JOYRIDING

The thing about bulldozers is that they look so imposing. They are not the vehicles of choice when contemplating a leisurely drive in the country or a little pleasure jaunt. And yet that would be the only excuse we could come up with to explain why we took the one we did. In any case, the event took place at one o’clock in the morning at a highway construction site, clearly a factor rendering any mitigating explanation a formidable task at the outset. They had us cold.

A swimming place known as the “Sand Banks” on the Weekiwachee River, at a wide bend about a mile from the river’s source--a cold, clear spring--was a favorite spot for high school boys to end a summer Saturday night. Birthday suits were the requisite dress, and serious hootin’, hollerin’, and horse play were the standard activities. The drive back to town did little to extinguish the youthful enthusiasm for adventure that had thus been spawned.

The old road was being replaced that summer by a wider, straighter link between the town and the Gulf coast. For a few miles, the old road paralleled the work in progress. The bulldozer was just sitting there on a slight hill, lit by moonlight and unguarded.

I was driving, but Billy triggered the action which was to make us a lifelong memory. “Stop!” he yelled. “I want to drive that thing!” So I stopped and parked on the side of the road.

The four of us piled out. Billy led the way, with the rest close behind, none of us knowing exactly what we were doing, and certainly not why. Billy never broke stride; he leapt onto the bulldozer’s steel tread and bounced into the driver’s seat. I took the spot beside him, while the other two draped themselves across the elongated engine covering.

The key was in the ignition. Billy turned it and then pushed the red button next to it. The huge diesel coughed twice, sputtered a bit, and then burst into a full roar. Billy fiddled with the pedals under his feet and with the myriad of levers and knobs under his right hand. The thing shuddered, slid a bit to the left, skidded back to the right, and then, to our absolute amazement, began to move forward. Billy had no time to learn the difference between stop and go, unfortunately, but he soon accomplished the former by crashing into a stout pine tree. The treads spun menacingly for a moment or two, digging into the sandy soil, but the tree’s tap root held and some mechanism in the machine brought the motor to a halt.

We were so shaken and absorbed that we didn’t at first notice the red, white, and blue lights flashing back on the road, but the spotlight soon captured our attention. We froze. All but Billy, that is. He instantly jumped from his seat, bounced off the hood of the bulldozer, wrapped all four appendages around the pine tree, and then shinnied up it like a gangly bear. Apparently the deputy sheriff didn’t see him, as when he arrived at the scene, he looked at and addressed only the three of us. He learned I was the driver of the car, loaded the other two into the back seat of his cruiser, and told me follow him.

As I was pulling onto the road, I heard a back door open and, looking over my shoulder, saw Billy launch himself onto the floor behind the front seat. There he remained while I followed the deputy to the county jail.

We stopped in front of the jail, a modest, square, white brick building, and while the deputy shepherded his passengers inside, he directed me to take one of the two visitors’ parking spots and follow along. He seated us on a wooden bench while he went behind the counter, shuffled some papers, and made a phone call. He then led us through a metal door into the rear of the jail where the four cells were located. Only one was occupied, by a drunk sleeping off his evening excesses. The deputy ushered us into one of the other cells, clanged the barred door shut, locked it, and went back to the front of the jail, also slamming and locking that door behind him.

There was only a cot hung to a wall to sit on, so the three of us perched there. The only other furnishings in the room were a toilet with no seat and a sink, the insides of both showing signs of use but little cleaning. We stared around us and at each other for a minute or two. Someone got up to check that the toilet flushed and that water actually ran from the sink tap.

There wasn’t much conversation initially and what there was, as I recall, was basic and uninspired.

“Jesus Christ! We’re in jail!.”

“What’s gonna happen now?”

“What if they call our parents? My daddy will kill me!”

“How much trouble you reckon we’re in?”

But we soon realized there was nothing for us to do but wait, and the humor of the situation began to creep into the conversation. We conjured up a host of notions relative to jailhouse life, and bantered about digging a tunnel to escape, joked of working on a chain gang, and exchanged some scatological remarks about the porcelain pieces in front of us. Someone came up with a ballpoint pen and we wrote our names and the date on a wall. We even dozed off for a time.

At about six a.m., the deputy came to escort us back to the reception and office area. Seated behind his desk was Slim Loman, the Sheriff of Hernando County, resplendent in starched khakis, wide black belt, a holster holding a pearl-handled pistol, and a black ten gallon hat perched on the back of his head. He was leaning back in his chair, his feet in their filigreed cowboy boots resting on his desk.

‘Mornin’, boys,” he greeted us. “I don’t reckon ya’ll have had any breakfast. Slim, tell Annie Rose to cook ‘em up some eggs and bacon. And git ‘em some coffee.”

The deputy exited through a side door and returned promptly with a pot of coffee and three plain crockery mugs. Someone poured the coffee for us, but no one offered sugar or cream. We sipped it while the sheriff spoke.

“Now, here’s the thing, boys. You dumb shitheads done stole a ‘dozer and that’s grand larceny. You could be sent up to the pen at Raiford for that.”

Apparently one of us cleared his throat as if to speak, because the sheriff banged a heel on his desk and barked, “Shut your hole! I’ll tell you when you can talk. Now then, I’ve sent for Mr. Bennett, the supervisor on that road construction. Had to wake him up, so I don’t reckon he’ll be in a good mood when he gets here. Tough titty for you turds. So here’s the thing of it. If Mr. Bennett decides to press charges against you, I’ll lock you back up ‘til Monday, when we can send your stupid asses up to the courthouse so the judge can ‘rain you. After that, it’s outta my hands. Now go on back yonder and git some breakfast. I’ll send for you when I’m ready.”

We were led through the door the deputy had used to get our coffee into what was obviously the jailhouse mess hall. Our hungover companion of the night was already there, feeding from a mountain of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, and grits. Annie Rose soon arrived to provide us each with similarly heaped plates. She went back to her kitchen to bring in a large platter of homemade biscuits. Fresh butter, maple syrup, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a pot of coffee were already on the table.

(Years later, I came across a book about jail facilities in the United States, something like a Michelin Guide to the city, county, and state penal institutions of America. I was proud and pleased to note in the food ratings that the Hernando County jail ranked fourth in the entire country.)

The construction company supervisor proved to be a nice fellow. He said he had a teenage son of his own whose punishment for an antic such as ours he would want to administer personally. He told the sheriff to let us go. But he had one condition: we had to tell our parents what we had done and where we spent the night, and he had to receive a phone call from them to confirm that we had lived up to our commitment.

That subsequent confession cost me driving privileges for a month.

I later learned from Billy that he had fallen asleep on the ride into town, woke up when the birds started chirping, figured out where he was, slipped unseen out of the car, and walked home.