July 31, 1980, 11:55 PM. I was a short-order cook at A&W Restaurant, Salem, Missouri. Closing time in 5 minutes. A carhop order came in over the speaker:
“Papa Burger, fries, medium Sprite . . . and one hamburger patty.”
“Hamburger patty?”
“Yeah. Hold the bun. In fact, send it out raw.”
“Raw?”
“Yeah. Come to think of it, why don’t you send it out frozen. I’ll just let it thaw on the dash. It’s for my dog.”
“What size patty? 1/4 pound or 1/8 pound?”
“Big dog. Big patty.”
And so the order (with frozen ¼ lb patty) went out to our last customer just past midnight, August 1, 1980, my 18th birthday.
15 minutes later, as we cleaned the restaurant, the man let himself through the employee entrance. His large German shepherd followed, casing the joint, sniffing every corner. The man proceeded to comment on the restaurant and what he perceived as needed repairs. He then began to regale us with his exploits: prison 4 times; mental hospital, 5. Turning to leave, he handed each of us his business card . . .
“In case you need any construction or repair work done.”
He then called his dog and walked out the door.
45 minutes later, the restaurant was clean and 2 buddies and I decided to cruise town to celebrate my birthday (that is what you did in Salem, Missouri, circa 1980). As we pulled out of the parking place in my parents’ blue 1976 Dodge Aspen station wagon (4 on the floor!), the man with the dog screeched around the corner of the restaurant in his Gran Torino, blocking my exit from the parking lot. His dome light was on. His dog was in the passenger seat. Between him and the dog, perched against the seat–a shotgun. He threw his head back and laughed hysterically–diabolically really. Like a scene straight out of a horror flick. Throwing the car in reverse, I exited the parking lot through another exit. Turning right, with all the screech and horsepower the Aspen could give, I headed downtown toward the courthouse square—a cop usually parked on the corner. The man with dog and gun tailed me closely, bright lights in my mirrors, looming closer and closer. Pressing the accelerator, my speed picked up. He stayed on my tail. Evasive maneuvers to no avail. Approaching the courthouse . . . Nuts! The cop was nowhere to be found. I doubled back, man/dog/gun in hot pursuit. Finally, in the Walnut Bowl Restaurant parking lot, I saw the cop, pulled up next to his car window and filled the officer in on my little nightmare of an adventure. Meanwhile, the man/dog/gun circled around and pulled up behind the police cruiser. He got out of his Gran Torino and walked up to us. . .
“How old are you son?” asked the man with the German Shepherd and shotgun. “21?”
“No.”
“When I was 21, I was in the Marine Corps. What are you? 20?”
“No.”
“When I was 20, I was in the Marine Corps. How old . . .”
Cutting him off, I reply, “I’m 18. Today’s my birthday.”
“When I was 18, I was in the National Guard.”
He then turned to the officer and pulled out a small spiral notebook. Pulling a pencil from his shirt pocket and jotting in the notebook, he began to detail at list my various driving infractions: “50 in a 35 mph zone; wrong way down a one-way street (twice). Ran 3 stop signs.” And the list went on and on.
The officer turned to me quizzically, “Well”?
“Officer, all are true, I’m sure. I’m sorry! But I did those things to get away from him! He did the same and more! He was trying to ram me and run me off the road!”
The officer turned to the man, “Well?”
“I’m practicing,” said the man matter-of-factly.
“Practicing?” inquired the police officer incredulously.
“Practicing.” The man with dog confirmed. “I’m running for sheriff of Dent County and I’d appreciate your vote.” He then handed me and the cop each one his business cards, got in his car, and drove away into the night with dog and gun.
Cop then turned to me—“Happy birthday, young man. Haven’t you guys had enough fun for one night?”
“Yes sir!”
I dropped my friends off and drove home.
Dash Stories 