Code 12

I was always the go-to guy to get a ride from back in high school. I think it’s because I got my license first out of all my friends and it just stuck. That’s the reason I ended up driving my friend Evan up to Manchester, New Hampshire to pick up an order of props for the play he was going to be in at school. Joe just liked getting out of his house, so that’s how he ended up in the car. The fact that the ride up was uneventful should have tipped me off that something was going to happen; the universe needed to balance out by getting us into some shitty situation.

We made it back from Manchester in about half the time of the normal half-hour drive which was still enough time for Evan to be totally enamored with a prop knife for the play. The thing was a foot long with a huge fuck-off blade made of really shiny, really realistic plastic. He and Joe kept taking turns flipping it around and trying to act tough with it, but it eventually Evan claimed it and kept it upfront.

I guess I was subconsciously still trying to set a land-speed record when I blew through a yellow light on the Rt. 28 direction of the Salem Depot. The blue lights of a police car lit up my rear-view and set off a barrage of foul language from all of us. I pulled the car to the side of the road next to the prefab homes that never seem to get sold and began to assess the situation.

“’the hell did you do?” Evan asked as he craned his neck to look back at the cops.

“I don’t know, he just put his lights on.” That’s when the spotlight hit us. We sunk down below the surface of the shine and continued our assessment of the situation. “Shit, shit, goddamn it. Do you think I’ll get a ticket? My dad’s gonna kick my ass if I get a ticket.” Both my friends reassured me with a confidently clueless shrugs.

“Just let me do the talking. I’ll get you out of this.”

“No. Shut the fuck up Joe; this isn’t time for your ROTC bullshit.”

“Why not? I’m good with these kinds of situations.”

“No you’re not,” Evan laughed, “you just think you are. Everyone just be chill and they’ll probably just give us a warning. Here they come.”

It was a sad thing to realize that the stoner and borderline hippie of our group knew how to deal with cops better than the kid who might one day be a cop. It was also a terrifying thing to realize that Evan still had the knife on his lap. Without much thought, he shoved it into the glove compartment.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” a very authoritative cop said as he leaned down to inspect the car, “may I see some license and registration?”His younger partner stood at Evan’s window and shined his light around the car.

“Evan,” I muttered, “the registration is in the glove compartment.”

Evan cracked the door about half an inch and tried to slither his hand through. He pawed blindly with his fingertips for an excruciating ten seconds.

“Joe?” The younger cop finally recognized his old ROTC buddy sitting in the back seat. In all the confusion, Evan managed to snatch the registration from underneath the knife and slam the door shut. “Hey, I know these kids. They’re good.”

“Is that so? Well I guess we can let you off with a warning then. Just be more careful about running red lights.”

“I don’t think I…”

“When you went through, my light was green.” The cop didn’t take well to having his judgment second-guessed; I just nodded and apologized.

After they had gone, we just sat in silence for a minute. Finally, I thought of words to say.

“Evan, put the knife in the trunk. Joe, don’t even start.”