Past Time

“You sure write about the past a lot,” a guy told me the other day. He said it as if he didn’t approve. I couldn’t argue with him; I do. I have much to tell.

A little over forty years ago, I and a couple friends hid a fugitive from the law. That may be exaggerating a bit – but the police were involved and we hid someone.  As was our habit in those summers, we had pitched a tent (large enough for twelve men or fifteen boys). We had our flashlights, blankets, pillows, sleeping bags, some junk food, a little bit of money and a warm summer evening ahead of us.

Jim lived on the other side of town from me, with Steve somewhere in the middle of us. Moms and station wagons made up the local transit system. My mother gave Steve and me a ride to Jim’s, and Steve’s mother would bring us home the next day. It was a good system, except we were without bikes, and it would be three or four years until we could drive, so if we wanted to go anywhere we had to walk.

Early in the evening we decided to walk uptown; they were handing out free food – cooked and barbequed right there on the sidewalk in front of the bars, offices and stores. There were a lot of people milling about the streets eating meat. Don’s Popcorn stand provided the side dishes of sno–cones and popcorn for under a dollar.

It was beginning to get dark, and we had agreed to be back in the tent before dark, so we wandered back to Jim’s. We had been in the tent for a couple hours laughing, telling stories, eating and drinking when the zipper on the tent went from the bottom to the top and a girl walked in; we weren’t scared, barely even startled. Our flashlights made it look like she was making a grand entrance at a movie premier.

We recognized her right away; she was a few years older than us – two of our brothers were her classmates. She lived nearby and had noticed the tent in the backyard as she was running by. Thinking that perhaps the older boys were camping out, she took a chance and walked into our tent. She told us she had run away from home after arguing with her dad, and that he would have the police out looking for her. 

It was rather exciting. We had an older girl in our tent, and she was wanted by the police. We asked her what she planned to do. She wasn’t going home, and she had no where else to go. Being young gentlemen in every sense of the word, we invited her to stay. 

We shared our food with her, gave her the extra blankets and a pillow. Jim, Steve and I climbed into our respective sleeping bags, and she curled up in a corner.

Sometime after midnight the police came. You could hear them outside and see their flashlights through the canvas. With no warning and no invitation, they walked into our tent with guns holstered and flashlights drawn. After a quick inspection they were gone. I don’t know how they mistook a sixteen–year girl for a twelve–year old boy. Even I knew the difference back then.

In the morning she walked home, and Steve and I got a ride home. Later in the day my folks had heard about the run–away girl and where she had found refuge. I was never questioned or lectured, but my older brother Dan got it with both barrels. I guess he was guilty by association. I caught just enough of the language to hear how it could have turned out differently with older boys.

We are past the point in time where this story would have a happy ending if it happened today. That’s why I write about the past.