The other evening as we sat around the dinner table G-Dog told us of a recent mishap where her car went missing on the island for, oh about a week. Sounds crazy I know, but it is not uncommon for islanders and their cars to get lost on these back streets of Nantucket. You know how island living can be, you make yourself some delicious rum drinks at dinner, possibly take a few roadies with you on the short drive into town for the ballet. The festive dinner has made you late and you can’t find a parking spot in the crazy tourist rush of traffic so you start crawling up the back streets until you find the perfect spot where you all tumble out of the car and get distracted by the sweet smell of a privet that has been carved into a whale and as you race to the auditorium you forget to leave a bread crumb trail back, voila car gone missing.
“Did you report the car as stolen or lost?” we asked. “They didn’t ask,” G-Dog returned. “How about you. Did you think it was stolen or lost?” we asked. “Wasn’t quite sure,” she replied.
But a CSO eventually found the car and all was fine. A CSO is a Community Service Officer. I know now for I had to fill out an accident report the other day after a 29 year old performed a hit and run after smashing into our parked car at the beach. I guess after a tough day at work he was letting off some steam in his 1969 Chevy, at least that is what he told the officer. Luckily, a retired policeman saw it all go down and as the driver performed doughnuts in the sand before speeding off, all the information needed to find him was captured.
We used to call them Rent-a-Cops when I lived on island and I encountered them often for doing stupid teen things like taking puffs off of a joint in the parking lot of one of our favorite bars, The Muse. “What was that in your hand young lady,” the young officer asked. “Ummm, a cigarette?” I asked back. But they also were my savior, like the night they drove me home after finding me stumbling home in a rain storm. I had hooked up with the most beautiful boy on the island. While working at the local deli slicing roast beef, I spent many a moment day dreaming about running my hands over his ripped six pack and through his thick blonde hair and I was in disbelief that I was actually sitting there in his CJ7 waiting for him while he finished off some business in the bar. The longer I sat the more the reality set into my vodka infused brain of what might happen if I stayed. It was all about being in love for me and I knew that this boy only wanted one thing. I got scared and baled, deciding it was a better decision to walk down the two mile unlit road home in a rain storm than being added to his list of conquests.
Weaving down the road, the warm wind-swept rain adding to my already saturated body, I was feeling both satisfied and stupid for probably being the first to ever ditch this boy when I got picked up and taken home by an officer who commended me for not driving under the influence of alcohol.
On this 47.8 square mile piece of land, island living is island living and restless islanders are still getting into trouble. The kids loved the excitement of it all, the camo painted ATV, the Boston accent of the CSO, the ex-cop being a Johnny on the spot star witness. Thankful that nobody got hurt, I was grateful for the kids to learn another life lesson of how not to behave and I began to rethink my growing fantasy of one day having the boys and their cousins work on the island for one entire summer.
I’m also thinking that if Wade and I get a chance to go out one night, we should probably ride our bikes.