Mugshot of the Day

Long before boys became something similar to men, they were idiots. Idiots full of laughter and intrigue, with a rebellious spirit and mischievous nature. They were untamed, carefree, and the worst part of all, they could drive.

Most kids drove hand me downs in high school, which was normal and nobody ever complained. Unless you count the kid who drove his grandfather's mint condition Chevrolet pick-up truck. I hate to think that I laughed at some of his stunts in that truck, but in retrospect, we were all idiots...and he was, well, funny.

Never mind the fact that every time he made a hard turn to the right it sounded like a flurry of squawking geese, he had wheels and that's all that mattered. On occasion my car would be out of commission, so we opted for a ride with the neighbor and we always ran into this kid. We usually ended up at Hardee's for a quick bite of breakfast before making our rounds to drop off my brother at the junior high. I hung my head and sat patiently while watching them slurp up gravy biscuits and congratulate themselves on getting their truck out of the mud the previous weekend. Hardee's was filled with senior citizens every morning, drinking coffee and socializing before their day began. I'm sure they didn't mind the small crowd of teens who hovered around the dining room, but they did mind the distractions made by one teen in particular.

We could never guess what kind of prank he would pull. One morning he retreated to the only men's bathroom at the rear of the dining room. The restaurant filled with seniors and a large hoard of high school kids crowding the rear. As if on cue, noises rang out from inside the men's restroom...struggling howls and grunts full of frustration and angst, loud gusts of flatulence echoed against the walls...and the laughter began. I don't think any of them stopped laughing until about two years later. He finally emerged from the restroom with his usual cheeky smirk, and the laughter continued into tears and the wheezing, "silent cough-laugh".
When we made our final turn into the high school parking lot that morning, we followed close behind him in his Grandfather's squeaky truck. The local crossing guard was directing traffic, and as we passed him, we watched as he shouted "Good morning Officer Mitchell!" and his windshield wiper fluid sprayed out away from the truck and right on to Officer Mitchell's uniform. From that day on, he was known as "High Shootin' Liston".