hour, pushing the rattling cart ahead of us. Then I slammed on the brakes. The cart lurched forward and rammed into a concrete divider, splitting asunder; shattering on contact. We were laughing, amazed at the amount of damage we’d done, when an amplified voice split the night air. "Hey you, freeze!" A car-mounted spot light wavered across our faces, magnifying all the dirt particles on my windshield. I wasn’t about to freeze. I threw the car into reverse. I probably would have flipped the car around and made a run for it, but I was worried that with his spotlight he would pick out my license plate on the rear bumper. Since the front license plate was sitting in my grandpa’s barn, still attached to the front bumper, I figured the Everett mall rent-a-cop wouldn’t be able to get a number. Fortunately, the parking lot was wide open and I didn’t need to maneuver through any tight spaces as I drove backwards. The security guard seemed a little stunned that we would flee. Apparently he expected the reputation of mall security guards to freeze the marrow in our bones and stun us into inaction. By the time he got his car into gear and started chasing us we were most of the way across the parking lot. Seeing that it was now our never, I slammed on my brakes and spun my wheel hard so that the entire car did a 180 degree turn on screeching tires. This move is what they call a bootlegger’s turn. Apparently some of the rum running gangsters in the prohibition era used this maneuver. This was the first and last time that I ever attempted it. It worked amazingly well. I still had momentum when the car swung the opposite direction and I threw it into gear and barreled out of the parking lot and onto the road. From there it was a very short hop to the freeway. We were headed North on I-5 in less than a minute. Apparently, the long arm of the rental cop is only as long as the parking lot, and once we hit the road we didn’t see hide nor hair of him. This was very fortunate for us, because, no matter how many bootlegger turns I might manage to pull off, the bug was still going to have difficulty outrunning ninety nine percent of the cars on the road. Over all, being bumperless worked to my disadvantage. I got stopped five times in a week and a half period for not having a bumper. Three of those times I was the lucky winner of a ticket. This is where my legal troubles started. The park ranger ticket for damaging a tree stump I could ignore forever, but these tickets were from real policeman, and the penalties for ignoring them were a bit more severe. I sent the ticket slips in to the courthouse to request my day in front of the judge. I hoped that I could at least get the tickets consolidated or chopped down some. All three officers who had given me tickets had neglected to ask me if the address on my driver's license was current, so when the court dates were sent out they were mailed to my old address. The people there weren’t kind enough to forward any of mail, so I wondered why I wasn’t getting any response from the courts. I called up the courts and found out that several of my court dates had came and went. I requested for them to reschedule my dates and gave them my new address so they could send them to the right place. Working with the efficiency of typical government bureaucracy, they promised me that they would make the change, promptly shuffling the request into a pile of paperwork somewhere. They promptly sent out new court dates to the same address that they had been sending out all the previous court dates. Although blissfully unaware of this until much later, I ended up being cited with a stack of FTA’s, Failure to Appears. The fines of my initial tickets were doubled, then tripled and I continued my life as though I didn’t have a huge bounty on my head, placed by, ever benevolent, Uncle Sam. Finally, a few months further down the road my mind wandered back to the subject of the tickets, and I wondered why I had never received anything. I called the courts, yet again, and finally received a court date in the mail. I went in and straightened everything out to the tune of almost eight hundred dollars. With this burden off my back I figured I was home free. I was about a mile away from home one night, when I got pulled over. Evidently, one of my headlights had gone out. The officer seemed fairly easy going and I figured, hey, no problem. I’ll get a warning and get a replacement headlamp tomorrow. He took my identification and went back to his car to run a check. A few minutes later, he returned to the Volkswagon and leaned down to the window. "I’m sorry, Mr. Peterson. I’m going to have to take you to jail." I still had no clue to what was going on behind the scenes. I squinted at the officer. " Isn’t that a little severe for having a headlight out?" "Yes, sir," he answered. "But it appears that you have a hundred dollar bench warrant out for your arrest. Please step out of the car." I got out of the car and put my hands against the roof of the bug while he searched me. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why I might have a warrant out for my arrest. The officer began to cuff me behind my back, and I quickly told him that I had Cystic Fibrosis, and that confining my hands behind my back made it difficult to breath. I quickly upped the ante by informing him that this could kill me.

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