On the day I found myself locked in the hidey-hole, I had just been handed a stack of orders by a newly hired employee when I heard the familiar noise of a launching raid. Ordering the newbie to hand me the filled orders from the table to his right, I turned inward and placed them on a shelf in the far end of the hidey-hole. Turning back, I was astonished to see the door sliding into place. Panicking, the green worker secured the door of the hidey-hole with me still inside. I pounded on the door for him to let me out but received no answer. The employee had freaked out, run upstairs, and pretended to be a customer. Since he was unknown to them, the police sent him on his way. He left without telling anyone where I was, happy to escape.
I listened to the racket upstairs, quietly trying to determine when the police were heading in my direction. Hoping that the newbie had properly secured the faux door from the outside so that it would not be detected, I shut the light off and settled in for the remainder of the raid. A few minutes later, I could hear the police descending the basement stairs. Looking through one of the peepholes placed low in the wall, I watched as they ripped through boxes and carted off the contraband. Unfortunately, I also witnessed one of the cops, whom my mother ironically referred to as “the little prick,” take a leak in the toilet only a few inches from my hiding place. He was my least favorite cop on the force. I was not surprised when he did not bother to lift the seat. Hmm…little prick, indeed!
A half-hour later, the cops disappeared up the stairs. I was again alone in the basement. Knowing that they could return for a second look, I sat in the dark, musty silence of the hidey-hole. As business usually commenced almost immediately after a raid, I was sure I would be released shortly. Another thirty minutes ticked by. I turned the light on and began filling orders. Although busy, I was not a happy camper. How was it possible that no one had missed me? Unaware that the newbie was long gone, I fumed.
By the time I finished filling the orders, I was beyond furious. Nonetheless, I was concerned that there might be law enforcement remaining on the premises. Finally, with my legs cramping and a pressing need to use the toilet, I decided to take action by systematically tapping on the underside of the stairs. After ten minutes or so, I heard the familiar voice of a regular gambler yelling for my father, “Hey, Al, I think one of the cops is still in the basement!”
A few minutes later, my father appeared. Seeing him through the peephole, I yelled, “Dad, get me out of here!” Al removed the “door” and I popped out, awash in gunpowder. “What the hell is going on? I’ve been in there for over two hours!”
Laughing, Al realized that the green employee had taken off without alerting anyone that I was still in the basement. In the ensuing chaos, my father thought that I had left the store. My skin crawling with explosive residue and my ire ready to explode as well, I swept passed him, went home, and took a long hot bath. Since the raid, I had been the target of one joke after another.
Shortly after the hidey-hole incident, I accompanied my father on a run to Pittsburgh that stands out vividly as an adventure in mayhem, in part because I never should have been on it in the first place. Aside from the colorful and unpredictable runs to the Boomer lair, Al often made trips to Pittsburgh, West Virginia, and Ohio in pursuit of his favorite contraband. The months leading up to the Fourth of July were grueling. A normal workday would often stretch beyond twelve hours and was always fraught with the chance of a raid. In an attempt to keep my sanity, I had negotiated a day and a half each week to spend on my own: half a day on Sunday and a floater day during the week.
I took my day off very seriously but Al would often “forget” or “need” me. He would inevitably come looking for me. On this particular occasion, Al found me relaxing in our tiny backyard intent on getting a tan, clad only in a bathing suit, and completely absorbed in Robert Ludlum’s novel
The Matarese Circle.
I was so occupied with US intelligence agent Brandon Scofield’s cabal-fighting adventure that I was at first oblivious to my father’s presence. Al’s voice ripped me from my otherworldly escape. I looked up to find him hanging over the fence. He had to make a run and needed me to go with him.
Reminding him that it was my day off
all
work, whether legit or not, I refused. A frustrated Al barked at me to get in the car and promised I would be home within two hours. Defiant, I again refused. Al persisted.
“Are you crazy?” I yelled. “I’m in my bathing suit!”
Undaunted, Al explained that he didn’t have time for me to change. There was a short window of opportunity for him to grab a large shipment of M-80s. Seriously needing some alone time, I dug in my heels, ignoring his command.
Desperate to get moving, Al pleaded, “Come on, Heather. Daddy needs you. There is no one else around. I promise, we will be back in two hours and you won’t have to get out of the car. I’ll even give you an extra fifty dollars for that ‘escape fund’ of yours. Come on, I really need you. Don’t make Daddy beg.”
“Shit!” I screamed as I slammed the book shut, grabbed my shear sarong, and tied it around my waist. “Fine, I’ll go. I want the money before I get in the car, but it’s not for this run. I’ll take it for being locked in the hidey-hole during last week’s raid. And drop the sarcasm about my escape fund. I’m serious about leaving home. Just you wait until I turn eighteen. Gone!” I snapped my fingers. “I’m out of here, just like Vanessa!” I shouted, referring to my sister’s recent departure from the family home.
Peeling off two twenties and a ten, Al handed me the money as I headed up the hill toward the station wagon. “You know, young lady, you need to watch that mouth of yours. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.” He chuckled victoriously.
I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around to face him. “I’m not in the mood for one of your lectures. You need to stick to our agreement. I don’t think it is too much to ask to have one uninterrupted day off work. I’m fed up with this shit!”
“Watch your mouth or I’ll wash it out with soap!” Al warned.
Throwing my hands up in the air in exasperation, I shouted, “You’re taking your fifteen-year-old daughter on a run to pick up illegal merchandise and you’re worried about my swearing? Somebody has his priorities screwed up! If you want me to go, no more lectures. Now, are we going or not?”
Annoyed with being chastised by his daughter but unable to argue, Al joined me in the car. We sped off towards our criminal rendezvous. I fumed silently while Al tried to coax me into conversation. I ignored him, speaking only when we approached a traffic light: Go! Yellow! Stop!
Uncomfortable with my continued silence, Al finally inquired, “Okay, what’s going on with you? Why are you so angry?”
“First of all, it is my day off and here I am. I really need a day every week, Dad. You love this life—the adventure, the danger—but I’m tired of all of it. I would like to have some normalcy in my life. And, then there’s your forgetting me in the hidey-hole last week. I can’t believe you left me there for hours! How could you forget to get me out after the police left?”
Chuckling, Al replied, “I’m sorry, that was my fault. I was so caught up in the raid that I didn’t think about where you were. What can I do to make it up to you?”
Jumping on the chance, I made my demand. “How about two days off next week? Here, take this.” I handed him back the money. “I don’t want it. I’m just in a pissy mood.”
“No, you keep it. You earned a little extra this week. Pick which days you want off next week and I promise to leave you completely alone. How about we go to the movies tonight, just us?”
“Yeah, that would be nice.” The tension was temporarily broken.
An hour after my attempt at relaxation had been disrupted, we arrived at the prearranged destination. There we met up with a scruffy-looking gang of runners who had brought the merchandise in from New York. Moving quickly, Al packed the station wagon with cases of M-80s and we took off for home.
Fifteen minutes later, we were stuck on the side of Route 30, hood up, with a dead battery. We were sitting ducks in a car that held ten thousand dollars worth of class A fireworks. Their explosive value was sufficient to blow us and the station wagon to kingdom come—if we were not arrested first.
Surveying our surroundings, Al spotted a bar across the highway. He promptly ordered me to go ask for help. Well, as you can imagine, this lead to a massive argument.
“Dad, are you crazy! You want me to go into that sleazy bar dressed like this? No. I’m not crossing Route 30 in a bathing suit and I’m certainly not going into that bar!”
“Oh, yes you will! We have to get this car going for before a State Boy comes along,” he said, using his nickname for state troopers. “I’ll stay with the merchandise. You go get help.”
Incredulous, I refused. “No, I’m not getting out of the car! You go, or wave someone down!”
Annoyed with my continued refusal, my father roared in frustration, “Heather, get out of the car, go over to the bar, and tell them that we have a dead battery and need help. Go! Now, now,
now
!”
“Shit, shit,
shit
!” I screamed back in a rage. Jumping out of the car, I pulled the flimsy sarong tightly across my waist. I headed across the highway murmuring my mantra, “They’re all fucking crazy, they’re all fucking crazy...”
Behind me, my father bellowed, “I heard that. I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap as soon as we get home!”
Livid, I turned in the middle of the highway and screamed back, “Maybe, but you’ll have to explain why to Bonnie! The whole story! I can’t wait to hear that!”
Turning back toward my destination, I stormed across the remaining lanes, dodging oncoming cars, and approached the bar. I angrily ripped opened the door and stared through the smoky, blue haze. Even as my eyes adjusted to the darkened room, I was barely able to discern the patrons perched on stools around the horseshoe-shaped bar.
Stepping just inside the door, I yelled, “I need a jump!”
The barely discernible bar patrons suddenly became very clear as they began to swarm in my direction.
“Shit!” I screamed, realizing my blunder.
Turning back into the sunlight, I ran for my life. The next thing Al saw was his bathing suit-clad daughter running across Route 30 with a half-dozen, half-drunk boozehounds in hot pursuit.
Seeing the panicked look on my face, Al shouted, “What did you say to them?”
“What else? I needed a jump!”
I whizzed past him and jumped into the safety of the car, leaving my father to contend with the inebriated brood. He offered a royal compensation to anyone that could get the car up and running tout de suite.
Angry but strangely relieved to be back in the potentially explosive car, I settled in and began to read my book while Al and his “helpers” set about determining the fastest way to get the car back on the road. The least booze-soaked patron offered to get his truck from the bar parking lot and give us a jump. As he disappeared across the highway, my father opened the door and sat down, a strange look on his face.
“Listen,” he said. “A state trooper just pulled up behind us. If he notices anything suspicious and searches the boxes, you have to insist that you didn’t know what was in them.”
Aghast, I responded, “Dad, didn’t you notice that the boxes are marked ‘Caution: Explosive’?”
“Okay, stay calm. If he arrests me, deny you knew anything. You’re a minor, so he’ll take you with us to the station. Play dumb and call your mother to come get you,” my father whispered.
Well, the thought of having to call my mother from a police station, dressed like this, made me forget my anger and my fear. Survivor’s instinct kicked in. I jumped from the car before Al could say another word and approached the state patrol car. I was pleasantly surprised to see a young, handsome trooper exit the vehicle. An experienced trooper would have been much harder to deceive. The fact that this one was handsome—well that just made my task more pleasant. Rather surprised to see a young woman in a bathing suit, the trooper inquired about our car.
“Oh, officer, I am so glad you came along. Our battery died and it will be a few minutes until we get going. We have been sitting here for a while, waiting on help. I am on the verge of heat stroke. Please, please, please,” I asked sweetly, “can I sit in your patrol car while they do their mechanic…thing?”
A little startled at my attire and request, the officer replied. “Well, ma’am, that is against regulations. But seeing you’re not feeling well, I can make an exception.”
He gallantly opened the passenger door for me. I settled into the seat, actually quite thankful for both the air conditioning and the opportunity to escape the lecherous gaze of the drunken brood. Winding the window halfway down, the officer shut the door and stood by the side of the car.
Since he looked as if he might venture towards Al and the brood of inebriated men, I engaged him in conversation. I hoped to keep his attention until the station wagon sputtered back to life.
“Thank you, officer. My father was taking me to a pool party at my aunt’s house when the car died. To tell the truth, I am a little frightened of the men who are helping my father.” I motioned toward the bar patrons hooking up the station wagon’s battery to a large pickup that had moved into place. “I am mortified at being caught on the road with almost nothing on. I really appreciate your saving me further embarrassment and making me feel safe.”