Tripping with Trevor

In the summer of 1995, I was looking down the barrel of federal grand theft auto charges for the second time in two years. I was riding the wave of a suspended sentence from the first charges because of my agreement with the judge that I would enlist in the United States Marine Corps after I graduated from high school. I wasn't alone either; my friend Wade sat by my side as my friend Trevor's dad, "Mr.Jacks," a high school special ed teacher, explained how he saw things go down earlier that summer. Unlike the first GTA charges in which I had knowingly participated in joyriding in a stolen vehicle in this situation, I was completely oblivious that I had broken any law. Because of my reputation of being a punk piece of shit, Mr. Jacks didn't believe what Wade and I knew to be true, the fact that we were innocent.

Shortly after graduating high school Wade, Trevor, and I were at the Lewiston golf course near the airport. We lay on the soft green of an unknown hole on the country club course in a circle while the two passed around a joint. I had quit smoking weed because I was waiting for a ship date to Marine Recruit Training. We all stared into the void of space which is essentially time. We talked about the future a little bit, and like every conversation most young men have, it turned to girls. Trevor, out of left field, which is largely where Trevor was, chasing ladybugs, asked if we remembered when he had gone to summer camp during the summer of Junior year. Having been ravenous stoners during senior year, Wade and I didn't even realize that Trevor went to summer camp at the end of Junior year. We had been arrested at the beginning of that summer for joyriding across state lines in a stolen car and had missed a federal case by the skin of our scrotums. Wade and I laughed because we had known Trevor since we were nine when he transferred to Parkway elementary school. Trevor wasn't a ladies' man, and looking back now, we should've been more skeptical when he talked about these girls that wanted to meet us.

Trevor told us how he had been talking to these chicks in Mesa, Washington, a place I had never heard of before. It sounded as foreign and as far away as New York City. Apparently, there were these chicks that he had been talking to for almost a year. He had told them about our stoner adventures during our last year in high school. Apparently, they were interested in hooking up with us.

"How old are they?" Wade asked. Wade was closer to Trevor than I was, and I was closer to Wade than Trevor was. Wade had been on more misguided adventures with Trevor than I had been on and knew the right questions to ask to avoid a possible calamity.

"They're juniors."

"On coming or out going?"

"Ok seniors."

"So seventeen, eighteen?"

Since all of us were eighteen, we had to make sure Trevor wasn't taking us to meet up with some inbound Sophomores, which I think was legal at the time, but since Wade and I were looking to the future, and our hopes and dreams were pinned on getting out of the valley, we had to make sure that we weren't going to break any major laws.

By Trevor's account, these chicks were apparently hot, not illegal, and really wanted to meet us. Red Flag number one! I had no idea where Mesa, Washington was, and Trevor said it was some small town just south of the Tri-Cities. I had never driven an hour outside my small town alone or with friends. I thought that the trip would take five hours to get there. Before that time, taking the thirty-minute trip to see my great-grandmother outside of town felt like a three-hour trip.

A few weeks passed, and I almost forgot about the trip proposal. I had my own shit to worry about. My paperwork to join the Marines was being held up because I had flat feet and needed waivers to get the ball rolling. I was also bouncing from one family member's couch to another. My future was starting to look a little dim. Then, Trevor called me and proposed the trip again. I told him I only had about forty bucks left from my graduation money. He told me not to worry. His dad said he could take the truck, and I would pay for gas and food on the way to Mesa.

"Well who will pay for it on the way back?"

"I spent my graduation money on a couple ounces of weed."

At that point, I should've cut him off and hung up the phone. But there was a possibility of strange pussy on the horizon of this misadventure. Strange new pussy from a different part of the state and the opportunity to blow out of town for a weekend.

"And???"

"Well they want to buy some weed off me so I'll be able to make about sixty bucks."

"Cool."

I didn't question Trevor. I should've. I knew better. But I didn't. Cool.

I called Wade right after talking with Trevor.

"Dude do you have any money because I got like forty bucks? Trevor said his dad was alright with us taking the truck if we pay for gas. He's telling me he spent all his money on weed and that we'll sell these chicks some weed to pay for the gas on the way back."

"Ya dude, I'm broke but Trevor's got weed and if we have weed we basically have money."

That was all the reasoning it took to move forward into the next stages of the road trip. The idea was that if we had weed we had money. The logical reasoning behind all of it is very simple and to the point. Weed = money. Problem solved.

The day of the big trip was upon us. Trevor picked up Wade and me and headed to the gas station to fill up and also pick up a case of beer for me since I wasn't smoking. I convinced a friend of mine, who was 21, to meet me at the gas station and buy me a 24-pack of Keystone Ice. My forty bucks turned into fifteen real quick since there was a buyers fee on the beer, and we needed some snacks for the trip.

At this point, I forgot to mention that the vehicle in question was a 1970-something Dodge Power Ram pickup truck with a four barrel carb. It was a great big orange beast with a large steel bumper on the front, a camper topper on the back, and about an inch of lateral play in the steering wheel. It had two gas tanks, and I put fifteen bucks in one of them. In 1995 that put around fifteen gallons in the truck and didn't come close to filling it up. There were many things that I didn't know then in history, and one of them is how far fifteen bucks worth of gas would get me in a Dodge Power Wagon from the seventies. I vaguely remember how long the trip was going to take. I can easily look it up on Google Maps and see that the trip is only about 137 miles through western Washington's farm country. Back then, though, I had no idea if the gas I had put in that beast would get us all the way there. So with ten dollars in my pocket, a case of beer, a couple ounces of weed, and our raging hormones, I pulled out of the gas station and headed west.

You might be asking yourselves, "Wait didn't you say at the beginning of this story that you had just dodged a federal grand theft auto charge and were trying to avoid going to jail?"

Yes, fair reader, I did say that, and as I recount this trip, I'm also in awe of the power of pussy. Truth be told, I was more worried about getting caught with the beer in the back of the truck than the weed – it wasn't my weed. As I pulled out of the gas station and headed west, the truck's tailgate dropped, and the duffle bag with the beer flew into the intersection of the busiest road in my little town. Thankfully, one of Clarkston's finest flipped on his lights and pulled out into the intersection.

To Be Continued