A few nights back, a friend asked me to tell them a story, and I couldn’t think of anything. I said, “Sorry, I can’t think of anything interesting that’s happened to me.” To which I get the reply, “C’mon. You were in the military. You’ve got to have some fun military stories.” I think that’s when I looked back and realized that my life didn’t really start until I joined the Air Force. The earliest one I could think of, at the time, happened very close after getting to my first duty station, Goodfellow AFB, TX.

Goodfellow AFB adjoins the city of San Angelo. No, not San Antonio. San Angelo. No, you haven’t heard of it before now. It’s in the middle of nowhere, and there’s absolutely nothing special about it. Which is why we we’re driving down to Randolph AFB to meet up with some friends from our previous station. When you’re in a place like San Angelo, you go somewhere else, because everywhere else is better. Randolph is about about three hours Southeast, right outside San Antonio.

This night was my first experience vomiting from alcohol consumption. I blame the ever girlie Captain Morgan’s Parrot Bay, Coconut Rum. Now, I don’t know if was because I can’t stand coconut, the smell of it makes me queasy, much less the taste, or it could have just been the brutal amount of alcohol we all consumed, and the equally punishing rate at which we consumed it. But, nonetheless, we had already drank everything else, so the ole captain was our only hope. We drank and drank, and drank some more. And eventually we all passed out.

The next morning, we woke up and said our goodbyes, Jenny and I. Jenny was a friend from Mississippi who lived a few miles south of San Angelo. So, I got in my car, cranked it up, and sat there waiting for Jenny to come out. But something was wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew something was up. I started to reach for the radio and turn it on, but then I figured it out. I was about to blow chunks. So I open the car door, and expel what looks like a whole carton of orange juice, but smells more like my drunk step-father on a Friday night. Jenny comes out and sees me staring, mesmerized by the splatter paint art I just made in the parking lot, and offers to drive. I oblige.

I drop her off at her parent’s place and hit the road again. Just as I get on the highway my mom calls me, for what was probably call number 1 of 45 for that day (she called non stop when I first moved to Texas). I’m leaned over and talking on my cellphone, and my radar detector goes off. I slow down about 5 mph (since I was only going about 5 over), top the hill, and see the police car coming. As he passes, I lift my first two fingers on the hand holding the wheel, just like everyone else waves in redneck places like North Carolina and Texas. I look in my rear view mirror and see him turning around, so I throw the phone down, and yank my radar detector off into the floor. He hits his lights, and I start pulling over.

Like most people do when they’re being pulled over, I started to get nervous. First thinking to the cellphone I was talking on. Wondering if they’re illegal to use while driving in Texas. Then I remember I just puked my guts out, and I probably still reek of alcohol. Not a good thing if you’re 18 years old and driving a car. So my nervous starts evolving into a downright panic. Then a flashlight wraps my window, “Could you down the window, please.” I do as he asks, “License and proof of insurance.” What? Does he mean registration? I have no idea. Fuck it. Just give him your license, your military I.D., and your registration and hope for the best. So I give him all three, and sit there. “Could you turn the car off please?” So I switch it off. Then I notice the other officer peering around in my passenger side window. Where the hell did he come from? The first officer takes my information back to his car, and the second one stands at the front of my car. I avoid eye contact.

About 16 hours later the first officer returns to my window, “Sir, could you please step out of the vehicle?” What the fuck for? “Sure,” I step out and start to follow the officer to the back of my car, but it rolls forward. “Shit,” I lunge for the driver window, reach in, and grab the emergency brake. “Could you stand over there?” he tells me, more than asks it, and does a kind of carefree wave, to an area somewhere near the front of his car. I try to listen as they hover over my trunk and whisper to each other, “Is there anything in the trunk?” “Uh, I don’t think so”, and I step forward with my key out, ready to open it and show them. You know, since I’m a nice guy and all. “I TOLD YOU TO STAND RIGHT THERE. RIGHT THERE. DO NOT MOVE! GET BACK IN FRONT OF MY VEHICLE!” the guy does his impersonation of my drill instructor from basic training, spitting and screaming, veins popping out of his neck. Woah, what the fuck is going on here? “Sorry-”. They finish whispering and he turns back around, “your registration doesn’t match your license plate, and the plate doesn’t match the car.” “Uh… I don’t know why they wouldn’t” “This car isn’t stolen is it, son?!” again, more of a yell than a question. “No, sir. I just bought it.” “When?!” “About 2 or 3 weeks ago.” “I’m gonna need you to step over here,” the officer leads me off the road, further from his car and mine.

The second one stands guard, looming over me. I just remember dead grass everywhere, and the ugly bulge his pen made in his shirt pocket. So tacky. I stand there, hands behind my back, in the shadow of the second officer. My heart was going about 482 mph, and all I can think about is “I’m going to go to jail for stealing this damn car… when I’m the one getting robbed with this damn car payment.” So I wait. I wait, and I worry, still a little freaked about smelling like rum. Until he finally comes back over and says, “It looks like whoever filled in your temporary tag wrote one of the letters down wrong,” in a way that makes me feel guilty for their mistake. He gives me a few more words of warning, hands back my information, and heads for his car. I hop back in mine, put on my seatbelt, crank the car, and let down my e-brake. I look out of my windshield, and there, about 15 feet in front of my car, is an anti-litter campaign sign. Don’t Mess with Texas.

I guess they don’t fuck around.