Before the 2300-mile drive to Michigan, I print out a letter to keep with me while I travel:
To Whom It May Concern,
If you’re reading this, you pulled me over for some sort of moving violation.
For the past 2 summers, I’ve driven to Jackson, MI from Oakland, CA to visit in-laws. My wife and son fly to Michigan. My dog accompanies me on these trips. He should be in the back. He’s big but he’s very gentle and friendly. If you like dogs, feel free to pet him. His name is Sam, and he’s a good boy.
After a week in Michigan, the whole family jumps in the van and travels to South Carolina to visit my mom. We stay for a week and then my wife flies home, and my son, Sam and I take I-40 home. It’s a lot of driving, but I like having Sam on vacation. That’s why I drive.
While circling the country the past 2 summers, I’ve been pulled over 4 times – twice on I-80 and twice on I-40. Oddly, I’ve never received a ticket. Not once.
After being pulled over a second time, I got the feeling I was being profiled: out of state plates, driving an older mini-van with a dented bumper and no backseats, and traveling with a large dog (for protection?). And, as you can see, I’m a little disheveled and homeless looking. So, I assume, you’re pulling me over for suspicion of transporting drugs. A drug runner, right?
I mean, I can see this, but, as you can see, my eyes are clear, albeit a little sleepy looking. The van is old and bruised but it once shined, transporting my kid from school to playdate to whatnot. It still runs well, so why get a new one? And the dog is a pet, not some viciously trained attack dog. Say hi.
If you must, search the vehicle. The last row of seats is missing to allow more room for Sam and me to rest at rest stops when I’m sleepy. Besides one suitcase and whole lot of dog hair, you’ll find some summer toys for swimming and whatnot. That’s it. I travel light.
If I were speeding, looking at my phone or driving like an ass, disregard the above and give me a ticket.
Sincerely,
Greg Kim
***
2 nights and 3 days of traveling is the goal. It sounds adventurous, but this is the way I travel – from point A to B as fast as possible. Since I have Sam and I can’t stop for a sit-down lunch or dinner, I eat very little and keep moving, sleeping for a few hours in a KOA or at a rest stop. The tent is the van, and the van is always hot, even with the windows down. This means little sleep.
30 minutes before sunrise, the first rays of light appear in the eastern sky. The night begins in Salt Lake City and ends here -- at the Wyoming/Nebraska boarder. I put on Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska and try to have a moment between music and geography. I’m not on the Garden State Parkway and there’s no factories billowing smoke, but mellow, haunting music is appropriate for sunrise. And it’s called Nebraska.
The light exposes a transition from arid, rocky plains of juniper and sagebrush to the lush rolling hills of the great prairie. When the welcome sign of Nebraska appears, it feels like the transition was immediate – rocks to prairie, like going from the garage to a warm living room.
The soft light ombre of yellows and oranges give way to bright, hot Midwestern sun. The mood is gone; I kill the music. It’s already hot and my face and eyes are dry. I’ve been traveling for 22 hours and I hope to make it to North Plate, Nebraska, 1343 miles from where I started. It’s a goal that comes with bragging rights.
I pull off the highway into a rest stop on the east side of North Platte. A sprinkling of cars dot the parking lot, most with their windows half-cracked. Most likely sleeping. I find a shaded bay, park and jump in the back with Sam. It’s hot, uncomfortably hot. An hour later I’m back on the road, air conditioning on full blast. Before leaving North Platte, I go through a McDonald’s drive-thru and get two English McMuffins – one for me and one for Sam. I give Sam the ham on my McMuffin. His eyes are saucers of delight.
Driving almost 24 hours straight is easy when you start from the comfort of your home and a good night sleep in your bed. Easy? Well, you know. When you sleep for an hour in the back of hot fan, seat locks from the removed bench seat jamming into your hips and a 120 pounds of Sam leaning against me as I try to sleep, every mile of road from the upcoming drive is a burden. No theme music or fantasizing about buying a corn farm in Iowa, just an internal math problem of how miles to go and what time I will get there. There is eastern Iowa, 520 miles away. Short compared to yesterday, but long and grueling if you’re driving on one hour of sleep.
Unlike the day before, where it felt like a road trip, full of optimism and discovery, today felt like I was driving with the parking brake on. No matter the music, no matter the beauty of the rolling hills, every mile was torture. I stopped constantly, drinking diet soda, stopping for McMuffins and taking catnaps with the driver’s seat back and the AC on. Windows up.
Temporary traffic signs warn of traffic from an event at the Iowa Raceway. It is 11 pm and I assume the race is over or starting tomorrow. I exit I-80 and get gas and some snacks before sleeping at the KOA on the other side of the Freeway. I get a bottle of water, cashews and peanut M&Ms. The clerk asks if I’m here for the race and I say yes. No need to tell the truth when you’re traveling.
The KOA is crowded and I don’t have a reservation. I arrive late and leave early so a reservation is not needed. Of all the times I’ve stayed at a KOA, I’ve never been awakened by a camp host knocking on my window.
I go to the bathroom and wash-up. Someone’s taking a shower. A shower would be nice but that requires a towel. Old, round speakers built into the ceiling plays Freebird by Lynyrd Skynyrd. It’s surreal. I take out my phone and take a 5 second video of the urinals, while Ronnie Van Zandt sings:
If I stayed here with you girl
Things just couldn't be the same
'Cause I'm as free as a bird now
And this bird you cannot change
I’ll post it on Instagram with some witty copy.
I take a cursory look at the camp map. It’s dark, very dark and I can’t see a thing. Sam and I get in the van and drive slowly through the camp, running lights on. I don’t want to draw attention. Most campers are asleep, wispy smoke from their extinguished campfires gently disappearing into the hot, wet night. I find a grassy area, roll down the windows and park.
Too hot to sleep, I stare at the ceiling and incessantly check the time. At 5:30 am I give up. The horizon is changing and first light is near. I ball up my sleeping bag and stuff it in front of the front seat. Before starting the van, I notice I’m parked in an open tent area. Tents are all around me. It feels like I drove up on someone’s lawn and spent the night.
On the way out, I stop by the bathroom to brush my teeth and let Sam out to go pee. No one’s up, so I let Sam off-leash.
Half expecting to hear Stairway to Heaven, I’m a bit disappointed with the DJ’s choice of Smoke on the Water by Deep Purple. The kitsch of last night’s Freebird was refreshing, but Smoke on the Water at 6 am in a KOA bathroom, on 4 hours of fitful sleep, was no fun. There would be no video or witty Instagram post. If I were a dick, I’d leave a negative Yelp review of the campsite: Camp’s ok but they have to stop playing classic rock in the bathrooms at 6 am. No one, and I mean no one, wants to Smoke on the Water at 6 am. 3 stars for being near the freeway.
At the exit of the camp, a large group is up and sitting around a campfire. It appears that they never went to sleep. A 70s El Camino and two large trucks are parked on grass, a race car on a trailer hitched to one of the trucks. As I approach, a thin, balding man in his early 50s runs to the El Camino and grabs a chequered flag from the bed and waves it as I pass, to the delight of his friends. I assume he will do this all morning. It’s a good joke, a good drunk joke. I toot the horn.
The in-laws house is 400 miles away. I should be there before 6 pm. 2 more McMuffins and we’re back on I-80. With 4 hours of kinda-sleep and the destination on the horizon, I’m optimistic and dreams of buying a farm return.
We cross the Mississippi into Illinois and I think of Jeff Buckley drowning in the Mississippi with his boots on. He literally died with his boots on, albeit wet boots.
K on the radio dial changes to W and we enter into the eastern half of the United States. The woodsy rest stops of California, and the concrete rest stops of Nebraska and Iowa are behind us, replaced by red bricks in Illinois. Each state tends to have their own rest stop architecture, a job no architect wants on their resume.
Sam and I stroll around at the first red brick rest stop, sitting on benches and looking for plaques that say something interesting about the area. I’m bored. 3 hours to go and I’m exhausted. We go back to the car, rollup the windows, put the AC on and take a quick nap.
Before leaving I go to the bathroom. I pee a lot, I know. Belly-up to the urinal, a man in his early 20s is next to me. I glance over, eye’s up. I have Cal plates and I don’t want some homophobe calling me out. He’s wearing a new, yellow Banned in DC Bad Brains t-shirt. It catches my eye. Should I acknowledge it – say something like “Bad Brains” and give him a thumb’s up. I could tell him about HR climbing red velvet curtains behind the stage when they played SF. I think he’d like that.
The internal battle of whether or not to say something raged. Ultimately, I stayed quiet. There was a 30-year age difference and no young person wants an old man talking to them about punk rock. (When I worked at a record store in high school, some cowboys were calling me fag, faggot, gay and, possibly, lesbian because they didn’t like the way I looked. I took it. After they eventually left, a man in a Vietnam army jacket approached me and said that in the 60s he was harassed for having an earring. I looked at him with a forced smile and thought, “Fuck off, Hippie.” I think of that anytime I want to tell a young person that I’m somebody…I used to be somebody.)
As we near Chicago, Audis, Mercedes and BMWs become more ubiquitous. Fords and Chevys still run the Midwest, but, with every passing generation, devotion to “American Made” wanes. And with foreign cars comes city traffic. It feels like home.
Past Joliet, Illinois, I-80 turns into a 4-lane highway, divided by a grassy median and “emergency vehicle only” turnouts every half mile. From experience, this is where cops park and wait for passing scofflaws.
This is where I was pulled over last year.
Traffic loosens and speed increases to 55 – 65 mph. I follow the speed of traffic in the slow lane and stay “two Mississippis” behind a semi-truck. A Crown Victoria with Michigan plates passes me, signals right and merges in front of me. I pull off the gas and idle until I’m a safe distance behind them. As this car-play is going on, we pass a cop who is parked on a turnout. As I pass, I monitor the sideview mirror to see if the car moves. It does. It pulls into the fast lane and accelerates, no lights. I watch, hoping it will fly by. The car jerks right and the lights go on. I pull over and remind myself not to be combative or do anything stupid. I’m on mile 2200 with 200 to go, and sitting in a Chicago jail for being mouthy is not preferable to seeing my family and sleeping in a bed.
I put the car in park and take off my seatbelt. Pushing my hips forward, my left hand grabs my wallet. I take out my ID and place it on the passenger’s seat, along with my wallet. I lean over and open the glove compartment, retrieving my insurance card, vehicle registration and I’m-not-a-drug-runner letter. I put them on top of my ID and return my hands to the steering wheel, 10 and 2.
I watch the cop through my sideview mirror. He slowly exits and walks toward my car, his gear heavy on his sides. It’s familiar. Even if you’ve never been pulled over, you know the scene from movies and TV.
“License, insurance and registration, please,” he says. His delivery rehearsed and automatic.
I nod and say nothing. I grab the letter on the front seat and fold it in half. I move it to my left hand and grab the requested documents and place them in the folded letter and hand it to him. He takes the documents out of the letter and hands it back to me, thinking it’s a makeshift envelope to hold the items. I hand it back to him and say, “No, it’s for you.” Game on.
He slowly reads the letter and I return to 10 and 2, anticipating his response. I want a positive response, like an affirmation from a teacher. Well Greg, that’s a very nice letter. Well written. It could use some editing, but it’s a good first draft.
I look up and my expression changes from frustration to resolve. My head pivots from front to side, my hands still 10 and 2. The space in-between us is long and unsettled. I have no idea how he’ll react. Will he think it’s funny? Will he blow it off and continue the dance of pulling me over for a moving violation?
He takes my information and returns to his vehicle to call it in, looking for warrants and more information. This always unnerves me, no matter what the situation. 32 years prior, I jumped bail in Chicago over a rioting charge. A stranger bailed me out (and a few others) and said we didn’t have to stick around for the court date, so we immediately left town. When I was stopped last year in Illinois, it didn’t show up, so I feel confident he won’t return with bad news and cuffs.
He walks back to my van, papers in hand. “You were following the car in front of you closely. That’s why I pulled you over.” Dick! No mention of the letter.
Before responding, I have an epiphany. My head stops pivoting and I look up at him, my mouth slightly agape and a slow smirk sweeps across my face. Any fear that I had is gone. My eyes are confident.
“I know you,” I exclaim, accenting every word. He stops, his left-hand falls to his side.
“Excuse me?”
“I know you. You pulled me over last summer in this exact spot.” I’m busting. I can’t believe this is the same cop. His body tenses and his face blank and pensive. I’m like a wind-up monkey wearing a fez and banging cymbals together. I can’t believe my good luck.
Not aware of our meeting last summer, he pauses. I can see him thinking. He read the letter and I assume his mind is working backwards to remember the interaction. I remind him.
“Last summer you pulled me over in this exact location. Do you remember Sam? The dog?” Sam is standing between the front seats, intrigued about this deviation.
“We talked a little and I said you looked like Shane from The Walking Dead.” This appealed to his vanity and he perked up. He was a good-looking guy – strong chin, olive skin and thick, dark hair. He did look a little like Shane.
“Um, you told me you live near the border of Wisconsin and Illinois, near your parents.”
He slowly nods as the memory returns, his muscles loosen, his face softens. He probably can’t remember the exact interaction but he knows what I’m saying is true.
“I do, I do,” he said excitingly, a smirk on his face. “That’s odd, I remember what you said about Shane. I don’t remember you but I remember parts of our conversation. When I got off work that day, I told some officers about it and they said I do resemble Shane.” He obviously liked the comparison. I had him.
What I didn’t mention was the drug running component of the story. When he pulled me over last summer, he asked me to get out of the car and sit in the frost passenger seat of his vehicle. He accompanied me to the car and sat in the driver’s seat. It was unnerving being in the front seat, computer screens and various electronics crowding the space. Why wasn’t I in the backseat?
“So, have you seen the TV show Cops?” It was the last thing I could imagine him saying. Why open with Cops?
I nod and say, “I’m more of a Dateline/America’s Most Wanted guy, but, yes, I’ve seen Cops.” A bit snarky but my confidence abounds.
“So, ultimately, they pull over someone and ask if they’re drugs or weapons in the vehicle, right?” He continues.
I nod again, knowing where he’s going. “So, do you have any drugs or weapons in the vehicle?”
I shrug and say, “No.”
“Do you consent for me to search your vehicle?”
I nod, dejected.
“Let me leash Sam before you search the vehicle,” I tell him. He agrees and I exit the vehicle and leash Sam, standing in a ditch while he searches. It’s very Cops.
The vehicle is basically empty except for one suitcase and lots of McMuffin wrappers. He opens the back hatchback, the pulsating rhythm and noise of passing cars adding to the tension.
I’m worried that he might plant drugs in my car. I watch intently, ready to yell, “I saw that!”
He closes the hatchback and walks toward me in the ditch.
“There’s a lot of dog hair in your car.”
“Yeah, he sheds a lot. Some people make sweaters out of their hair.” I don’t know why I said the latter. I was nervous, not as confident as before.
“Really?” He seems appalled at this thought.
There is no mention of this interaction, only his resemblance to Shane from The Walking Dead. That’s OK.
He stuffs my information back into the folded letter and hands it to me. It looks like there will be no search or ticket, this time.
“Slow down and keep your distance from the car in front of you, OK? Have a good day.” I’m a bit indignant that he’s still pushing the moving violation narrative. We both know it’s a lie.
One step toward his vehicle, he stops and slowly turns. A slight smile on his pretty face. “Nice try with the letter. Be safe.”
“You too, Shane. See ya next year.” He smiles and we have a human moment.
2 weeks later, Sam and I are traveling home on I-40, near Sallisaw, Oklahoma. My son decided to fly home at the last minute. We spend the night at a KOA, leaving early the next morning. Before getting on the freeway, we stop for gas at an independent gas station and convenience store.
I lean against the van, watching the numbers on the pump spin, clanking with every turn. Old, round speakers in the overhang– like the ones from the bathroom in Iowa – play a Catholic radio station. Trucks with 6 wheels come and go, off to do “man’s work.”
Flimsy plastic chairs line the front of the store. Most seats are occupied, occupants sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups and talking to each other. Inside, I buy a bottle of water. At the cash register, they’re fresh vegetables in a wicker basket with post-it note that says “Mary’s Farm.”
This gas station is like a café for this small, rural community. It’s a warm scene, even though the place is a wreck, inside and out.
I enter the freeway and I’m pulled over almost immediately. It’s 6:30am. Nothing bad should ever happen at this time of morning. The cop exits and slowly walks to my vehicle. He’s more Robo Cop and West Texas -- mirror shades and a straw cowboy hat -- than Shane and the community policing of urban areas. I hand over my documents and the I’m-not-a-drug-runner letter. The letter is a bit worn. And the dance begins again.
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