No Shoes, No Shirt, No Pants

No pants.

Yeah, all I had on was a pair of cut-off Levi's 501's. Not even a pair of shoes. And here I was, pulled over on a Friday, summer night, in front of my friends and more importantly- without my wallet.

Let me start at the beginning.

I got a job my sophomore year in high school, moving irrigation pipe on a farm in Buena Vista. I moved those snap-together pipes across muddy fields of bright fruits and tasty vegetables, one pipe after another. Until the pipes all looked EXACTLY the same.

I saved most of my money. I had no motor vehicle. And I wanted one.

On my way home one evening, as I crossed the clear, running low river, and entered downtown, the car lot on the east side of the Willamette Bridge glared white. The 1970 Chevy C20, with its white cab and white bumpers, looked every bit the used truck I had been saving up for. And there it sat, in the front row right next to the spiked iron fence that ran along the cracked sidewalk, in plain view for passersby to see.

I parked my father's Jeep on the car lot, got out twirling the keys, and headed to the beckoning, white, three-quarter ton truck. I had the hood up, and was up on the new, glossy black tire- peering in, when the "polo" shirt salesman arrived. Undoubtedly assuming I had little money, he chuckled as he noticed my young age and asked:

"Whatcha see there?"

"A Chevy 327," I said. "Three hundred and twenty-seven cubic inches of heaven," I thought out loud.

He smiled condescendingly. Not at all the friendly salesman.

"That is two thousand dollars," he said, more than just matter-of-factly.

I climbed down and Mr. Polo Shirt closed the hood of the shiny, almost new looking truck.

"I have money."

"How much," he asked, walking not-so-slowly back inside the sales office. I followed Mr. Polo through the tiled lobby and into his carpeted and tiny office.

I told him I had twelve hundred dollars. He told me that he would consult with his manager, and that I would know in a few minutes if that was enough. So I waited in the windowless, but nevertheless bright, family pictures on the wall, pale beige office.

In less than five minutes, Mr. Polo was back.

He said, "Sorry kid."

I knew what that meant.

I said "Thanks anyways," and I headed to the Jeep. He followed. "Can you go any higher?" His question was one with only one answer. I had no more money than the twelve hundred I had saved. The answer was no.

So I lied. "I can go to twelve hundred and fifty," I said as I stopped yards from the silver-brown Jeep, muddy from the farm.

"I'll go ask," the salesman said. I wasn't convinced. Doubtful I ever own that white truck, was my only thought.

He disappeared back inside and came out minutes later saying, "Congratulations, you are an owner." Not quite, I thought. I still had to borrow fifty dollars from my dad. Not an easy task, mind you.

But I did it. And so here I am, 10 o'clock on a summer night, pulled over in my prized white truck without any clothes or a wallet. This is not what I consider "optimum conditions", but here I am regardless of preferences or luck.

He is enormous. The cop I mean. I flinch, I'm sure.  He is like two men, seven foot tall and three feet wide.

He looks at me. Sternly. Studying. "How are you tonight," he asks. "I'm okay," I reply, impressed at my ability to even talk. "You were impeding traffic when you stopped to talk to the girls," he said, staring inside the white cab.

I had stopped to talk to some girls. Right in front of the bowling alley and Competition Hill. I drove dad's Jeep up there when it wasn't crowded. At this second, I'm not driving anywhere. Even in my own pickup truck.

Time seemed to stop here, at this moment. I cringed as the large, badge-wearing, pistol-toting cop peered inside my truck.

He looked at me. At my bare feet. Then again around the proud, clean white cabin. His eyes moved slowly back to me. Piercing.

"License and insurance please."

I handed him my insurance slip, a three by five card documenting coverage. "I just got off work and forgot my pants at the shop. My wallet and my license is in my pants," I said, unconvincingly. The oversized cop read the info. I am insured, he mentioned vaguely. He handed my insurance card back and crouched towards my tinyish open window. The buttons on his uniform filled the window space.

"How am I supposed to know that you are, in fact, Ronald Borst?" He asked right on queue.

At that very moment, a carload of girls drove by, waving and yelling, "Woohoo Ronnie! Woohoo!"

The giant cop and I both looked. I asked "Will that do?"

"Yeah. That will do. Have a safe night Mr. Borst."

Yes sir, you too.