The Ricker overreacts to small problems.
However, he usually knows how to handle big problems. Because of this, The Ricker was always there to bail me out of trouble. I usually had to find my own way out, or fix my own problems, but the Ricker provided some intelligent guidance. Growing up in a small town, I found my way in and out of a variety of situations of varying severity.
During high school, the parents of at least one of my friends were out of town about three weekends per month, which meant we always had a place to party. It was the fourth weekend that was tricky. We had mountain parties, field parties, park-and-ride parties and Cheyenne Mountain parties. We even tried an empty house party, after Ryan found a house near his that was under construction . . . and that had a very long driveway. If you know the details of the story, great; if you don't, this isn't the place to rehash them. Let's just say that the police arrived to find three cars (one mine) and a certain someone still in the house hiding behind an insulation pile, after his Jackie Chan-esque attempt at hiding in the ceiling failed.
Naturally, parents were called. Ry lived close, and his dad was so mad, he drove IN REVERSE the entire way down the street to pick him up. Nicki's dad didn't talk to her for a month, and we didn't talk to her either--because he figured we were the wrong kind of crowd. Then the Ricker shows up, in all his glory. It was late when the police called, but the Ricker was still up, sitting by the fireplace, listening to music and enjoying a cocktail. The Ricker and Mrs. Ricker arrived non-challantly, with Mrs. Ricker driving. The Ricker exits the car, weaves over to the cop car and tries to look through the tinted window. Not seeing me, he leans closer and then closer still, until he smacks his forehead and glasses on the window. Now, even the cop busted up at this, and he probably would have given the Ricker a roadside sobriety test had Mrs. Ricker not been driving.
Surprisingly, everything worked out okay. Nicki's father eventually allowed her to speak to us, and no charges (treaspassing) were pressed. However, indirectly because of my father's suggestion to call the house's owner the next morning to plead our case, my friends and I grew much closer that summer, as we were enlisted as slave labor to help this asshole landscape most of his two-acre lot.
However, he usually knows how to handle big problems. Because of this, The Ricker was always there to bail me out of trouble. I usually had to find my own way out, or fix my own problems, but the Ricker provided some intelligent guidance. Growing up in a small town, I found my way in and out of a variety of situations of varying severity.
During high school, the parents of at least one of my friends were out of town about three weekends per month, which meant we always had a place to party. It was the fourth weekend that was tricky. We had mountain parties, field parties, park-and-ride parties and Cheyenne Mountain parties. We even tried an empty house party, after Ryan found a house near his that was under construction . . . and that had a very long driveway. If you know the details of the story, great; if you don't, this isn't the place to rehash them. Let's just say that the police arrived to find three cars (one mine) and a certain someone still in the house hiding behind an insulation pile, after his Jackie Chan-esque attempt at hiding in the ceiling failed.
Naturally, parents were called. Ry lived close, and his dad was so mad, he drove IN REVERSE the entire way down the street to pick him up. Nicki's dad didn't talk to her for a month, and we didn't talk to her either--because he figured we were the wrong kind of crowd. Then the Ricker shows up, in all his glory. It was late when the police called, but the Ricker was still up, sitting by the fireplace, listening to music and enjoying a cocktail. The Ricker and Mrs. Ricker arrived non-challantly, with Mrs. Ricker driving. The Ricker exits the car, weaves over to the cop car and tries to look through the tinted window. Not seeing me, he leans closer and then closer still, until he smacks his forehead and glasses on the window. Now, even the cop busted up at this, and he probably would have given the Ricker a roadside sobriety test had Mrs. Ricker not been driving.
Surprisingly, everything worked out okay. Nicki's father eventually allowed her to speak to us, and no charges (treaspassing) were pressed. However, indirectly because of my father's suggestion to call the house's owner the next morning to plead our case, my friends and I grew much closer that summer, as we were enlisted as slave labor to help this asshole landscape most of his two-acre lot.
posted at 5:17 PM
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