’t know this.  Yay.  At one point my very beautiful, wonderful girl (the same one who flipped me over the handlebars of her bike in another mention this week) says to us “Have any of you ever wanted your mommy?”

To this I clearly stated “NO!  Are you kidding me?  She’s going to kick my ass!”

So we sat there.  We just sat there.  Then I thought to call my brother. He hung up on me.  That train of thought led us to call our friend who’s dad owned a towing company.  We got the tow truck to come and get us, tow us back to my moms driveway and I left a note on the table saying we put it in the driveway because we planned on washing it in the morning.

After the truck left and my friends took off, I sat in the front yard and had myself a nervous breakdown.  I totally got us out of a heaping pile of shit.  All the stress was over, we were in the clear and everyone was home safe.

About a week later I got a phone call.  “YOU ARE SO VERY VERY GROUNDED!  What’s this bill from the towing company?  Your brother told me everything!”

My bad.

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