Reputation by Mike Freeman

Reputation

By Mike Freeman

I start the night out innocent. It is my senior year, and I look forward to the high school dance that evening. This last year of high school is full of lasting memories. Some I will tell my future children about. Others will be remembered and exaggerated upon by my classmates at reunions.

Servite is a Catholic, all-boys college prep high school. We have an affiliation with three all-girl Catholic high schools. We like the three-to-one odds. So do the public school boys at our dances.

I enjoy attending this social event. We twist and contort our bodies to the rhythms of the live band. During the band's break, I talk to several of my friends. My friend, Joe, approaches Ralph and me mid-conversation. Ralph is one of my water polo buddies and the student body president.

"Are there any parties tonight?" Joe asks.

Parents leaving their homes for the weekend take a significant risk. Their high school children tend to invite a few friends over for a small party. Word spreads like a supercontagious virus at sporting events or social occasions like dances. Invitees almost always tell their closest 100 friends of the original, secret, small party plans. All of a sudden, Woodstock is happening in your parents' living room.

Homes occasionally get trashed. Sometimes neighbors call the police. The party thrower spends Sunday cleaning up the house and bribing their neighbors to be silent.

Parents almost always find out, especially over time. Returning to a home that is "too clean" is one clue. A trash can full of empty bottles is another one. Maybe a neighbor spills the beans. Someone eating a pet goldfish and leaving an empty bowl full of water is hard to explain.

Tim, another of my water polo buddies, is having a small, secret gathering of our water polo team at his parent-abandoned home. Our discreet gathering requires asking a few cute girls from the dance to attend. Joe is not an attractive girl by any stretch of the imagination. I tell him about our party anyway.

"I know where to get wine for the party," Joe states matter-of-factly.

I am ecstatic about inviting Joe now. He says he can get it from a nearby liquor store. For free!

How does a young Teenstupid male say no to this proposition? We are years below the legal drinking age. Obtaining alcohol for parties is always a challenge.

There has to be a catch. Something fishy is going on. The opportunity to obtain free alcohol overrides any rational or ethical concerns. We tell Joe we will help him get it.

We pile into my Volkswagen bug, and we drive down the street to the liquor store. There are people in it conducting various business transactions. There is an alley behind the store. We park my car across the street from the alley. Joe exits the vehicle.

We watch Joe cross the street to the back of the liquor store. Ralph and I start talking. I turn and see Joe enter the back door of the liquor store. He comes back out carrying two bottles of wine and whistles to me. I get out of my VW and go to Joe. That's when I notice he is behind a fence enclosure. He hands me the two bottles of wine through the wire fence and says he will get two more. I return to my car with the wine and get back inside with Ralph. We start talking again. Then it happens.

A police car with bright headlights drives down the alley towards us. I see Joe hiding behind some stacked boxes by the liquor store's back door. The car stops. A flashlight comes out, shining its light directly on Joe. He is a prisoner inside the fenced area. Then a gun comes out, pointing at Joe!

There is nothing we can do to help him. There is something I can do to help us. I start my VW bug's engine and drive away.

Ralph looks back and says, "They are not following us!"

We quickly disappear around the corner and zigzag our way through a neighborhood, ditching imaginary police cars. We return to the high school dance with two bottles of wine and no Joe. Full of panic, we try to blend in with the dance crowd. A few minutes pass.

Murmuring starts. People start leaving the dance. I go out to the gym front door overlooking the parking lot. People are getting in their cars and going somewhere. I have a bad feeling. It quickly gets confirmed.

"Somebody is sitting in the back of a police car at the liquor store down the street." One of my classmates says, walking by. That is where people are going.

Being the clever criminal, I return to the scene of my crime by hopping into a car with other friends. We drive to the liquor store.

A crowd is growing in the liquor store parking lot. I loiter around the rear. I want to see without being seen.

Joe is sitting handcuffed in the backseat of the police car. His head bows down. I can't imagine what he is thinking.

My heart beats wildly. My brain is wild with nonsensical thinking. There is no way to help Joe. There is no way to help Ralph or me.

One of the police officers asks loudly, "What are the names of the other two people?"

Another police officer responds with Ralph's and mine full names.

Joe will later claim he suffered police brutality before he gave them our names. I dunno, maybe.

"We are so screwed!" I think.

The high school crowd murmurs in recognition of the names. I begin to feel the walls of prison closing around me. What to do? I leave the parking lot before too many people recognize me. Back at the school dance, I try to develop options for action.

Surrendering myself to the police at the liquor store parking lot is never considered. I am a condemned man with Teenstupid thinking. My decision is final. I will go to Tim's party and enjoy my last few hours of freedom. Ralph makes the more mature decision. He goes home.

I try to enjoy myself at Tim's party. My two bottles of wine quickly disappear. Others can enjoy them. I am not in the mood now. People approach me and offer sympathy for my predicament. I feel like I am on death row, and it is my last day.

Tim comes up and tells me Ralph telephoned. There were no cell phones or contact lists in those days. Phone communications are done house-to-house on landlines. We memorize our friends' home phone numbers. I go to Tim's kitchen phone and call Ralph. The Anaheim police called his home and want him and his parents to come to their station the next morning at 10 AM. They will arrest him. They tell him to pass the same message to me.

I hang up the phone and say goodbye to my friends. Everyone thinks serious jail time is in front of me. I don't know when I will see them again. The drive home is solemn.

My parents are out for the evening. I sit at our kitchen table and wait for them to come home, trying to come up with excuses and stories that make me appear innocent. The effort fails. It is time to tell the truth.

It seems to take forever for them to come home. They finally do. I greet them in the kitchen. Right away, they know something is up. I never stay up late to greet them.

"The Anaheim Police Department wants us at their headquarters tomorrow at 10 AM." I start.

"Why is that?" My dad cautiously asks. Mom stands in wide-eyed silence.

I tell him the story. They both have a curious look on their face. It is a look I have not seen since I enjoyed smoking a cigar in front of them at the age of five.

I end my mostly truthful story. It is quiet.

"We will see you in the morning. I am sure things will work out." My dad quietly says.

I toss and turn all night. Am I going straight to jail after my arrest? Will I be in this bed tomorrow night? What happens if the school finds out? Questions with no answers bounce around in my head. The relief of morning arrives.

We get up and go to the police station. The car ride is quiet. Once we arrive at the police station, we go to a small room and wait. A detective enters and introduces himself. He sits down and asks me what happened the previous night. My parents lean forward as they listen.

"Thank God I told my parents the basic truth last night," I think.

I tell the detective the same story I told my parents. He takes notes as he listens.

He says, "Your story lines up pretty well with the other two boys. All three of you have a clean record. We are arresting you for petty theft, which is a misdemeanor. That is better than the original charge of felony burglary. You are on probation until you turn 18. Then your juvenile record is sealed. You will start life as an adult with a clean record."

I have never been so happy to be 17! So are Joe and Ralph. Our parents are more relieved than we are. There will be no jail time. Hallelujah!

There is more conversation with my parents as we drive home. They tell me they are disappointed in what I did, but happy I told the truth. I will also do extra work around the house for the next few weeks as penance. They make it clear they never want this to happen again. I agree.

A few weeks later, I am with my friend, Greg. His parents are out of town for the weekend. He decides to host a poker game with several of our classmates. I call home to my parents to ask if I can spend the night at Greg's. They say it is OK, but I need to bring the car home that I drove to Greg's. They need it the next morning.

I drive my car home. Greg follows me in his car. We drop my car off and start driving back to his house in his car. I roll down the front passenger window of his car as we converse and make jokes.

A car drives up and comes alongside us on the passenger side. The driver is very agitated and rolls down his driver's side window.

"The next time I see you lurking around my apartment, I will beat the crap out of you and call the police!" The angry driver screams.

I look at him and say, "I don't know what you're talking about."

The driver grows in his fury and says, "You know what I'm talking about!"

I motion for the enraged driver to go away as I roll up my window.

"This conversation is over," I think.

Greg and I exchange questioning looks as we continue driving. We have no idea what the guy is talking about. We start to laugh. The other car veers away and disappears.

We share our story with our friends at Greg's house. They were playing basketball in Greg's home driveway while we were away. Randy, Joe, Rick, Mike, and others join us as we start dealing the cards for poker. We buy poker chips with our money. One of us makes a joke about the police arresting us for gambling with money in Garden Grove, Greg's hometown. We laugh and continue playing our illegal activity for a couple of hours.

There's a knock at the front door. Greg tells one of us to answer the door. He is busy dealing the cards. Rick gets up and answers the door.

Rick says, "Greg, you'd better come here."

It is the Garden Grove police department. They are asking for Greg Amendola. He goes to the door.

"Were you driving your car a few hours ago in Anaheim?" They ask.

Greg answers in the affirmative.

"What were you doing there?"

Greg tells them our story. They ask for me. I go to the door. They ask us to step outside. It is lightly raining.

There are a few police cars in front of Greg's home. Some of his neighbors are starting to pay attention.

The police informed us about a complaint they received. It states that two men in a car attempted to burglarize an apartment in Anaheim. The apartment's occupant gave chase to the two escaping men. The getaway car matches Greg's car description and license plate. The license plate number leads them to Greg and his home address.

We tell them our story. We admit to our interaction with the driver of the other car. We have no idea who he is or what he is talking about.

One of our friends, Randy, comes out the front of the house carrying two jackets. He wants to help protect us from the rain. He begins to approach the officers and us.

"Stop right there!" One of the police officers yells.

Randy stops, raises his hands, and says, "They are only jackets, I don't have anything else!"

A few policemen approach him and inspect the jackets. I hope Randy examined the jacket pockets before coming out. They grab the jackets from him and give them to us.

The police ask us to sit in the back of a police car while they attempt to figure things out. At least we are out of the rain.

Greg and I sit in the back of the police car. Our high school buddies stand in front of the house after putting away the poker chips.

Greg and I know we are innocent. We believe in our criminal justice system. Exoneration will come soon. We are not worried and find the situation hilarious. Our naïveté is dangerous.

We get bored sitting in the car waiting for the police officers to determine our innocence. Our Teenstupid minds start to work. We begin to wonder if they are secretly recording our conversation.

We speak into the car door handles, headrests, and interior lights, saying, "Testing, testing, one, two, three."

One of the police officers sees us and opens the door, saying, "What are you guys doing?"

We go silent as he closes the door. We start to laugh. Police custody is fun this time around.

A few minutes later, a Garden Grove police officer approaches. I am uneasy about the look on his face.

"Since the incident took place in Anaheim, we have been talking to the Anaheim Police Department. They informed us that a Michael Freeman has a police record for petty theft. Are you that Michael Freeman?"

The fun of this situation is gone. I gulp as I answer in the affirmative.

The police officers confer. It takes a while.

They decide to release us and tell us, "We will be in touch."

We join our classmates and go into Greg's home. The police disappear, and things seem to return to normal. We pull out our poker chips. Our game continues into the night.

The next day, I get home and tell my parents about the incident in Garden Grove. They do not seem worried.

A week later, I am driving my green-and-white 1959 Rambler station wagon with the large fins with my friend, Mike. We are taking a shortcut through a Fullerton neighborhood to get to our destination. I make a wrong turn and have to turn around. I do not want to drive all the way to the end of the cul-de-sac. It is far away. I look for a convenient place to do a U-turn in the narrow neighborhood street. I notice a house with a U-shaped driveway and turn into it. I figure this is the easiest and fastest way to turn around. As we get to the top of the U-shaped driveway, we see a few adults and children working in the garage.

Mike and I give them a friendly wave as we drive by and disappear down their driveway to the street. We turn onto the street and drive on to our Fullerton destination.

The next morning, I wake up and go up the stairs to our family kitchen.

My mom says, "The police department called today."

"Which one," I ask, "Anaheim or Garden Grove?"

"Fullerton!" She says.

I am flabbergasted. What is going on?

"Is there something you need to tell your dad and me about?" She sadly asks.

"No," I reply.

The Fullerton Police Department wants you to call them at this phone number this morning. She hands me the kitchen phone. I dial their number.

She and my dad listened in on my conversation. They tell me there have been a series of burglaries in that neighborhood. Mike, I, and my car generally fit the description of the burglar's vehicle.

"Yeah, right!" I think. "There must be dozens of green-and-white 1959 Rambler station wagons with large fins driven by long-haired teenage boys in Fullerton!"

I explain to them what happened. They used the Rambler license plate number to track down the registered owner, my dad. Since we live in Anaheim, they checked with the Anaheim Police Department and uncovered my recent arrest. They put two and two together and arrive at five, thinking they had their man. Me.

The conversation proceeds for a few more minutes. The Fullerton police officer says he will be in touch as things develop.

My friend, Mike, tells me he will never drive with a convict again. I am not sure if he is serious.

I learned two critical life lessons. Speaking the truth is best, and reputations can be as sticky as contact paper. It takes a long time to deserve a good reputation, and a few seconds to earn a bad one.

No police department calls my parents and me again.

And then I had teenage sons.