What’s the best way to describe speaking to authority figures, saying the most audacious things? And after saying these things, you find the authority figure laughing or chuckling under their breath. Making statements similar to these would get ordinary people in trouble. But not you. Wouldn’t you think twice about saying something like that again?

Yeah. Not me. Something inside me wants to tell the truth and be honest, no matter how ridiculous it sounds. Even if that something will get me in some kind of trouble.

                Dad instilled this honesty deep inside me from a young age. I don’t know if I ever lied to him before I was a preteen or teenager, but I’m convinced I skewed the truth a bit. No. I’m confident I lied, just not very often to his face. And not if I knew the trouble for lying would outweigh the risk of telling the truth. Weighing the consequences was a thing for me, even at six, seven, and eight.

               After my eighteenth birthday, all bets were off. I thought I knew it all. I was convinced I knew the right thing to do, even if it skirted or outright broke the law. I moved out shortly after I turned eighteen, not something I was anticipating. However, I knew if I broke the rules again, I would no longer be living with my family. So I broke the rules, waiting for our next phone bill, knowing that the charges would show that I blatantly ignored Dad’s ultimatum – no long-distance phone calls to California. James and Jon, my younger brothers, knew that I broke the rule. I did it when Mom and Dad were gone, begging James not to say anything. James was like me. Honesty with Dad and Mom was crucial to a good relationship. Jon, on the other hand, I wasn’t sure how he would react to it. He might protect me because I was his older brother. But he might not. I figured it was worth the risk.

                I moved out a few days later, but not before a hostile conversation with Dad that almost ended our eighteen-year relationship. I’m blessed that Mom stepped in, cooling us both down and convincing Dad that I needed a few more days. She was so angry and hurt, but she managed to keep everything in check, dealing with me appropriately. And it gave Dad a chance to cool down.

               I accepted the responsibility for breaking the rule, found a roommate to move in with, and a job at Sandy’s Camera, a shop in the Beaverton Mall. Yeah – if that doesn’t date me, I don’t know what would! We sold cameras and accessories and developed 35mm film through what they called a C-41 processor. I was hired as a salesperson, knowing zero about cameras or 35mm film other than what I learned from Dad through osmosis, which wasn’t a lot.

               I wasn’t good at my job. I was irresponsible, and I did, in fact, quit with zero notice. But I had a car, a legal driver’s license, and a couple hundred bucks in my pocket. So I did the most responsible thing I could do – I packed all my stuff into my car, a little Datsun 810 four-door with a 280 Z motor under the hood. It was a four-speed manual transmission, which meant it was fun and fast! I did feel a little bad about leaving my roommate in the lurch, but I couldn’t handle the messy kitchen and his friends. He had some emotional problems, I think. I saw multiple prescription bottles for various medicines in the kitchen. Some were full, other bottles almost empty. For those who remember Jim from Taxi, this dude reminded me of him. And at eighteen? I wasn’t about to hang around and find out if he would have a mental break.

                Gas tank full, the car full of all my personal possessions, I picked up a six-pack of Jolt cola and a couple of Snickers and said my goodbyes to Beaverton. I didn’t have any friends, but I did in California. At least I did. I didn’t know what would happen when I arrived in Dublin.

               Seriously I didn’t think this one through. Nothing about this drive made any sense, especially not looking back at it. Why go? I didn’t have a place to live. I had no job, and my only money was in my pocket. Was I going to live out of my car? I didn’t know and wasn’t thinking that far ahead. Adventure. That was in my head. And it was all that I cared about.

               I arrived in Dublin a little after midnight. With no plan, I cruised up and down San Ramon Road and Dublin Boulevard for a few hours, which meant that my car garnered the attention of the police. An unfamiliar brown Datsun driving around the empty streets of Dublin will get law enforcement to look a little closer at you and your car. And with an out-of-state plate on the vehicle? Yeah. Now they have a reason to pull you over.

               I’m not even thinking about it, getting more exhausted by the minute, making a right turn from San Ramon Road to Dublin Boulevard. And for those who grew up here, Bob’s Big Boy was on that corner, looking out my passenger side window. I think it’s a mattress store today.

               The lights, red and blue, come on behind me. I think I’m screwed. I’m also thinking, how dare they pull me over! What the heck did I do wrong? I didn’t fail to signal. I wasn’t speeding. I wasn’t violating a noise ordinance, at least not that I was aware of. And I had forgotten about the Washington plate on the back. Oops.

               This was the conversation between me and the officer, as I remember it. And if the officer reads this for some reason, he may corroborate my story’s accuracy! That would be cool, but it was thirty-four years ago, so what are the odds?

               Officer: Hi. I need to see your license, registration, and proof of insurance.

               Me: Yes, sir. (Hand him my license and the car’s current Washington registration).

               Officer: And your proof of insurance?

               Me: Oh, yeah. Sorry. Let me look for it (knowing I do not have it with me, I start rifling through the glovebox, pretending to search for it, panicking. Because I do not have insurance on the car). Sir, I can’t seem to find it. I must’ve left it back in my apartment in Beaverton.

               Officer: Where’s Beaverton?

               Me: Oregon. Just outside of Portland.

               Officer: Portland, Oregon? (Looking at my California license, a funny look crosses his face). But you have a California license.

               Me: Yes, sir. (I was taught to always be polite to anyone in authority, including the police.)

               Officer: And you have Washington plates on the vehicle.

               Me: Yes, sir.

               Officer: (Looking at the registration and my license) Doesn’t that sound a little strange to be the truth?

               Me: Doesn’t it seem a little too strange not to be?

               For a brief moment internally, I cringe. I think I’m dead. Then the unthinkable happens. The Dublin officer starts chuckling, looks up at me, and shakes his head.

“Yeah. It really does.” The cop looks at me and says, “Mr. Class, wait here.” A few minutes later, he hands me a citation, telling me that it’s one of those fix-it tickets – take it to court, show them the proof, and you walk out, no biggie. The officer also tells me that there is a lot of traffic in Dublin from Washington and Oregon, bringing drugs from the Pacific Northwest. Which is why he pulled me over. He thought I was carrying drugs. So I naturally put the ticket in the glove box and drove away.

               The bad part is I forget about the ticket, which catches up with me years later. But that’s another story for another day.