Why I should get a key to the city.

*originally posted on myspace on 9/16/2008*

DISCLAIMER: The following story is 100% true, with no fabrications. All names, dates, and racial comments that follow are strictly following accordance with the event.

Walking out of Daylis Stadium the other night, with Taylor Russiff, I was feeling pretty good. Sure, our football team had just lost a nailbiter that called for the head of our head coach, but they stood toe-to-toe with the 2nd best team in the state, which is pretty impressive. It wasn’t cold out, but it certainly wasn’t warm. Almost at our cars, we stopped to talk to two acquaintances who told us they had “drank a billion Tilts in a minute.” Seeing these two girls clearly intoxicated was an opportunity for us two guys. They entertained us, you sicko. We’re not into date rape (as you’ll see later). After joking around with them for a while, we made sure they could drive safe enough to get home and left. Thinking back on it, it’s interesting. We never would’ve talked to those girls if they weren’t drunk. Instead we may have exchanged a wave or one of those smile-grimaces strangers give to each other in passing. The plan was to head to Brittany’s house after the game and chill for a little while. We take the standard route back from Daylis: 4th Avenue North, past First Interstate, George Henry’s, the Lincoln Center, etc.
My 1996 purple Toyota Camry is not exactly build for speed. It’s more of a comfort car, and it was joke to pretend to race some girls in the lane next to us. Let me diagram it for you:

|   |         |      |
|   |         |      |
|   |         |      |
| ? | girls | us |

We lead after the light, the girls getting cut off by this white chevy truck, who snuck into the center lane. After a couple seconds, the truck decides it should be in the far right lane, and no pussy purple car is going to stop it. It merges—INTO ME—in the far right lane, banging into the back right of my car, just past the gas tank. I pull over to exchange information, but no. As Taylor quickly informs me, he just drove off, hit and run style. Taylor yells to follow him, and let me pause in the story to tell you just how valuable Taylor was here.

If he hadn’t been in the car with me, I would’ve sat and waiting in that parking lot for the guy to come back for probably fifteen minutes before getting pissed off and going home. Not joking. He saved my family some good car repair money. Thanks dude.

So I pull out to follow him. The streets are pretty empty now, except ahead of us. I run two red lights (nearly causing me to poop myself out of fear that we’re going to get hit again) to catch up to the culprit. Finally, by the time we get to the Metra, we’re right behind him. I’m on the phone with 911 Emergency Dispatch explaining to them what happened, giving them the truck’s license plate number, describing the car, etc. The truck turns right at the Metra, and then left at the light, crossing the Yellowstone and heading toward Lockwood. I explain to Dispatch that I can’t assess the damages on my car because I haven’t even gotten out of my car to see them. At the gas stations up near the exits to the Interstates, the truck weaves in and out of pumps, never parking. We follow at a safe distance–Taylor and I share the fear that it’s two oversized rednecks with baseball bats and Gats.

The truck takes a few back roads, still driving around the gas stations. We’re a little confused. Are they trying to lose us? Afraid to park themselves? What’s going on? Without ever stopping, the truck finally gets back on the road, taking a left toward I-90 and Hardin. In following them, I cut off an elderly couple. He mistakes my furious gesturings of apologies for rage. It’s hard to convey “I’m-following-a-white-truck-that-crashed-into-my-car-and-drove-off-and-may-or-may-not-be-driven-by-drunk-hicks” in sign language.

At this point, I notice a car is following me. Assuming it’s the elderly man, ready to put my generation back in it’s place, I drive just a little bit faster. Once on the interstate though, the truck is done playing. Using it’s horsepower, it just demolishes me on the open road. Going 90 in a 65 is something that my car just can’t do. I start to lose him. Still of the phone with Dispatch I ask them what’s taking so long. He says that because the truck is weaving from Billings to Lockwood to the Highway/Interstate/Whatever that it’s proving difficult to nail down whose jurisdiction he’s in. The car behind me is starting to worry me a little.

About five minutes later, a car just flies past me like I’m standing still. If I’m going 80, this car’s gotta be doing close to 120. Thank God it’s a cop. He signals the truck over, and I half-expect a shoot-out. I tell Starsky I’m scared.

The cop pulls the truck over, and we do the same about a quartermile back. The car behind us pulls over about a quartermile behind us. It’s hard to get a good view of the action from my car, behind the cop. Taylor and I get out of my car to finally see the damage. It’s not as bad as I thought, more of a paint swap really. No dents, just no purple where there use to be purple. Three figures approach us from the car behind me. I had a half-fleeting thought that old people are really short when I see that it’s three girls our age.

No way.

The girls followed us from when I got hit. Having a perfect view of the crash from right behind the truck in the middle lane, they called Dispatch. And followed us all the way to the Interstate. Just when I think the situation can’t get more surreal, I hear:

Girl1: What’s your name?
Me: Matt.
Girl1: Matt Walks?
Me: *nervous* Yeah, why?
Girl1: I went to summer camp with you! Ryla, remember? I’m Misty.
Me: Misty, Misty, Misty. Sorry, not ringing any bells. That’s crazy though!
Girl1: I know, right?

Whoa. Misty goes to Roundup and went to the game (Between Skyview and Helena) for fun. I guess there really isn’t anything to do in Roundup. They pile into the backseat of my car, and we watch the proceedings. The officer comes to my car a few times, and gets my information, statements, etc. Another pause in the story.

In crisis mode, I’m not worthless but I’m certainly no hero. I usually resort to jokes to lighten the mood.

Officer (to Taylor): How old are you?
Taylor: 17.
Me: I’m 17 too.
Taylor: He had your license, he knows how old you are.
Me: *laughing* Oh yeah. You had my license. I mean, you’re no detective…*I pause for effect* oh wait! You are!
Taylor: Wow.
Officer: Yeah.

The girls smell a little like smoke and booze and that makes Taylor and I nervous. I suggest they get out; they laugh. Then Girl2, who I’m going to rename HornyGirl starts talking. Some of her quotes for the night:

“He is soooo hot!” (about the officer)
“He can arrest me right now.”
“I can’t see a wedding ring.”

Me: It’s just the uniform. If he were homeless you wouldn’t look twice.
HornyGirl: He wouldn’t be homeless for long.
Misty: You have a boyfriend!
HornyGirl: He doesn’t look like him!

and possibly the scariest…

Friend She’s Talking To On The Phone: What kind of guys are you with?
Me: Don’t worry, we aren’t going to date rape you guys.
HornyGirl: Damn it, I was hoping for some action tonight.

Taylor and I didn’t have a clue what to think. Are all Roundup girls a little skanky or was this just a coincidence? With HornyGirl going on about Officer Gorgeous and Misty and I reliving Ryla, Taylor is forced to talk to Girl3. She seems pretty vapid. I was secretly hoping the cop would hurry up. And then we saw him. The driver of the white truck (which at this point might have been a white Bronco) stumbles in a straight line towards the cop car, in handcuffs. The girls had mentioned they saw the driver was a girl, but they were wrong. It was Drunk Indian Car Krasher, henceforth known as a DICK, heading towards the Rez, AKA his Embassy. This particular dick has a long ponytail and, well, boobs. It was easy to forgive the mistake in gender. I overheard the officer telling him that it was a “cat-and-mouse game” and that they already “filed another warrant” for him. That’s where all concern for my car was gone and I felt like a badass. Taylor and I agree that we should get medals, or a key to the city, or something. We settle on Wendy’s because by this time it’s almost midnight and our tummy’s are hungry for food because justice isn’t filling (we left Daylis at 10:00). The girls leave after I had Girl3 call Samm Fisher to validate our story.

The rest of the story is pretty uneventful. Wendy’s was good. The girls went home. The DICK was hopefully put in the drunk tank, and I was back by curfew. All in a day’s work for Taylor and I. We just regretted not having a nearby White Castle.



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