-3-
As Sam Hill rummaged in the fireworks truck, PJ Myrmidon rumbled toward Sumas through the tranquil Washington woods in his snorting, olive green ’69 Camaro. He wiped grime off of the inside of his windshield and spotted a sign that read:
Sumas Washington – 10 Miles
Canada – 11 Miles
Ten more minutes of freedom, he thought. After three days on the road, he was almost at the end of his trip. He fed the growling Camaro more gas, tapped the steering wheel, and whipped his long hair to a thumping song by the group Slug Bait. Other rock band stickers littered his bumper—Social Disease, Shelf Life, The Wags—and his California license plate rattled in its frame. Fast food wrappers and soda cans were stacked shin-high on the floorboards. PJ reached down into the pile and fished out a half-eaten burger. It was soggy, mushed, and a couple days old. “Sweet!” PJ grinned, and he raised it to his mouth.
Ten miles later, PJ roared into Sumas. It was evening, the sun was dipping behind the fir trees, and not a single business was open. It wasn’t even dark yet, but humans were nowhere to be seen. An old dog slumped in a doorway of one of the little shops, but it lay so still that PJ wasn’t sure it was alive. The entire tiny town seemed dead, especially for a kid from L.A.
Just then, flashing blue and red lights appeared behind him. PJ groaned and eased off the gas. His tires crunched gravel on the side of the road and he coasted to a stop, cranking the Camaro’s old broken handle to lower his window. The rich, green smell of farms and forest flooded into the car, and PJ could hear birds chirping at each other as though having a friendly argument.
The police officer approached, glanced at his license plate, and leaned down beside the car to frown in at him through the window. “Going a little fast there weren’t you, son?”
“Sorry,” PJ said lamely.
“And what on earth are you doing driving all the way up here from California by yourself?”
“What?” PJ shrugged. “I’m seventeen.”
“Exactly my point. You’re only seventeen.”
“Driving isn’t a crime. I got my license now. See?” PJ held out his license.
The officer took it and examined the photo. “Having a license is a privilege. Don’t abuse it by speeding in my town, Percy.”
PJ winced. “I go by PJ now.”
“Well, you’re late, PJ.”
“Only by a day.”
“Just meet me over at the station, son. And drive slow, eh?”
“Yes officer,” PJ said, rolling his eyes. “And hey, can I have my license back…Dad?”
Officer Myrmidon handed the license back to his son, turned away, and strode to the police cruiser. PJ put the Camaro in gear and followed the patrol car down the road to Sumas’s modest police station. The cruiser rolled behind the small, official looking building, while PJ and the Camaro rattled to a stop out front.
PJ shook his head. His father had never left the small town where he had gotten his first job as a volunteer police officer over twenty years earlier. PJ was used to leaving, though. He and his mother had left this town for California when he was a boy, and after he’d turned sixteen and gotten his license he began to leave his mom’s house whenever he felt like it too.
He climbed out, stretching his stiff limbs. A small, wooden sign that rose from the lawn in front of him read:
Commitment, Security, Responsibility
H. Myrmidon
Officer in Residence
PJ looked down at his t-shirt, which had an anarchy symbol emblazoned on the front. “Maybe I’m adopted,” he muttered, and he headed up the walk, wondering vaguely who the little freckle-faced kid was he’d seen sitting in the back of his dad’s patrol car.
– End Chapter Three –
