A note before we start. This one’s a little different.

Jim, my editor/son, gave me some sage advice about my blog posts. He says he, among others, would like to hear what I thought about events, rather than just reporting on events.

Not sure I can do that, but I’ll give it a shot. I won’t be digging into anybody else’s business here.  It’s theirs to tell, not mine. But my own reaction, in the middle of somebody else’s crisis, that’s fair game. And Jim tells me that might be worth knowing, someday, for the grandkids and great-grandkids. What was going on in the old man’s head.

One quiet evening, for Marjorie and me at Scott AFB, our solace was disturbed by a ringing phone.

I answered it. “Hello.”

It was Jim. His response was a bit hesitant.  “Uh Dad.”

That’s a dreaded preface. Some bad news is coming, and I gotta react to it right, because a bad verbal reaction to a crisis could damage our relationship. I’ve gotten that call more than once over the years. This is one of ’em.

So I thought, “Oh s—. Here goes.” 

“Dad, can you come to the Mascoutah jail and bring $200 in cash to bail me out. I got arrested.”

What I thought but did not say was, “You gotta be f—–g kidding me. Arrested? Never.”

What I said was, “Can I use a credit or debit card?” Again thinking but not saying, “Who the hell has $200 in cash in his wallet?”

He answered, tremble in his voice, “No, it’s gotta be cash or I’ll have to spend the weekend in an East St Louis jail.”

If you know anything about the East St Louis crime situation, you don’t want your 19-year-old son to spend a weekend in that jail.

I answered as any decent dad would. “I’ll be there within the hour.” It was about 30 minutes away, but I had a problem. This was the mid 80’s. No ATMs! Where to get $200?

I became a thief.

At the office we had just had a bake sale to raise money for a Christmas party next month, for our department’s kids. There was about $300 in cash in our possession. I was the boss, you see.

I became a freakin’ embezzler for about 18 hours until I could get to the bank the next day.

Yes. I fleetingly thought, and may have voiced it to my wife, that maybe we oughta let him go to jail for a weekend to learn a lesson. Mayberry RFD, maybe. East St Louis. Never. I woulda borrowed from every Air Force friend I had to keep that from happening.

So, I drove to the Mascoutah jail with $200. Walked in and saw how scared my son was. And also noticed his busted lip and bruises.

Fact was, he was charged with underage drinking. Now, if you don’t think 19-year-old college kids drink beer, I got a bridge to sell ya. The police officer told me that rarely do they go after underage drinking on its own. It’s usually connected with some activity that attracts their attention. In this case, a fight.

My lucky Scooler son was trying to verbally break up the fight. He opened his car window to ask them to stop and was punched in the face.  Apparently, he also got out of the car to do more bruising of the perps knuckles with his face

Yay.

Bottom line. It turned out ok. I bailed him out. Paid some court fees and the charges were dropped.

It was a valuable lesson for a young man and for his dad. I had never actually been in a small-town jailhouse before.

I think my son also knows his dad will pull out all the stops to defend him, as required. Actions speak louder than words, but the wrong words at the wrong time can do irreparable damage.

Enuf.