First Car Memories: Good Times and Getting Arrested

What a beauty.  No that's not an Audi, it's a Honda!  

I saw my old car on the road the other day. The exact one. A bronzish 1985 Honda Accord hatchback, with dent in the front grill.  It was like seeing a former girlfriend, and temporarily I was flooded with only the good moments (like we all do).  Suddenly, I was tempted to follow the car, accost the owner, and swap titles straight across (even though my current vehicle is easily a few grand more valuable).

My wife hated that car (like she hates my ex-girlfriend). A trip down memory lane would only cause heartburn for myself later.  There is no way, marriage intact, that I will ever own an '86 Accord ever again.  Especially my old car. The one that got me arrested. The one that must be pushing 300K miles by now.

Which is probably good, because as much as the 1980s might be alive in my high school right now, a neglected mid-80s Honda will not be in the next Fast & Furious movie.  Fast & Furious 7: This Franchise is so Old and Lame, it's Now Retro.  I don't even want my dumb old car.

Memories are just so damn strong.

That car was running like a champ at 187,000 miles when I traded it in for my third car (a black '94 Nissan Altima).  Trading in that car, was akin to trading in my youth.  It survived three serious relationships. It made it longer than 12 roommates.  I went to two different colleges in that car.  It had, as the American Pickers guys like to say, patina to it. My patina.

My wife would call that rust. She always said my car was brown. She's obviously never seen what age does to copper (no, it wasn't green...just off-copper).  Officially, Honda called the color Copper-Brown, but my wife won't relent on the color. It was ugly, she no likee.

Somewhere around 150 thousand miles, the front struts ceased to exist.  Because I didn't know what struts were, or that a thing called "suspension" was important to a vehicle's integrity, I thought this new vehicular peculiarity only added to the car's personality.  If I hit the brakes the right way, the car rocked forward than bounced back.  If I pumped my brakes, the car bopped like Pedro's cousin's Pontiac in Napoleon Dynamite.  Hydraulics without the hassle.

Yet for six years, that vehicle was just reliable. I got my last ticket in that car, in 1998.  I also got pulled over and arrested in that car.

Yes, you heard that correctly. Arrested. Pushed up against the side of the car like a common thug.

Perhaps some people foresee an arrest or two in their lifetime.  I, however, was just as shocked as Reese Witherspoon that my civil liberties were being violated.  Here's how it went down:

I was driving to my brother's work (a church youth-group), where I had left my wallet the night before when I had paid for a pizza to be delivered.  I had called my brother the night before to tell him I had left my wallet somewhere in his office by accident, but he forgot to bring it home with him as well.  I needed my wallet, so I headed the 1.5 miles to his work to get it.

About 1/3 of a mile from my destination, the whirp-whirp of the five-o sounded behind me as I exited one freeway for another.  Disjointed, I turned into a local plaza, the Delta Oaks Shopping Center, which used to have a G.I.joes Sporting Goods store.  I pulled into an empty parking spot.  I thought I was going to be warned about a rear license plate light being out.  (Cops are always pulling over youth for cheap reasons).

I had my registration and proof of insurance ready. He would easily understand the situation with my license and wallet.

"License and registration, sir."

"Actually, it's kind of a funny story, I'm literally on my way to my brother's work to get my wallet, but here's my..."

"Step outta the car, son, you are under arrest."  (Suddenly I was no longer a sir, but a son...that wasn't good).

"Uh, what?  I was just..."

But there was no time for excuses, the officer opened my door, helped me (jostled me) out of my car and started reading me my rights.  My Miranda rights!

"What is going on, all I did was..."

Actual footage of my arrest.  I looked young for my age.  

"Sir, anything you say can and will be used against you..."

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!  I'M NO TERRORIST OR MURDERER!  Yet, like all innocent people completely overwhelmed with a suddenly spiraling situation, I started shaking and getting all blubbery.

"What did I do," I barely squeaked, as he pulled my arms behind my back.  A family of four just merrily made their way out of G.I.joe's, bags in hand.  "Daddy, look at that criminal getting arrested!"

He pushed me over to his squad car and kind of pushed me in.  I sat in there for 20 minutes (if felt like 5 hours) never knowing that there were groves built-in for arms behind your back.  My head sat guiltily against the plexiglass separator.

The cop searched my vehicle.  He said something about a "stolen" vehicle.  I tried, unsuccessfully, to repeat my story to him. His first few wives probably complained about his lack of "listening skills" as well (oh sorry, that's conjecture on my part).

Okay, my car was gross...but this... I just barfed a little.  

Finally, after searching through the filth-fest that was my passenger seat and rear seats (I basically lived in that car...college papers, fast-food wrappers, dead rats trying to make a home in the debris; it was a little poetic justice that he dug through my detritus trying to find evidence, and only concluded that I was a slob).

He finally called my roommate who somehow described exactly what I was wearing that day and my physical details (almost creepily...I heard the whole conversation).

He did me a favor (that's cop speak for sarcasm) by writing me the maximum ticket for my tags being expired by one day.  ONE DAY. This was what gave him the right to pull me over.  It was March 1st.  My tags expired the last day of February.  He also wrote me another $100 ticket for driving without a license.

He explained the law by showing me the smallest addendum to the postscript of the appendix of a minor law in his police codebook. He thought my vehicle was stolen (another Accord had been stolen that day).  He didn't ask me any questions.  He saw a 20-year-old boy who couldn't comply with his demands. And he saw it as an opportunity to find some contraband.

If there was anything "illicit" in that vehicle, it had coagulated on its own. It was a festering concoction of discarded junk. But last time I looked, being a disgusting human being wasn't against the law.

I finished my drive to my brother's work, shaking in anger. That car, that guilty looking import car, adulterated my innocence. I was now an arrestee. What's next, a barbed wire armband tattoo?

So this last week, as I watched my former car lunch forward at the green light, I thought: is it good memories, or Stockholm Syndrome, that had me misremembering my former car?

Employee of the Month: Only worth it for the Costco homages and Honda CVCC jokes. 

Either way, my wife was right. That car sucked. Hopefully, no ex-girlfriends will try to kidnap me, because I seem to have easily manipulatable memories.