The Driving Lesson

by Ben Rehder

“Why?”

  “We’re the biggest story in the news right now. They have to be real careful how they handle this. Whatever they do, it will be all over CNN in an hour.”

  CNN. Of course. Why hadn’t that occurred to me?

  “Opa, I bought another cell phone in Salt Lake City. It’s in the glove compartment. My wallet’s in there too, and in my wallet is that producer’s phone number.”

  She’d given me her cell number at the end of our interview the day before. She told me to call her anytime, day or night. I glanced over for a second and saw that Opa was grinning at me. He knew exactly what I was thinking. He grabbed the cell phone, opened my wallet, then dialed the number. It seemed to take an awfully long time for the call to go through.

  Then, finally, Opa said, “Eileen, this is Henry Dunbar...Yes...Uh huh...No, he’s driving. Listen, an Oregon state trooper is following us right now and...About an hour outside Portland...Oregon...No, we’re heading that way...On State Highway 26 right now...Yes, I’m sure they do, because of our license plate...No, we haven’t, and we don’t intend to. We plan to keep driving all the way to Seattle. I’m just letting you know, because, well, it’s news, and it wouldn’t bother me one bit if you decided to mention this on the air...No, they haven’t, and I’m — ”

  “Pull your car to the shoulder!”

  Opa continued. “Yeah, you could hear him, huh?...No, we’re not running, we’re just driving along, nice and slow. Forty miles an hour. But the bottom line is that we haven’t done anything wrong, and as far as I know, there isn’t a warrant for my arrest, so we have no plans to stop. We want to finish what we started. We see no reason why they shouldn’t just leave us alone...That’s nice of you to ask. I feel very good right now. But mostly I’m proud of Charlie and I wouldn’t change a thing about what we’ve done in the past four days....Okay...Yes, that’s fine with me. Thank you very much.”

  He closed the phone.

  “What’d she say?”

  “That this will run as a breaking story within a few minutes.”

  Which was exactly what we were hoping. We wanted the eyes of the world to be focused on the Oregon state trooper behind us. Quickly.

  Now we were passing through a tiny town called Rhododendron, which even had a Dairy Queen. I guess those are everywhere. A couple of customers standing outside turned and stared as we passed by. The road had opened up to four lanes again, but the trooper stayed right where he was.

  Opa opened the phone again and punched in three numbers. It was easy to deduce that those three numbers were 911.

  Three seconds later, he said, “My name is Henry Dunbar. My grandson and I...No, just listen. My grandson and I are driving through Mt. Hood National Forest with a trooper behind us. I suggest that you tune in to CNN before that trooper takes any further action.”

  He snapped the phone shut with a laugh. “Whoever that guy was, he wasn’t very happy.”

  We left Rhododendron and the road went back to two lanes. Nothing happened for several miles. We just kept driving, and the trooper kept following, lights flashing, and he would occasionally tell us to pull over. When we’d come up behind other vehicles, the drivers would pull to the shoulder after a few minutes, when they saw what was going on behind them. We passed through a community called Zigzag, and another one called Mt. Hood Village, where the road went to four lanes and stayed that way, and then I saw the worst thing possible.

  Another state trooper was waiting on the right side of the highway.

  Before we reached him, he pulled onto the pavement in front of us and accelerated up to speed. This was not good. Now they had us boxed in. For the moment, the trooper in the lead was maintaining a steady forty miles per hour. But how long before he began to slow down, forcing us to either stop or attempt to go around him?

  After ten or fifteen more minutes like this, the trees began to thin and I knew we were about to emerge on the west side of the forest. Portland wouldn’t be long after that. The trooper behind us was yakking into his microphone; I could see him back there. Then he got on his loudspeaker one more time and told us to pull over. We didn’t, of course, and that’s when the troopers decided to make their move. Nothing dramatic. The trooper in front simply began to go slower and slower. He wasn’t hitting the brakes, but he wasn’t giving it any gas, either.

  “Should I go around him?” I asked Opa. We were going thirty miles per hour.

  “No, Bud. That’s taking it too far.”

  He was right. Refusing to stop was one thing, but attempting to evade the troopers was something else entirely.

  Now we were going twenty-five.

  The cell phone rang. Opa still had it in his hand. “Hello?”

  It had to be Eileen. Opa was listening intently.

  We were going twenty miles per hour. Our Honda was sandwiched between the two troopers’ cars.

  “How soon?” Opa asked.

  The trooper behind us couldn’t have been more than ten feet from our bumper.

  Opa leaned forward and looked toward the sky. “Not yet.”

  The troopers weren’t attempting to guide me off the side of the road; we were simply going slower and slower in the far right-hand lane.

  “There are two of them now,” Opa said, “and they are bringing us to a stop.”

  Ten miles per hour. Just rolling.

  “That’s a good idea,” Opa said. “I’ll do that.”

  Five miles per hour.

  Four.

  Three.

  And the trooper in front — now just a few feet from our grille — hit the brakes. So did I. All three vehicles came to a stop. Very slowly, the trooper in front backed his cruiser up until his bumper kissed ours. The trooper behind did the same thing. Now the Honda was locked in tight. After more than twenty-three hundred miles, our long journey from Abilene had come to an end.

  Opa placed the phone, still open, on the dashboard.

  “What was she saying?” I asked.

  “Hold on.” He was still looking skyward.

  I heard it before I saw it, probably because of all the tall trees in the area.

  Thump-thump-thump-thump...

  And suddenly it appeared. A news helicopter. Hovering so low in front of us that I could see the face of the cameraman in the passenger’s seat. I was so distracted by it, I didn’t see the trooper at my door until he rapped on the window. He wore a light-blue shirt and a dark-blue tie, plus a wide, flat-brimmed hat that looked sort of military, like the ones the Canadian Mounties wear. His leather belt sagged under the weight of the big gun on his right hip.

  “What should I do?” I asked Opa.

  “Lower your window a couple of inches.”

  So I did.

  The trooper, who actually looked like a nice enough guy, about my dad’s age, said, “Please turn off your engine.”

  I did.

  “Are both of you doing okay?” he asked.

  “We are,” Opa answered.

  “Do either of you need medical attention?”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “May I see some identification, please?” This was directed at me.

  “I, uh — ”

  “He doesn’t have an ID yet,” Opa said.

  The trooper didn’t look surprised. “What’s your full name?”

  I said, “Charles Philip Dunbar.”

  Now he looked at Opa. “May I see your identification, sir?”

  Opa looked like he was about to say something — probably going to refuse the trooper’s request — but then he changed his mind. He opened his wallet, removed his driver’s license, and passed it to me. I slipped it to the trooper through the opening at the top of the window. He studied it briefly, then said, “Okay, I’m going to ask both of you to step out of the vehicle.”

  Opa said, “No disrespect, Officer, but we’re going to stay where we are. We’d like to continue on our way.”

  The helicopter was still buzzing around up there, trying to get the best possible angle to record
the scene. Now it was hovering over the trooper’s left shoulder. I couldn’t help it. I smiled and waved.

  The trooper — his last name was Reeves, according to the little nametag on his uniform — said, “Sir, if you’ll both exit the vehicle, we’ll get this sorted out.” Reeves didn’t sound angry or impatient — just calm and polite, really. I noticed that his eyes were wandering over the interior of the car, including the backseat. I’m sure the troopers are trained to do that, so they’ll know what they are dealing with.

  “Thanks, but we’ll stay in the car,” Opa said.

  The trooper didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then he nodded and stepped away from the Honda. But he didn’t go back to his cruiser. Instead, he walked just out of earshot and spoke into the microphone that was attached to his shirt, just below his left shoulder. I could see in the outside mirror that the other trooper was standing near the bumper of our car. Just standing there, watching.

  There was nothing for us to do but wait, so we did. The helicopter seemed louder than before, so I looked up and saw that there were now two of them. I was amazed that they had gotten here so fast.

  Opa said, “Here comes another one.”

  But he wasn’t talking about helicopters, he was talking about troopers. Another cruiser was approaching from the west, and it pulled to the opposite shoulder and parked. The trooper, a tall, slender, dark-haired woman, got out and joined the trooper standing behind the Honda. I could see them talking back there.

  This was getting silly. All of this attention and manpower for us. It was a waste. After about ten minutes, Reeves returned to the window.

  “Looks like we could be here awhile,” he said. “Either of you need something to drink?”

  “No, we’re fine, but thank you,” Opa said. “What do you mean we could be here awhile? What’s going on?”

  “Sir, this is an unusual situation. I’m waiting to hear back from my superiors.”

  “What exactly are we waiting on?”

  “I believe my boss is speaking to the state attorney general.”

  “About what?”

  “I can’t get any more specific than that.”

  “You can’t just hold us here like this,” Opa said.

  “I’m afraid I can. I would appreciate your patience. Hang tight, please.”

  He left again, but he wasn’t gone as long this time. When he came back, his eyes went to the cell phone resting on the dashboard. “Sir, I’m going to ask you to close that cell phone.”

  I hadn’t picked up on it before, but now I realized that Eileen, the producer, was still on the other end, and that probably meant our conversation was being broadcast live on CNN. Somebody had informed Trooper Reeves of that fact.

  Opa said, “I prefer to leave it open.”

  Reeves didn’t take it personally. He nodded again — man, he had the perfect poker face! — and then he left us alone for the third time. This episode lasted about twenty minutes, during which time another trooper arrived, and, believe it or not, a third helicopter appeared on the horizon. It was like the cruisers and the helicopters were in a competition to outnumber each other. I realized that I hadn’t seen another car — a civilian vehicle — in quite some time, and I wondered if there were yet more troopers stopping traffic a mile or two away in each direction.

  Reeves finally came back. “Won’t be long now,” he said, as if we were all working together on some big plan to get this mess cleared up. He really did seem like a decent guy. He remained near the window.

  “Where were you?” I asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “I never saw you until you were coming up behind us.”

  “Oh, I was working traffic detail — running radar — on the other side of Government Camp. When I saw a green Honda Civic go past with Texas plates...” He didn’t need to finish.

  “It must be a pretty good hiding spot,” I said.

  “Yeah, it’s tucked back in the trees. I’ve been using it for a long time.”

  There was a short pause.

  “How long have you been a trooper?” Opa asked.

  “Nineteen years.”

  We were obviously just making small talk to fill the time, but I didn’t know what else to say or ask. That didn’t matter, though, because right then the portable radio on Reeves’s belt squawked. I didn’t understand the garbled voice that came out, but Reeves seemed to have no trouble with it at all. He held up a finger toward us in a “give me a minute” gesture and stepped away from the Honda yet again. It had been nearly an hour since Reeves first pulled us over.

  “What do you think’s going on, Opa?”

  He took the cell phone off the dashboard and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “I have no idea.”

  “If they were gonna arrest us or something, you’d think they’d have done it already.”

  “I agree. But I don’t think — ”

  He stopped talking, because Reeves was coming back. The trooper leaned in close to the window again. I never would have guessed what he was about to say.

  “Okay, gentlemen, I appreciate your patience. Here’s how we’d like to proceed. We will continue on Highway 26 into Portland until we hit Interstate 205. We will stay on 205 until it crosses the river, at which point Washington state troopers will take over and my troopers will — ”

  Opa couldn’t help but interrupt. “Hold on a sec.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The route we’re going to take.”

  Now Opa snapped the cell phone shut. Goodbye, Eileen. Then he looked at Reeves and said, “Are you telling me that we’re going to get a police escort into Seattle?”

  Reeves pushed his hat back further on his head and smiled for the first time. “Sir, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  The rest of our trip was like something out of a movie. Not some little independent movie, but a big, flashy summer blockbuster. Someday, when I tell my kids about it — and you can bet I will — they’ll think I’m exaggerating or just flat-out making it up. Luckily, it’s all on YouTube.

  We started out with one trooper leading the way and two trailing behind us. And the helicopters followed, of course. Three of them. Later it was four, and then five, or maybe it was six. It was hard to keep track.

  Opa turned the radio on — to the AM band, because those stations were more likely to carry news — and we were amazed at what we heard. We were the subject of conversation on every single station on the dial, except for one that was playing a Toby Keith song.

  Other drivers began to pull up next to us in the left-hand lane so they could wave and give us the thumbs-up sign. Some took photos. Some of them lingered too long, and the troopers decided to put a stop to it. The two cruisers behind us started riding side by side, preventing any traffic from passing us. Opa called it a “rolling roadblock.” He said the troopers back home used to do that before the big football game between Texas and Oklahoma in the Cotton Bowl. Troopers would ride side by side on Interstate 35 all the way from Austin to Dallas to prevent fans from speeding.

  As we rolled through small towns like Woodland, Castle Rock, Napavine, and Fords Prairie, city police cars were parked in the middle of each lighted intersection, holding up traffic so our procession wouldn’t have to stop. It was like we were part of a parade.

  By the time we reached the outskirts of Tacoma, south of Seattle, we began to see an occasional car pulled to the side of the highway, with the driver and maybe a passenger or two waiting for us to pass by so they could cheer us on. Some of them held up homemade signs with words of support and encouragement.

  GO CHARLIE AND HENRY!

  WELCOME TO WASHINGTON!

  IT’S HENRY’S CHOICE

  As we got closer to the Seattle city limits, there were more and more people, more signs, news vans with cameramen standing on top for a better view, helicopters circling like mosquitoes, and police officers parked every quarter-mile or so to keep everything und
er control.

  Opa and I hadn’t spoken in several miles; we were too busy absorbing everything we were seeing. It was nothing short of a spectacle. Now Opa said, “This is...this...”

  The cell phone rang. I had forgotten that Reeves had asked for the number. Opa answered, and I could tell from the conversation that the caller — someone from the Washington state police — needed to know where exactly we wanted to go in Seattle. Opa pulled a piece of paper from his wallet and gave the caller an address.

  The doctor’s office.

  The police stopped traffic on each end of the block. We passed between two cruisers on the south end and our situation changed immediately. Suddenly, we were all alone. It was sort of freaky because it happened so quickly. Now it was just me and Opa and an empty street. No cops, no well-wishers, not even any news helicopters circling above us. I guess they’d decided to give us some privacy.

  “Thirteen oh four,” Opa said, repeating the address. We had no trouble finding it. It was a small stone home that the doctor had converted into an office. I pulled into the driveway and parked.

  Finally. The end of the road. We simply sat there for awhile and listened to the ticking of the engine as it cooled.

  Opa looked at me and tried to make it a light moment. “Thanks for the ride, Bud.” Making it sound like I’d given him a lift across town.

  “No problem.”

  “You drive better than most adults.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And you’re a good traveling companion.”

  “So are you.”

  A curtain moved in one of the house’s windows, and a woman peered out for a moment. Then she let the curtain fall. I’m sure she’d been following our progress on the news.

  Opa said, “We’ll go inside in a minute. Together. I think you should meet her. Unless you don’t want to.”

  “I want to meet her.”

  Opa nodded. “I’m glad.” Then he said, “Today’s not the day, you know. Not yet. We still have some time together.”

  I’d been doing pretty well up until then. Keeping it under control. Not getting all emotional. But now I was beginning to lose it. Slowly. My bottom lip quivering. Tears forming. Then Opa leaning over to put an arm around my shoulders.