Law abiding.  That is one of the word I often conjure up in relation to myself.  I've, with very little effort, tried to avoid any situations that might land me in jail or make me seem disreputable.  My Bruce Campbell action figures make me seem disreputable enough.  This life I've lived so far has shown me how easy it is to slip between cracks and become something you are  not.  In fact, it has often proven that the fictions presented in several Hitchcock movies of the average Joe becoming a wanted man through no fault of his own is too plausible.  The hive mind mentality  behind certain law enforcement procedures rivals those found in Gilliam's Brazil.  If it is on a form, it must be true.

In the summer of 2004, life was a sweet, sweet peach.  I had been married for three months to the most gorgeous woman in the world, appeared in an independent film, and football practice was beginning.  The best part was I just worked half days until the players showed up, so my afternoons were free for movies, golf, and reading.  This is a textbook example of the "salad days".  On one of these "salad days" , my lovely bride asked me to help her clinic move some medical records to their new location.  Ever eager to make her happy, I loaded the back of my blue Ranger pick up with file boxes and headed to the location a few blocks away.  Unfortunately for all concerned, I forget locations and directions to locations easily.  I took a wrong turn and ended up traveling a circuitous route to get to the clinic.  During this adventure in re-routing, I made a turn and a lady hit me from behind. 

The accident was my fault.  I realized that as soon as I heard her screaming at me.

"What kinda shit driving was that!?" she screamed at me repeatedly.  I had been driving down a one way street in a far lane when I realized that I was about to pass my turn. I checked my rearview mirror quickly, and I saw nothing.  My rearview mirror was  blocked by the medical records.  I had no intention of talking my way out of it.  She thought I did though. 

The city police showed up, and gave me a citation.  Then, he asked if I had any warrants out for my arrest.  With full confidence, I answered that I did not.  Law abiding, that's me.

"Are you sure?" he asked , studying my driver's license. 

"Absolutely.  I've gotten speeding ticket in the past, but I've always paid for them."

"Your name is Quiz Kid Donnie Smith?"

"Yes."  I answered as Darkness, my old friend, came to stay again.  The cop went to his cruiser and returned with a serious look on his face.

"Michener County has an outstanding warrant for your arrest."

If you could crap your brain, I would've right then.  My jaw fell.  My heart fell.  My stomache fell. My testicles rolled into the storm drain on the curb.

"Nope. Can't be me.  What's it for?"

"Bounced checks."

"No.  I haven't bounced a check since 1993.  That was at a Taco Bell in Caddo Valley.  This girl I liked had..."

'Sir, I don't know what happened.  Maybe an old girlfrien' wasn't honest or your wife or.."

"Officer, I haven't had a real girlfriend aside from my wife.  I'm totally pathetic.  Are you sure it's me?"

"Michener County PD is coming to pick you up."

"Holy Pete ! Pick me up!  I'm not Scarface.  Even if I did do that...Pick me up?  Aw, hell!"  I sank to my haunches by my truck and put my face in my hands.  I wanted to cry and someone to have pity on me, but I was getting nothing.  I was literally going down town.  The school teacher was going to jail for bouncing checks.  I would probably be in the pokey with some of my students.  Would they shive me?  Wait, on Oz they say shank.  Would someone try to shank me with a shive they made from a spoon? What about my wife? Would she divorce me?  I mean, my balls were in the storm drain, so she wouldn't get any sweet, sweet babies from her ex-con husband.  How many cartons of cigarettes would I be worth?  Am I worth Marlboros?  God, don't let me be worth a carton of Virginia Slims.

My idiotic "Jilting of Granny Weatherall" freak-out was interrupted by the arrival of the County police.  The officer who was coming for me had a brush cut that had been shaved around the ears.  He appeared to be sweating pork chop grease , and his moustache seemed to wish it had been grown by Hitler. I'm also pretty sure he was the guy who shot Denis Hopper and Peter Fonda at the end of Easy Rider.   He conferred with the other cop, and, then, he spoke with me.  I did indeed have a warrant out for my arrest he told me.  

"Follow me." he said.  I followed him to the jail.  The entire drive I thought about turning down a street and making a run for it.  It would be a hard life, but I could make a go of it.   I could travel from town to town, meeting people, and getting in adventures.  I wouldn't mind sleeping in hay stacks or culverts.  I could do exotic dancing in towns that liked pasty guys in thick glasses. I could-

I turned into the parking lot and followed Officer Pork Chop into his office.  It smelled like onions and body odor.  George W. Bush smiled at me above his greasy neck as bent over in order to put the letters of my name together in handwriting that must've cost him some recess in elementary school.  The terrorists have won, George, I thought, look who they are arresting.

"Have you ever lived at 1819 Arroyo Lane?" Pork Chop asked. (He had been demoted in my mind.)

"No. Never."

"Any Aliases?"

"No. I'm a teacher.  I don't wrestle."

"Hmmmm..."

"So, this isn't me?"

"It's you. Maybe.  you'll hafta discuss that with the judge."

"Holy Pete! The judge.  I mean is there someone I can call?"

"You'll get a trial date."

"Can I just pay something?"

"Judge'll decide that."

"Do you know anything about this?"

"I know what's on the paper.  'Quiz Kid Donnie Smith. Age 24.  247 Arroyo Lane.  Bounced Checks at the Lido Deck Mart."

"Holy Pete! I'm thirty! I write checks at the Lido Deck Mart all the time.   That's wrong."

"Judge.  Let's go get your fingerprints, and mugshot."

"Holy Pete!"

I was whisked away to the booking area which is surrounded by cells, and the smell of cheap chicken product for supper. It had  been hours since I left my wife, and I had medical records in the back of my truck.  I'm fingerprinted.  That's no big deal.  My prints are already a matter of record.  All teachers in this state have to do that to get their license.  The mug shot is a nightmare.  I wish I looked cool , but I look like I am about to cry.  I am, by the way.  I feel like Josef from The Trial.  My story isn't as well written though. I'm finished and I hear an inmate begging a guard for paper.  Oh, they get to read the newspaper here? That's not so bad, I think.  Then, I realize that's not the kind of paper he's begging for.  I wouldn't be worth a pack of Kools on the inside. 

Pork Chop approaches me. 

"You' re free to go on your word of honor."

"You mean on my own recognizance."

"Yep."  I run to my truck, and speed out tof there.  I'm a scofflaw now.  You see, your legal system doesn't rehabilitate people like me; it makes us worse.  I arrive at the clinic location to the sight of my wife and her cried-out eyes and her boss looking concerned about the files,.  We unload them and go home.  There over a chimichanga I relate the tale  of my incarceration and swear that, like Jean Valjean, I will never return, and I will help others and I will sing a heartbreaking song as I die. 

She contacts an attorney we know. The attorney learns that I am not the right person by a long shot.  By noon the next day, I am cleared and I have my fingerprints and mug shot in my possession.  We rejoice and frame my mugshot.   It hangs on our living room wall to this day.  My testicles, however, are rumored to still live in the city's sewer system feeding off of waste and stray cats.