You Can’t Be Serious 

 

“We are going to jail. We are going to jail,” says Arturo as their jeep is flooded by red and blue flashing lights. A jeep pulls to the side of a dark country road, carrying a gang of three of the dumbest criminals alive. Marcus, the driver, peers out his side window, obeying the siren. 

Duncan, the backseat passenger, wakes up startled. The jeep pulls onto a rocky curve while other cars speed by. Duncan spots the red and blue lights flashing in the distance. A State Police cruiser follows their lead and parks a short distance away with its high beams blasting through the glass. 

Duncan reaches into his pockets and pulls out a surplus of marijuana, a Ziploc bag of cocaine, and a few foil wrappers of Percocet. Arturo and Marcus follow his lead and add to the literal mountain of evidence with their own handfuls of drugs. They stare at their mountain of jail time and a long-prolonged sigh falls over the jeep. 

“Marcus are we going to jail?” asks Arturo.  

Marcus repeatedly punches the steering wheel and shakes his head. 

“No, Arturo. We’re going to prison, two very different things,” he says. 

“Arturo. Marcus. Where are we?” Duncan asks.  

Arturo stops talking. His eyes well with tears. He gathers as much of the contraband together in one enormous pile and stuffs it under a pile of empty beer cans on the floor. 

“Who wants to bet the DUI is what he notices first?” asks Duncan.  

“My money is on the colored angle,” Marcus says, rubbing his trembling hands through his hair. 

Duncan asks, “Is that all we have in the car?” 

Marcus looks around for a moment, then gestures to the back. Duncan scoots over his seat and peers over, finding a large blue tarp on top of a bulky bit of cargo. 

“Bodies? Weapons? More drugs? Please let it be more drugs!” 

Marcus yanks the keys from the ignition. He motions for Arturo to check the glove compartment. Arturo opens it and pulls out a small Derringer pistol as Duncan tries to make out a sign hanging just out the back window. 

The cruiser’s red and blue lights die down behind them. An officer steps out of the vehicle; a clipboard attached to his hand. He studies the jeep as he adjusts a baseball cap on his head.  

“Arturo, how bad do you want out of this?” asks Marcus.  

Arturo gives a look at the cruiser in his rearview, then back to the pistol.   

“Are you out of your mind?” Duncan asks.  

Arturo weighs his options, then scrapes up the drugs. He considers what to do, then to conceal them further, throws them full force to the back. Baggies of weed, wrappers of pills, and the unfastened Ziploc of powder into Duncan. Duncan sits covered in white powder from his shirt to his pants, with even the good fortune of some finding its way into his mouth. It is all but set in stone now. 

Duncan stares on in disbelief. Marcus reaches for his discarded keys. Arturo places his hand over his mouth. Duncan rubs the years of incarceration over his face.  

“To answer your earlier question, we are going to jail!” Duncan shrieks. 

“Seriously, man, this is getting ridiculous. How are we not supposed to go to jail with this much shit?” asks Marcus. The vehicle is silent. 

The silence is short-lived as the officer finishes with his clipboard and advances towards them. All the heads in the car divert to the officer casually waving over to the car.  

The temperature in the jeep boils over. Sweat drips from Marcus’ forehead. Arturo juggles the tiny pistol into a fixed position in his boxer shorts. Duncan, faces forward with his eyes, continuing to check out the window. The officer, a skinny man, casually strolled, an unmistakable green and yellow baseball cap.  

The officer makes the signal to roll down the window, and Marcus unfortunately complies. A flashlight shines into the jeep. The messy floor’s stuffed to brim with fast food wrappers, loose clothing, baggies of weed, empty beer cans, a bullet casing, a bazooka gum wrapper, and empty bags of cocaine. The officer takes stock of the situation and smiles. Marcus’ hands trembled in plain sight.   

“You can’t be serious?” says the officer in a heavy southern accent. Duncan, now having a clear view of the officer, notices a West Virginia Mountaineer’s cap. Arturo holds his hands on his baggy sweats, cradling the pistol through them. “I know what this looks like. We can explain?” says Arturo.  

“You can explain. Really?” says the officer, hands now on his weapon. Duncan composes himself and gives a slightly reassuring chuckle.   

“See, we got a storyteller. Well, come on Stephen King, tell me a story. Spin me a yarn, or is Tony Montana over there just covered in flour?”  

Duncan's smile widens. He catches the officer’s attention. Marcus moves to the keys while Arturo reaches carefully for the handgun. Duncan slowly rolls down the back window, having put it all together, the sign, the officer’s attire, and the southern accent. The officer lowers her head with his gun at the ready. 

“You got something to say, Scarface?” 

“West Virginia,” says Duncan.  

The officer pulls his hands away from his weapon and makes eye contact with everyone in the car. An uncomfortable energy comes over the vehicle, with only Duncan meeting his gaze. 

“Fuck Yeah,” the officer replies. 

The officer, without saying another word, smirks, and then heads off to his vehicle. Marcus and Arturo stare blankly at the road, too afraid to move. Duncan reclines back in his seat.  

“What just happened?” asks a confused Arturo.  

Duncan replies, “It’s West Virginia, it doesn’t need to make sense.”