by W.E. Turner
The flashing lights of the Sheriff's Patrol car make the pickup pull over to the shoulder of the road near the Sand Creek bridge. Patrol Sergeant Jerry Jump's boots crunch through the gravel as he approaches the driver's door; his left hand holds his flashlight, the right is ready to pull out his service revolver if any trouble starts. The pose is deeply ingrained, almost automatic, but he knows there won't be any trouble, this time.
Jerry switches on his flashlight and aims its beam up toward the headliner of the vehicle so its bright central spot won't blind the driver. What Jerry sees in the light confirms what his earlier glimpse of its driver told him as the pickup crossed in front of him at the junction. It's just a kid behind the wheel. The boy's head seems unusually small atop the shoulder pads of the football uniform he wears. The boy rolls down the truck's window.
"Can I see your driver's license and registration, please?" Jerry asks, still following procedure.
"Uh... I don't have a license, sir," the boy says. "I was just drivin' my dad home."
Jerry lowers his flashlight beam until it shines on the man in the passenger's seat. The man is leaning on the sidewall, his arms folded in front of his chest. He appears to be asleep.
Jerry turns his attention back to the boy behind the wheel. "Aren't you a little young to be drivin'?" he asks. "Just how old are you, son?"
"Thirteen," the boy says. "But I drive this truck lots o' times out on the farm. Like, when we're out feedin' cattle an' stuff."
Jerry nods. He remembered that he'd learned to drive in much the same way. He shines his light back over toward the man in the passenger seat. "How come he can't drive?"
The boy looks over at the man, then turns back to Jerry. "He's... uh.... He's had a little bit too much to drink, sir," the boy says. "I just figured it'd be safer if I drove."
"Designated driver, huh?" Jerry smiles. The smile fades quickly. "Just how far were you goin'?"
"Sunshine Lake turnoff. Then about a half mile north."
"What's your name, anyway, son?"
"Matthew Bonet."
"Really?" Jerry asks with another smile. "You Debbie Bonet's son?"
"Yes, Sir. You know 'er?"
Jerry shrugs. "She does my wife's hair. My daughter's, too, sometimes. I think you know my daughter, don't you? Sarah Jump?"
"Yes, Sir," Matthew says. "She's in my class."
Jerry shines his light on the sleeping man again. "Is he Al Bonet?" he asks.
"Yes, sir," Matthew says. "He's my dad."
So he fell off the wagon again, Jerry thinks, but he says nothing.
"Do you know my dad?" Matthew asks.
Jerry shrugs. "Kind of," he says. "He was a senior in high school when I was a sophomore. Knew his brother better. We were in the same class."
"Uncle Willie?" Matthew asks, smiling.
"Yeah," Jerry says. "Willie Bonet. What's he doin', these days?"
"He's a high school football coach down in Florida."
"Really?" Jerry shakes his head. "Well.... He was a hell of a receiver there at Florida State. Too bad he never made it with the Pros."
"Yes, Sir." Matthew looks back over at his father. "Sir," he says. "Can I get him on home, now."
"Well," Jerry says. "I'm really not supposed to let you drive without a license." He stops and shakes his head. "I need to give you a ticket, too. Now, I can make that just a warning,... But,... Well, why don't you come on back here to my patrol car and.... We'll work it out. Be sure to bring your truck's registration."
Matthew leans over and gets the registration out of the glovebox, then rolls up the pickup window, gets out and closes the door. He walks over to the patrol car with Jerry right behind him. Matthew's football cleats crunch the gravel on the shoulder of the road just like Jerry's boots do.
"You have a football game tonight?" Jerry asks after the two of them were seated in the patrol car."
"Yes, Sir," Matthew says. "It was the Pony League championship game."
"How'd you do?"
Matthew shrugs. "We lost. Seventeen-fourteen." He turns and looks out the patrol car's window. "We woulda won," he says, "but I threw an interception in the end zone on the last play of the game."
Jerry sighs. "Ahhhh.... That's too bad." He begins filling out the citation form.
"My dad says that's what started him drinkin' tonight. He said it reminded him of when he lost the last game of the season back when he was in high school."
Jerry stops writing. "When was this?" he asked. "I don't remember nothin' like that happenin'."
"I don't know, for certain," Matthew says. "But I think when him and Uncle Willie was both on the team."
Jerry considers. "Hmmmm. Musta been '67, '68.... Don't remember what happened, for sure, those years. Long time ago." He starts writing again.
Matthew looks out the window at the dark, wooded hills silhouetted against the starry autumn sky. "You know," he says. "You can't really blame my dad for him drinkin' so much. He got shot up pretty bad when he was in Vietnam."
Jerry stops and turns toward the boy. "Now, you can't blame your dad's drinkin' on that," he says. "Hell. Lotsa guys were in 'Nam. Lot of 'em got wounded. I did."
"You were wounded in Vietnam?"
"Sure was," Jerry says. He points. "Got some shrapnel in my shoulder, here, and got a napalm burn on my left hand. But that didn't turn me into no drunk." Jerry turns and looks at the boy straight on. "Now, it's my opinion that it ain't what's been done to a man that turns him into an alcoholic or a drug addict or a criminal or anything else. It's what a man's got inside 'im."
Jerry looks away from the boy and consciously unknits his eyebrows. "Hell. I got plenty o' reasons why I oughtta be a drunk. I'm a full-blooded Osage. I'm a Vietnam veteran. And I'm poor." He turns back toward Matthew. "You know what 'Head Rights' are?" he asks.
"Yeah. It's kinda like shares. Shares in the oil the Osage Nation has on their land."
"That's right," Jerry says. "Every Osage family got awarded Head Rights back when they discovered oil on our land. But my great-grandfather done sold our family's Head Rights back in the '20s for a couple o' horses. Traded 'em to some white man who was takin' advantage of some stupid Indian who didn't have no concept of what money was or what it was for. But did that make me bitter? Did that turn me into a drunk? No, it didn't. And I'll tell you why it didn't. 'Cause I didn't let it."
Jerry stops speaking, knowing full well he's preaching to the boy. He finishes filling out he warning ticket, then tears it off his pad and hands it to Matthew.
"Now, that's just a warning, Matthew," Jerry says. "It don't mean you're in any trouble, or nothin'. It just means for you not to do it again. If anything like this ever comes along again, call Debbie.... Call your mother. Or call me. One of us. We'll come get ya and drive you home. But don't you be drivin' that truck on the road no more. Not until you're sixteen and got your license, anyway. Got that?"
"Yes, sir," Matthew says. "Uh.... Is it all right if I drive the pickup on home?" he asks.
Jerrry sighes. "Yeah," he says. "But I'll be right behind you all the way. Got that? No speedin'. No goofin' off. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," Matthew says. He opens the door and gets out of the patrol car. "And sir?" Matthew says, sticking his head back in through the door. "Tell Sarah 'hi' for me, will you?"
Jerry smiles. "Sure will," he says. Jerry watches as the young man walks back to the pickup and gets inside. Jerry reaches over to the glove box of his cruiser and pulls out the pint of whiskey. He unscrews the cap and takes a drink.
Al stirs a little when Matthew gets back into the pickup. The air in the cab has cooled down a bit since Matthew got out. Al huddles in the corner of the seat, pulling his jacket tighter around him.
As the boy starts the pickup he hears Al ask, "You in any trouble, Matthew?"
"No," the boy says. "Just a warning."
"Good."
The man is silent for a long time as Matthew pulls out onto the highway. The boy watches the headlights of the patrol car as it pulls out behind him.
"Matthew?" Al says.
"Yeah, Dad?"
"Thank you, son."
Matthew breathes in and out several times before he says anything else. "It's OK, Dad," he says at last. "Everything's gonna be all right."
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