I had been sitting with Howard and Patrick for what seemed like hours. It was turning out to be just another wasted Saturday night. An idea suddenly tore through the nothingness: let’s go find some underground races. It’s the sort of idea that sounds great when you’re young, bored and unconcerned about the future. In hindsight, maybe not the best of ideas. I never before imagined the awful things that might happen.
We all hopped into Patrick’s car and headed out. You could always find races by checking out the local industrial centers. They were the ideal places to hold races. Long, wide and open streets with nobody around on the weekends. We found some not far away by the yogurt factory.
Finding a good spot to watch from near the middle, we parked and hopped out of the car. We never raced ourselves. We just sat back and let the spectacle of it all wash over us. The deep roar of an engine, drowning out all noise except the whistle of a turbocharger. The smell of the tires as they slowly melted into the asphalt. The streaks of red tails lights and bright colored paint jobs as the cars went flying by. The taste of the cool fall breeze. It was a veritable buffet for the senses.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before the cops showed up. They always did, even out in the middle of nowhere. Usually their only intent was to break it all up. They might pull over the cars currently racing and cite them, but nothing beyond that. We all hopped back into Patrick’s car and began to head home. It didn’t last long. Mere seconds, really. A police car sped up right behind us with lights flashing and siren blaring.
We all hopped into Patrick’s car and headed out. You could always find races by checking out the local industrial centers. They were the ideal places to hold races. Long, wide and open streets with nobody around on the weekends. We found some not far away by the yogurt factory.
Finding a good spot to watch from near the middle, we parked and hopped out of the car. We never raced ourselves. We just sat back and let the spectacle of it all wash over us. The deep roar of an engine, drowning out all noise except the whistle of a turbocharger. The smell of the tires as they slowly melted into the asphalt. The streaks of red tails lights and bright colored paint jobs as the cars went flying by. The taste of the cool fall breeze. It was a veritable buffet for the senses.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before the cops showed up. They always did, even out in the middle of nowhere. Usually their only intent was to break it all up. They might pull over the cars currently racing and cite them, but nothing beyond that. We all hopped back into Patrick’s car and began to head home. It didn’t last long. Mere seconds, really. A police car sped up right behind us with lights flashing and siren blaring.
Pulled over, the officer approached the passenger side and boy was he was pissed.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, the anger in his eyes piercing though us.
“We were just leaving like everyone else,” replied Howard rather quietly.
“When you see lights you stop! Get out of the car!” he commanded. Did he really expect everybody at the race to just stay right where they were for a handful of cop cars? It sounded absurd.
We all complied and hopped out the car. That’s when the handcuffs came out. We were being arrested for evading an officer. “Is this really happening?” I thought as the cold steel wrapped around my wrists. The blue and red lights in front of me were blinding. I suddenly felt sick and faint. My vision was blurring.
Would I be a former convict sitting at the kitchen table looking for work again and again? Working temporary jobs, but finding it near impossible to find anything permanent? Men with records don’t fare well on the job market. They make up a third of all nonworking men (Applebaum). Struggling, with the little money available to pay court costs, fees and child support. Piling up endlessly, just turning into more fines and warrants.
Or would I be just another recidivist? Unable to adjust back to living a normal life with a criminal record etched permanently into my biography. Would I find myself behind bars again? A full three-quarters of those released after serving their time found themselves arrested within three years, over half of those not even making it through the first year ("Recidivism").
“Well you three just lucked out,” the officer announced as I snapped back to my own reality. My mind still not quite adjusted. To my right, I can just make out the officer taking the handcuffs off of Patrick.
“We just got a more important call.” My own hands were now free. Maybe the most free that they’ve ever felt. I could vaguely hear talk of an aggravated assault by one of the other officers nearby.
“Don’t let me catch you here again,” he warned as Howard’s handcuffs came off last. The officers left quickly, on to the next scene. We stood silent and stunned for a minute; finally shaking off the experience enough to get in the car and continue the trip home.
I never attended another street race after that. I don’t think Patrick or Howard did either. Youthful indiscretions became a thing of my past. Saying that I “lucked out” feels like the largest of understatements. The barriers to a normal life that formerly incarcerated people face are very real. I’ve only ever had imagine what it would have been like and for that I’m very thankful.