We’d been on vacation, my family and I. All of us three siblings are adults and so my folks drove a car and I took my 1991 Montero so we didn’t have to squish into one sedan. We were leaving to go back home and I took a nap in the back of my car, parked on the side of a dirt road, waiting for everyone else to get ready.
I suddenly woke to my brother driving off and my sister in the passenger seat.
“Hey, I’d like to drive. It’s my car.”
He ignored me and kept going. We were about to turn onto the main road.
“It’s not your car. This car belongs to the six of us.” he said. Never mind there’s only five of us and in reality my parents are divorced.
“MY CAR!” I yelled and pulled the emergency break from where I sat, yanking it so hard that it came nearly undone. We began to skid and my siblings were, quite understandably, very upset. I let up the break a bit and we came to a standstill. As if nothing happened, my parents drove past in their white 1996 ford escort.
I got my wish and reclaimed control of my car. It was late afternoon as I turned onto the main road. We were stopped by a police road block almost instantly, just before the ferry. They sprayed our hands and didn’t say anything. We responded by staring sheepishly past their shoulders, as if in a trance. You know, the way your cat looks at birds through the window. The officers just stood there, staring back at us.
Finally I spoke up.
“Excuse me, but we’d like to get going so we can cross the border before dark.” I demanded. Considering my blank gaze up to that point, they said, “Yeah, we’re not letting you go becasue you’ve obviously done way too much cocaine.”
I explained we were simply sad because of the quarrel earlier. That seemed acceptable enough and they lifted the blockade. Off we went, into the night.