Put Your Hands on the Dash!

I'm not sure if I've been thinking about people in my past who have meant a lot to me, or if it was because Katie reposted the video of Jon (who just turned 40) dancing like he did back when he was 16, but I thought I'd just share one of many episodes with the posse I ran around with my junior and senior years in Illinois. (One friend dubbed us the DORKS in order to insult us, but we took it in stride.)

It was late 1992; snow had come and gone a few times, leaving the ground with muddy slush and over-saturated grass. The actual occasion eludes me. I'm fairly certain possible we had been on a large group date, at a dance, or we could have just finished a rip-roarin' party at the coop. Maybe someone out there can help refresh my memories. Whatever it was, we had driven all over the base (Scott AFB, Illinois) dropping people off. We had to take two cars: Jon drove his family's full-sized gray van, and Steve drove his little beater. Both cars were full, but this story happened after we had unloaded Josh, Laef, and the girls we were with that night (I think Heather, Marshelle, Jana, Anneliese, Heidi, and a few others). Regardless, a pile of people had piled out of the two-car caravan, and there were four of us left: Jon and I were in the van. Steve and Julie were in the little car. It was between eleven and midnight--not too late, not past curfew.

We had just finished dropping off the folks in the officer's brick housing area and were turning to leave the base and head back to Belleville when red and blue lights flashed from behind. I glanced over at the speedometer (first instinct, Jon), but we were barely crawling over 20 mph. (Speed limit on base was 25.)

Whatever it was, the security policeman (SP) pulled both cars over to the curb. We sat, watching him in the side mirrors, the engine idling. It felt like forever as he checked our plates in his computer. He finally exited his patrol car one hand on his holster, the other craning a mag light toward the back of the van. He took his sweet time peering through the dark back windows, the side windows, and finally approached Jon's window.

"Turn your engine off, sir," he barked. I remember feeling a little confused about the SP's gruffness.

Jon complied.

"Roll down your window, sir."

"I can't. It's automatic."

The MP looked confused, appeared to have a quick conversation with himself, and then spat staccato commands: "Sir! Turn on your engine. Roll down your window. Then turn off your engine."

Jon calmly obeyed, and we shared a perplexed moment. This military cop was intense.

"What's wrong, Officer?" Jon queried.

"Where have you been?" he threw back at my friend.

Jon explained what we had been doing and repeated his question. "What did we do wrong?"

Before our detainer could answer, I cleared my throat. The MP must not have seen me in the passenger seat as his mag light swung straight into my eyes, as he shouted, "Put your hands on the dash!"

Like a puppy smacked by his owner, I did as he said. Jon followed suit.

The policeman's voice quivered, as did his light. "I need to see some I.D. Both of you!"

Simultaneously we reached for our back pockets, but before we could move half a foot, another eruption filled our ears.

"I said, put your hands on the dash!" It was easy to tell that he was fumbling the strap on his sidearm as his body dipped and he almost dropped the flashlight.

A little amused, Jon responded fairly calmly. "It's in my back pocket."

"Mine, too," I added.

The beam of ultra-blinding light swung from Jon's eyes to mine. Back and forth.

"Okay," came the next command, "Take your right hand and get your I.D. Then put your HANDS. BACK. ON. THE. DASH!"

To move this along, we did, and he took our cards, and went back to his patrol car. Just so didn't excite him any further, we left our hands on the dashboard, which was a feat since it was covered in mix tapes and Rally's remains. I vividly remember contemplating reaching for a couple of fries that I could see peeking out from the bottom of a greasy bag. I decided against it. And for a couple of teenage boys being harassed by a young policeman, I thought we behaved impeccably.

We saw the officer harass Steve and Julie for a while, but he seemed to have calmed down some. He wasn't shining the light in their eyes or yelling.

When he finally came back, he handed us our identification, and told us to go. He seemed a little embarrassed. Apparently, Steve and Julie had corroborated our story.

Emboldened a little, I asked, "Officer, may I ask what we were pulled over for?"

Silence.

Jon piped up. "We have a right to know."

His reply solidified our unspoken suspicions. "Well...uh...er...there was a report. Yeah, a report about...uh...two suspicious vehicles...um...a van...." He looks at the side of the van. "Yeah...a gray van and another...and a vehicle...." He reads the model off the back of Steve's car.

While he rambled on, making more lame excuses, I read his name on the front of his camouflage BDUs. Glanced at his rank: Airman First Class. I harrumphed. I knew ROTC kids with more clout. This guy didn't have anything. I don't even think he was supposed to be patrolling alone. I toyed with telling a few other people I knew on the security police detail--the dad of a schoolmate, who was their commanding officer came to mind. But I let it go.

After Jon nodded at him patiently for a while, the airman faked a radio message and left, calling over his shoulder that we could go. He hauled out of there, speeding and swerving around us before we could get the ignition started again. We never really figured that mystery cop stop out. After getting back on the road, we switched the mix tape back on, and coincidentally, a poignant Cypress Hill lyric scratched through the speakers: "Cops come and try and snatch my crops. These pigs wanna blow my house down. Head underground, to the next town. The get mad when I'm out...." Yes, I know it's not the same, but it was somehow fitting.

In retrospect, we didn't have any serious run-ins with law enforcement, but maybe we were a touch obnoxious on occasion. Most of the time received warnings to turn down the music. This group of friends I hung with were pretty tight, but like almost all high school groups (especially in the military circles), we were drawn to different quarters of the earth, or so it seemed. These guys (and girls), I don't see very often, but every once in a while we get together or chat online or on the phone, and it's like nothing has changed. We pick up right where we left off. And if that happens to be with our hands still on the dash, so be it. Good friends are worth it. DORKS rule!

Note: I have nothing against police officers and the wonderful job that most of them do. They, as a whole, are to be praised for their sacrifice and public service. This particular one was just a jerk.

Here is a photo I dug up this morning. I think I might share a few more episodes of DORK adventures over the next little while. Maybe I can find more pictures. I think this one was taken at the party right before the Lunds moved to Germany. It's not the best picture of us, and it doesn't include everyone. If you have better, please share.

Elly, Target Practice, Me, Leah, Anneliese, Josh, Jon, Rob, Laef, Steve: 1993