It was about four o’clock in the afternoon on prom day, 1977, when I had just picked up my tuxedo in Hopkinsville. The suit bag was hanging in the back seat of my ’74 Camaro, and I was running behind. The plan was simple—get home, get cleaned up, and get to the prom. But somewhere between Fairview and common sense, I let that V8 do the thinking. I was doing about 70—maybe more—when I saw him—cresting the top of a rise in the road—a Kentucky State Trooper, headed straight toward me. I had just enough time to spot the gold stripe down the side of his cruiser and the wide-brimmed hat in the windshield before we passed each other. I knew I was toast. And sure enough, as I glanced in the rearview mirror, I saw those blue lights flick on—spinning like a warning shot across the late afternoon sky. But I thought maybe… just maybe, if I could get far enough ahead, I could disappear. No way I could afford a ticket—not with prom tonight and gas money already tight. So I dropped the hammer. That Camaro screamed as I floored it, wide open for two solid miles—tires humming, the engine roaring like a beast let loose on the backroads. Then I saw my shot: a gravel driveway I knew well. It belonged to a girl I’d dated once. We weren’t seeing each other anymore, but her house was tucked back a full mile off the road. I yanked the wheel and swung in, dust flying behind me like a comet tail. I made it all the way to the house, heart still pounding. I climbed out, trying to look calm—like I belonged there, like I hadn’t just made a jailbreak across rural Todd County. I walked up the porch steps and knocked, praying harder than I ever had in church that no one would answer. And that’s when I heard it. HONK- HONK. I turned around, and there he was—Dallas Orr, sitting in his cruiser, face red as a ripe tomato, finger curled in that unmistakable “come here” motion. I swallowed hard. Rut-row, I thought. This wasn’t looking good. I walked down off that porch slow, innocent as a lamb, and strolled up to his window. “Son,” he said, locking eyes with me, “were you tryin’ to outrun me?” “No, sir,” I said, looking like the picture of teenage sincerity. “I was just coming to see my girlfriend.” He stared at me, dead silent for a moment. “Who lives here?” he asked. I told him her name, hoping to God she wasn’t home—and that no one inside had heard me knocking. He looked back at the porch, then back at me, jaw clenched like he was chewing on a decision. He stepped out and let me have it—read me the riot act right there in the gravel. “I know you were tryin’ to outrun me, boy,” he snapped. “if I thought you were trying to outrun me, I’d haul your butt to jail.” “No, sir,” I repeated, palms up like I was standing in Sunday school. “Just seein’ my girlfriend.” Then came the pivot. He looked at my license and said, “Tony Hurt… Who is your father?” I told him it was Howard “Muggins” Hurt. And just like that, the storm clouds parted. “Well I’ll be,” he said, his tone shifting. “How’s ol’ Muggins doin’? Me and him used to run around a bit, back in the day…” And that was the moment the good ol’ boy network kicked in. We talked for a few minutes—well, he talked—and I nodded, agreed, and smiled like the luckiest fool on the planet. Finally, he gave me one last look and said, “Alright. You drive a little slower from now on, you hear?” “Yes sir,” I said, trying not to let the relief flood too obviously into my face. He drove off, and I stood there in that gravel driveway—tux still safe in the back seat, free as a bird and a whole lot wiser than I’d been twenty minutes before. Prom night almost started in jail, but thanks to Dad’s name and a little small-town grace, I made it to the dance just fine. That night, I showed up to the prom with my tie a little crooked and my heart still racing. Nobody there knew just how close I’d come to trading the dance floor for a jail cell. But under those prom lights, with the music blaring and everyone laughing, I figured I’d pulled off the greatest getaway of my teenage years.