Con Job

Joe stepped out of the camper while popping the top on a can of Goebel that had clearly been shaken, the foam cascading across his wrist and landing on the Astroturf-covered patio like a blob of Loreal hair mousse.

Joe’s stringy hair was tied back into a greasy ponytail that hung midway down his back. As he racked the pool balls, I noticed the black grit caked under his nails from his job at the auto mechanic shop. He announced that he and Dewey were a team if Brett and I dared to take them on. I stunk at pool, and they all knew it, but they probably liked my Daisy Duke shorts so they let me hang out on the carport turned pool hall

Brett had been my friend for years. Our families went to the same church which was likely why my mother never questioned me hanging out at his house, even on a school night. We probably told her we were doing homework together, but I don’t think Brett was ever in any of my honors classes and I doubt we ever opened a book. Mom certainly didn’t know that my associates, Joe and Dewey, were ex-cons in their 20s and were living in the camper on the Marriott’s driveway. Now, some might call that charitable. Mrs. Marriott clearly had a big heart. I don’t know what relationship these guys had with the family and I have no idea what they did to land in jail. It was probably something like disorderly conduct or stealing a six-pack from the Jack Daniels convenience store, but I liked to imagine they were dangerous criminals and I was a daring accomplice, desperate to make my life more interesting than it was.  I pretended that I was hanging out with Johnny and Henry from The Sting, only I wished they looked like Redford and Newman. In reality they more so resembled a young Mr. Roper from Three’s Company and Walter Matthau as Oscar in The Odd Couple.

         Eventually, Joe and Dewey and their camper moved on. Brett joined the military and I went off to college. But it was Joe and Dewey who came to mind when I found myself in handcuffs junior year. I went home for Thanksgiving and found a pile of mail stamped in red with URGENT and LAST NOTICE. As I tore open the envelopes, postmarked in September and October, I quickly learned that I’d bounced a number of checks, apparently having deposited all my work income into my savings account. I ran downstairs.

         “Mom! Why didn‘t you tell me I had mail marked urgent!”        

“If you’d come home more often, you’d have known,” she said, guilt dripping from every word.

As the gravy was passed around the Thanksgiving table, my mind was elsewhere, wondering how I’d dig my way out of my latest dilemma. I knew I’d have to go to my bank when I got back to school, pay the fines with my limited funds then set out to restore my credit. What I didn’t expect were the police officers outside my suite on the top floor of our dorm as soon as I returned, my backpack loaded with the final exams notes I’d spent very little time on over the four- day weekend, my suitcase full of clean clothes and food stolen from my parent’s pantry. I’d justified that theft with the knowledge that if my original crime cost me very much money, I’d have nothing left to buy lunch.

Naturally, the elevator stopped at all nine floors heading down and I stood there in a sweaty panic as classmates, fellow Resident Assistants and parents dropping their children off after the holiday looked on quizzically or with amusement from the common room lobbies as the elevator doors opened and police officers stood on opposite sides of the 10th floor RA, praying someone would get in to help break the tension, but hoping it wouldn't be anyone I knew.

“So, how was your Thanksgiving?” I asked the barrel-chested man in blue on my left. Small talk is my go-to.

“Had to work,” he muttered, not making eye-contact.

“Are you into canned or homemade cranberry sauce?” I asked the police woman with the tight black bun on my right.

“I don’t eat cranberry sauce,” she replied as the doors opened on the floor with the mural saying The Joy of Six where a couple of parents in Christmas tree sweaters opted to wait for the next elevator and not to help break the tension.

Now, I’d read that if ever you are kidnapped, you should try to make a connection so they see your humanity, so I kept going.

“Crazy that my mom has been holding my mail for months even though it was marked URGENT,” I said as we stopped on the 3rd floor.

“Tell it to the judge,” said officer Cranky as he straightened his holster.

The elevator opened yet again, and there on three stood my crush from the soccer team with five fellow players, heading to the training table, no doubt, where the food was rumored to be far superior than any campus dining hall. None of the players moved forward to join us once they saw the officers standing alongside the obviously dangerous criminal in a grey Fetzer Gym sweatshirt that they were escorting. Donald clearly recognized the criminal just as the doors closed and my wrists strained at the handcuffs wanting to wave, give a peace sign or some indication that I was still dateable.

By now, half of the 900 students living in my dorm had gathered on the southern balconies to see why there was a police cruiser with flashing lights on Manning Drive, and they all witnessed officers Cranky and Cranberry open the door and guide one of Morrison Dorm’s RAs into the car with a hand on the top of my head.

I sat in a jail cell for a couple hours next to a woman from Durham who was arrested for driving under the influence. She was clearly still quite drunk as she slurred her story of innocence a little too close to my face, her breath a mixture of rubbing alcohol and pepperoni pizza.

“Why you here sweetie?” she asked as she brushed a tangle of what I now saw as vomit crusted hair out of her eyes with her red chipped fingernails.

“Murder,” I said flatly, which had the effect I desired as she slid to the far end of the bench.

“Well god-damn! I never would have guessed that.” Despite some furtive glances, she soon fell into a snore-filled slumber.

What would Joe and Dewey do? I thought, as I pondered my escape, and contemplated getting kicked out of college for being a convicted criminal and having to live in a camper in the driveway of a charitable neighbor.

My friend Bill picked me up twenty minutes after I was given a chance to make a phone call, and my case was heard first thing on Monday morning. The fine was a little over $100, which I paid with borrowed cash as they would not accept my checks. I made good with the bank fees later that day, moving all my savings into my checking account, and I was left with approximately $24.56 to my name. Ahh, but having a thousand fellow students wondering what you were arrested for and now being known as the bad girl? Priceless.

As told at Story Salon on December 4, 2024.