1978 in Todd County was the kind of year when my buddies and I, fueled by youthful exuberance and a questionable fashion sense, decided our trucks needed straight pipes. Why? Because we were on a mission to be the coolest kids in town—or at least sound like it. I remember one particular weekend, our Friday nights were as predictable as a sitcom rerun: cruising around Elkton, sipping on beers that tasted like freedom, playing pool with the finesse of amateur hustlers, and engaging in the fine art of flirting with the opposite sex up and down the main drag, a.k.a. the square down to the dip.
As the clock struck 1 AM, inspiration struck us like a poorly aimed dart—why not head down to Tiny Town truck stop for breakfast? So, off we went, our engines roaring louder than our laughter, to feast like kings on eggs and bacon at ungodly hours. We sat there, spinning tales taller than the stacks on the Semi-trucks outside, until we collectively decided it was time to mosey on back home.
The journey back was uneventful until we reached Elkton. That’s when my buddy, acting as my chauffeur for the night, dropped me off at my truck since I’d been riding shotgun with him all evening.
Firing it up, I winced at the roar it made, echoing through the 2 AM silence like a jackhammer in a library. Creeping up to the square, I spotted a police car by the Elkton hardware. “Easy does it,” I thought, trying to tiptoe a several-thousand-pound truck past without waking the beast with blue eyes on top.
Creeping around the square slower than a snail on a leisurely stroll, I was convinced my stealth mode was working wonders for keeping the peace—and my wallet intact. Once I veered north on 181, a wave of relief washed over me. “Home free,” I thought, but fate had a different plan. Within seconds, headlights emerged from the shadows of the square, tailing me with the persistence of a determined detective. It wasn’t until I was opposite the cemetery that the chase reached its climax: the sudden flash of blue lights, turning my moment of triumph into a heart-racing episode of “Straight pipes vs. The Law.”
Having not indulged in a beer for several hours, I was confident that alcohol wouldn’t be the issue. I braced myself for what I assumed would be a stern warning about my truck’s concert-level decibel output. As the two officers approached and inquired about any recent drinking, I admitted to having a few but mentioned it had been a while, even managing to fit in breakfast since then. Their reason for stopping me caught me off guard—they thought I was driving suspiciously slow. Irony at its finest, considering my initial concern was about noise, not speed.
They then asked me to step out and perform a roadside sobriety test, which involved balancing on one foot—a task I completed with the grace of a seasoned flamingo. Feeling confident, I was surprised when they decided to take things a step further, suggesting a trip to the station for a breathalyzer test. I wasn’t worried; I felt sure I’d pass. With a mix of resignation and curiosity, I found myself in the back of the patrol car, watching one officer drive my truck away, a peculiar convoy heading back to the square.
Upon arrival at the station, the atmosphere shifted as the breathalyzer was prepped for action. I took my turn, blowing into the device with the focus of an athlete in the final seconds of a game, only to hear the verdict: 0.10, right on the legal limit. My request to view the reading was met with a firm denial, Their refusal struck me as odd, but before I could dwell on it, they dropped the bombshell: I was under arrest.
Offered the chance to make a phone call, my first thought was to inform my mom of the unexpected turn my night had taken and to come get me. Yet, their clarification that I wasn’t just being detained but was actually going to spend the night behind bars made me reconsider. “No need to call anyone,” I said, I didn’t need to wake her up. Thus, without further ado, they drove me down to the jail, marking the beginning of an unexpected overnight stay.
As they escorted me into the jail, it felt less like heading into custody and more like an unexpected adventure into a relic from the past. This jail wasn’t your modern, sterile lockup; it was more akin to an old dungeon, replete with stone walls that could tell a thousand tales if only they could talk. The moment the door clanked shut behind me, a weird sense of awe came over me that I can’t explain to this day, I couldn’t help but marvel at my new surroundings. There I was, sitting on an ancient cot, soaking in the reality of my situation—not with fear, but with an almost childlike wonder.
What made the experience truly unique was the fact that I had the entire jail to myself that night. It was as if I had been granted exclusive access to a private museum exhibit titled “The Art of Incarceration.” The walls, chiseled from stone, served as a canvas for previous occupants who left behind their names as makeshift autographs. I found myself recognizing a few of them, turning the situation into an impromptu game of “historical figure spotting.”
Contrary to what one might expect, the first-time jail experience didn’t send shivers down my spine. Instead, I was utterly fascinated, captivated by the craftsmanship of those who had etched their names into the stone. It was as if I was reading a guestbook, each name a story waiting to be told. Eventually, the excitement of my archaeological discovery waned, giving way to fatigue. I laid back, let out a yawn, and drifted off to sleep, my dreams undoubtedly filled with tales of those who shared this space before me.
The next morning greeted me not with the expected clank of jail life, but with the aromas of a home-cooked breakfast wafting into my cell. Around seven, the jailer arrived, bearing gifts like a culinary Santa Claus. He presented me with a hearty feast—eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee—courtesy of his wife’s kitchen prowess. As he handed over the plate and promised to return, I couldn’t help but think that my night behind bars was nothing like the dire scenarios I had imagined. It was almost… cozy.
I lounged in my cell, savoring the breakfast, convinced that in a couple of hours, I’d be released to weave my way back home, my brief incarceration nothing more than a secret adventure kept from my parents and something to brag about to my friends. Little did I know, a chain of events had been set in motion the previous night that would soon burst my bubble of anonymity. In a well-intentioned breach of my privacy, a family acquaintance who worked at the P.D , whose name shall remain my secret, had called my mom to inform her of my predicament.
Cue the unexpected plot twist: my mom, dialed my dad in Princeton to mount a rescue operation. So there I was, post-gourmet jail breakfast, thinking all was right with the world, when the jailer reappeared with news that turned my blood cold: my dad was outside waiting for me. At that moment, I would have preferred an audience with “God ALMIGHTY” over facing my dad. Known for his unwavering principles, I knew an epic reckoning was upon me.
Stepping outside into the morning air, I found myself climbing into the truck alongside my dad, embarking on a journey to face the judge—a peculiar appointment given the day was Saturday. The convenience of the judge’s availability puzzled me then and still does; it seemed to be a testament to the small-town camaraderie where everyone knows everyone, or perhaps just the “good old boy network” in full swing.
In the courtroom, I presented my side of the tale to the judge, a man familiar to both me and my dad. What took me by surprise was his skepticism towards the breathalyzer’s accuracy. Despite his doubts, he maintained that I had to face the consequences. The verdict? A fine of $157, with my charge downgraded to reckless driving. It seemed a small mercy, but a penalty nonetheless.
The drive home was anything but silent. My dad, a man of principles, took this opportunity to impart a lesson that would resonate with me for years to come. His lecture, lasting the better part of an hour, culminated in a directive that felt more like a sentence than any fine could. To pay for my misjudgment, I was to sell one of my beloved cows. To me, this was more than a financial transaction; it was as if he had asked me to sever my big toe! Selling one felt like betraying a member of the family, a sacrifice that weighed heavily on my heart. Yet, through this, my dad taught me a lesson in responsibility and the weight of consequences, a lesson that was harsh but necessary