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Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Instant Karma the Down in the Dirt September-December 2023 issues collection book		get the 422 page September-December 2023 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Taking Over the Streets

Dennis Piszkiewicz

    Clint asked Staci to go with him to a party. She should have asked him, “Who’s throwing the party?”
    Staci told her dad that she was going out with a couple of the girls and ran down to the corner where Clint said he would pick her up, which he did – about fifteen minutes late.
    Clint was driving what he proudly called his “classic Camaro.” It was really an old junker his old man gave him when he upgraded to a new Buick. His old man also gave Clint a fistful of money for repairs. Clint gave the classic junker a new paint job in what he called “badass black” and four new top-of-the-line tires.
    Staci slid into the shotgun seat, and before she could fasten the seat belt, Clint hit the gas, and the tires screamed to the sound of burning rubber.
    Clint was an aspiring high school drop-out, but what attracted her to him was not his hot car, not that he was older and more mature than she was—which he wasn’t—but that he oozed testosterone from every pore with everything he did or said.
    “Where are we going? she asked.
    “South LA,” he said.
    “What’s happening there?”
    “A sideshow.”
    “A sideshow? Why aren’t you taking me to a main event?”
    “That’s just what they call it. It’s people doing stunts with their cars.”
    She didn’t get it, but she didn’t want to get into an argument on her first date with Clint either.
    “You’ll see when we get there. You’ll like it,” Clint said.
    Are you taking me to see a new Fast and Furious movie?”
    “This will be fast and fun, and I’ll do the driving.”
    “Oh?” she said, still not knowing what he was talking about; but at least he wasn’t taking her to see a Vin Diesel movie.
    About fifteen minutes later, driving on a freeway and city streets, the traffic got heavy as they approached their destination, the intersection of Normandie and Florence Avenues in the south-west expanse of Los Angeles. There were gas stations on two of the corners, an Auto Zone shop on a third, and a grocery store on the fourth. Parking spaces were packed with cars. People filled the sidewalks. They flowed over the curbs, having a noisy party on the streets. Drivers who wanted to get anywhere through that intersection were out of luck.
    Clint kept his car creeping along, working his way through the traffic until he reached the broad area where the two streets met. He rolled down both side windows, and some guy on the outside was yelling at him over the noise. Then Clint was yelling something back at him.
    “What was that all about?” Stacie shouted at Clint.
    “I was getting in line to burn rubber and do donuts.”
    “What’s that?”
    “It’s what I’m gonna do. It’s real easy. I crank the wheel all the way over to the left. With my foot on the brake, I stomp on the gas, and É ”
    Clint turned toward her and yelled something she thought was, “Hang on, Baby. We’re going for a ride!”
    The Camaro didn’t move but its rear tires spun on the pavement, burning into a cloud of black smoke, and screaming like a wounded buzzard. It was a toss-up which scream was louder, the tires on the pavement, or Stacie in the shotgun seat.
    Clint took his foot off the brake pedal, and his car lurched into motion, leaving a black track of burnt rubber in a circular donut dance around the intersection.
    By the second screaming loop Stacie understood doing doughnuts, and she got into the mood of the crowd with screams of joy. She hung her head and shoulders out of the shotgun side window, waving to the crowd.
    Going into the fourth donut, she heard screaming sirens and saw the flashing of red and white lights. They were coming from all four directions that led to the place where the two streets crossed. They were COPS, more than she had ever seen or imagined.
    Clint stopped his badass black Camaro. It was surrounded by LAPD cars. A potbellied cop, who looked like he had spent a career behind the wheel of a black and white, approached from the rear. His right hand was on the holster holding a nine-millimeter semi-automatic at his hip. Another cop stood behind the rear bumper, hands on his hips. When the potbellied cop reached the open driver’s side window, he said politely, “May I see your drivers’ license and auto registration?”
    Clint hesitated, but quickly realized that he had no choice. He handed them over to the cop.
    The cop examined Clint’s driver’s license and then the registration paper. He said, “Your license says that you are Clarence Timothy Gross, Junior. Is this identification correct?”
    Clint looked quickly at Staci and mumbled, in a low voice, “Um, Yeah.”
    “On the vehicle registration paper, the owner of this vehicle is identified as Clarence Timothy Gross. Is he your daddy?”
    Clint nodded a yes.
    “Give me the keys to this vehicle, Junior, and wait here for a few minutes.”
    The cop returned to his cruiser carrying Clarence’s, aka Clint’s license and the car’s registration paper. The cop standing behind the badass black car stayed there with his hands still on his hips, his right hand still inches from his semi-automatic pistol.
    Staci said, “Your name is Clarence?”
    Clint nodded.
    The potbellied cop returned a few minutes later with a clipboard holding slips of paper. He returned Clint’s driver’s license but kept the registration paper. He said, “The City and the County of Los Angeles, and the State of California do not approve of you and your friends taking over its streets for this kind of entertainment. We have laws that prohibit that kind of naughty behavior.”
    The cop gave Clint a reassuring smile, and continued, “Because of your age, I’m giving you a break. I’ve written you up only for reckless driving and driving in a crosswalk while it was occupied by pedestrians.” He handed Clint the clipboard and a ball point pen. “Now, Junior, I want you to sign here.” He pointed to a line. Clint signed on the line without reading any part of the paper.
    The cop tore a yellow ticket from the pad and handed it to Clint. He said, “Don’t forget to pay the fine or show up in court.” The cop pointed with the pen at the line where Clint’s court appearance date was printed. He smiled again as he said, “We know where you live, and we’d be in a bad mood if we had to come and get you. Now, if you’d please get out or the vehicle. You’re free to go.”
    As Clint got out of his car, he asked, “Why do you want me to get out?”
    “Because we are impounding this vehicle.”
    “You’re taking my car?”
    “Yes. It’s ours for the next thirty days.”
    “Then I get it back?”
    “You pay the impound fee first,” the cop said as he carelessly tossed Clint’s keys up and down in his hand, “and then you can get it back.”
    “How much is the impound fee?”
    “Ask the judge when you appear in court.”
    “How do I get home without my car?”
    “That’s your problem, Junior.”
    “Can you believe it?” Clint said as he turned to Stacie, “This cop is taking my car just because I did a few donuts!”
    But Stacie wasn’t there.
    “Hey, where’s Stacie?”
    “By then the cop was on his way back to his patrol car.”
    Clint stood amid the flashing red and white lights of police cruisers surrounding his beloved badass Camaro. He saw a slim shadow fading into the distance. Stacie was walking through the traffic jam of police cruisers and impounded cars.
    Stacie learned her lesson, and made a decision. She was giving up going on adventures with egotistical losers like Clint-Clarence Timothy Gross, Junior!
    But before she did anything else, she had to find a bus that would take her home.

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