By Joe Class III

Picture this: It’s past midnight in Dublin, California. I’m eighteen years old, driving in circles like a lost tourist. Except I’m not—I’m basically homeless, living out of my four-door brown Datsun with a souped-up 280Z four-speed manual transmission. Terrible life choices, I know.

Less than two weeks earlier, I’d blown up my relationship with Dad over some long-distance phone calls to California, back when long-distance calls cost real money, kids; there was no such thing as unlimited calling. In a heartbeat, I quit my job at Sandy’s Camera with zero notice. And, in the same breath, I decided the most logical next step was to drive from Oregon to California. No plan. No place to live. And about two hundred bucks to my name. Brilliant, right?

So there I am, cruising San Ramon Road at 1 AM when those familiar red and blue lights start flashing behind me. Great. Just what my genius master plan needed!

The officer walks up, all business. “License, registration, and proof of insurance.”

I hand him my California license and my Washington registration. That’s when the performance of a lifetime starts, digging through my glove box for insurance papers I absolutely do not have. Because, of course, I don’t have insurance. I’m eighteen. I’m invincible, remember?

“Sorry, officer,” I lie. “I must’ve left it back in my apartment in Beaverton.”

“Where’s Beaverton?”

“Oregon. Just outside Portland.”

Now he’s looking at my paperwork like it’s written in hieroglyphics. “Portland, Oregon? But you have a California license.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Washington plates.”

“Yes, sir.”

He stares at me for a long moment. “Doesn’t that sound a little strange to be true?”

And here’s where my dad’s relentless honesty training kicked in. Instead of spinning some elaborate lie, I looked that officer dead in the eye and said, “Doesn’t it seem a little too strange not to be?”

For a split second, I thought I was about to get arrested, tased, or possibly adopted permanently by the state of California. Then the unthinkable happened—this Dublin police officer started chuckling. Actually laughter! He shook his head. “Yeah. It really does.”

Turns out, the truth really is stranger than fiction. And sometimes, when your story sounds so ridiculous that no sane person would make it up, honesty is your best defense. I walked away with a fix-it ticket and a valuable lesson: when you’re caught red-handed living your worst decisions, the truth might just set you free.

Or at least keep you out of jail at 1 AM in Dublin, California. It wouldn’t be the last time I’d tell the truth so ridiculous it sounded like a lie—and watch it save me from trouble.

Next time: How I explained to the judge who sentenced me for a 17-minute chase in Beaverton, Oregon, why my story was so outrageous it had to be true—and why he couldn’t stop laughing.

Ever taken a leap without a plan?
I’d love to hear your version of three states, one car, zero plan. Drop it in the comments—or share this with someone who’s been on a wild ride of their own. Sometimes the best stories start with no roadmap at all. Like, follow, and share for more!

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