The Art Of Unpredictability by Collette Will

Author:Collette, Will
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Createspace
Published: 2017-04-28T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10: That Thin Blue Line

“Every man is entitled to make a darn fool of himself at least once in a lifetime.” —Henry Ford

I’m that guy. You know, the one who drives fast and obnoxiously down the street and zips in between slow drivers. I hate slow drivers. Despite the jokes that “I could have had a V8,” my Mustang’s 365 hp V6 serves me well. Your girlfriend likes it.

Either way, I learned quickly that a blacked-out custom ride with light blue racing stripes is like a bull’s-eye to police. I’d wanted this ride ever since I was nine years old and saved for it since. By my junior year in college, I had enough money to pay for it in full off the lot. This was the beginning of many hard lessons in driving. If you’ve ever driven a Mustang, you understand how impossible it is to drive like a law-abiding citizen. The allure of speed and burnouts tempts you every time you sit behind the steering wheel. It’s an American classic, full of heritage and nostalgic memories to make anyone smile. It even transcends wealth. You can make six figures or six dollars an hour and still appreciate American muscle when you see it. (Obviously I don’t have a girlfriend, and this is my pride and joy.)

I was driving “The Dark Horse” one night with Rob Jones riding shotgun. We were on our way back from Cook Out, a North Carolina version of In-N-Out or Whataburger. Rob Jones and I had two wonderful girls in the back seats, Karli (also involved in the golf car incident) and Jenna Hess. Jenna took a stab at uncertainty when she moved from La Crosse, Wisconsin, to Chapel Hill based on a BuzzFeed top ten list. She didn’t know anyone or have a job. She just packed her things and drove to North Carolina. Her funny, Midwestern way of saying “bag” and “sad” made me love her instantly. Any angel as sweet as Jenna deserved the world and all the friends in it. Rob Jones and I were gasoline to her fire of unpredictability, so naturally before we returned to campus, Rob Jones asked, “Can we do a burnout?”

If you’re driving a Mustang, burnouts aren’t a request; they’re a requirement. So I started to look for an open parking lot. I took it to a church I knew that was always empty that close to midnight. I had done burnouts almost five consecutive nights in a row. I just bought the Mustang, and it had Michelins on it, so I was good for plenty of smoke shows. Plus, I wasn’t buying tires. (Sorry, Pops.)

But as we pulled into the lot, we noticed an unmarked police car sitting in the back of the lot. I guess they noticed all the tire tracks from previous nights and decided to post some security. This site was no good. We dipped and continued our search for a new place to turn and burn.

After driving around for

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